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danses-with-dogmeat · 3 years

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Male!Companions react to waking up alone after spending the night with Sole.

Hey all! So, just a heads up, I’m also working on this prompt for the Female!Companions for FO4, and also a bunch of companions from FONV and FO3, but if you have any specific requests or want me to add anyone, just let me know! Sorry this is so damn long, but I hope you all enjoy!

Also, there is a bit of angst in here with some mentions of suicidal thoughts, so just a heads up on that!

P.S. If you’re one of the lovely folks who has sent me an ask, I am currently working on writing them up and I will definitely get them out as soon as I can, I just really like the prompts y’all gave me and I want to do them justice :)

Danse:

Danse sat up with a start, immediately trying to gain his bearings, only to find himself still in the bunker, in his own bed. He let out a shaky breath, still dazed from the heavy sleep that had claimed him. It had been years since he'd slept like that, the last time he recalled sleeping so peacefully was when he was stationed at the Citadel in the Capital Wasteland. Even more than that, he had barely slept at all since discovering his true identity. Danse shook his head, trying to clear it of its sleepy fog, he went to rub his eyes, and he felt his heartbeat increase tenfold as the memories of his night with you came flooding to the forefront of his mind. Even now he felt the heat of a blush rushing to his cheeks. He turned his head, expecting to see your peacefully sleeping form on the mattress beside him. When he didn't, he wasn't sure what to do. Immediately, a slew of emotions and thoughts ran through him, ranging from shame, to panic, to anger, and most of all, hurt. Before he allowed himself to arrive at any premature conclusions, Danse called out for you, looking around the room. Nothing. He stood up, holding the blankets around his waist to conceal himself as he made his way to the hole in the wall that allowed him to peer into the other section of the bunker. Still nothing. The slew of contradicting emotions bubbled up again, leaving him feeling slightly numb. He stood there, just staring, trying to grasp a hold of any clear thought, but they were inadvertently tumbling into his consciousness at an alarming rate.

All at once, one feeling prevailed over the others, and Danse found himself feeling extraordinarily guilty. Guilty for agreeing to last night, for jeopardizing his friendship with the one person he had left in his life by greedily pushing too far. What right did he have to you and your feelings anyway, when his weren't even real? The pain of being deserted by you was overshadowed by the knowledge that he didn't deserve you in the first place. Even when he thought he was human, he had trouble rationalizing his feelings for you, thinking you deserved better than someone like him. Someone as hard headed, as inexperienced, and emotionally ignorant as he was. But now? Now, he wondered why you even bothered to waste any of your time on him, even just as his partner, when it was proven that he's nothing but a machine. Why had you even suggested last night, when you knew the truth about him?

He simply couldn’t understand it. Why had you allowed him to be with you in such a way? To be with you so intimately? Why had you allowed him to touch you so invasively? Why had you spoken to him so softly, so earnestly? How could your gaze have been so full of admiration, of love? He was a goddamn machine, and you’d let him share a bed with you, make love to you. He didn’t even know what love was, didn’t know if it was possible for him to even feel it; and yet, you’d been more open with him than he had been with anyone before. And he wasn’t even human. He was at a complete and utter loss for any form of explanation or reasoning behind your actions.

Danse stood alone in the bunker, staring ahead with brows furrowed low at no single thought in particular. It was then that he realized his heart was still beating out of his chest, he took a deep breath, and prepared himself to leave the bunker in search of you. Because, even now, when you were at the center of his feelings of uncertainty, of guilt, of hurt, he still felt the need to seek the counsel of the one person left he could truly trust, the one whose opinions he had sought in the darkest hours of his existence. He needed you.

More than that, he needed to make sure you were safe. At least that's what he told himself as he dressed, donning his power armor, before he rode the elevator up to the surface, his iron-clad hands clenching tightly as he gripped his laser rifle.

As Danse arrived at the surface, he noted the sunlight bursting through the lone window of the bunker, indicating how late he'd slept in, and he mentally kicked himself for his irresponsibility. If he had woken at his usual hour, would you have still been beside him? Perhaps he could've spoken to you before you left, encouraged you to hear him out, begged you to stay with him. Even just as a friend, just as a partner. He felt he simply couldn’t cope with the loss of you, of the security that you provided him.

Danse shook his head in an attempt to banish these useless thoughts from his mind. He couldn't control the past, he had to keep looking forward. With that, he crossed the threshold out into the Commonwealth.

Danse returned to the bunker a few hours before sundown, feeling utterly at a loss, he'd been everywhere he could reach, everywhere you could've gone in the period of time you had had to get there. He checked every house, farm, settlement… everything in the bunker's vicinity. His limbs felt weak and numb as he approached the entrance to the bunker. He could feel heat rising up in his face as his chest ached. He felt like he needed to hit something. Tears of frustration and dejection threatened to spill over, and he brought a gloved hand up to roughly wipe away the first drop that fell. Though, through the blur of wetness, he spotted a silhouette in the doorway ahead of him.

"Where the hell have you been?!" You shouted, running from the bunker and straight into Danse's arms. For a moment, he remained still, unable to reciprocate your relief in his state of utter shock. In the next instance, his rifle fell from his grip and he was wrapping his arms around you, as tightly as he could without injuring you.

"I believe I could ask you the same question, soldier." Danse said, willing his voice to remain stable. You pulled away so that you could look up at him, your expression one of confusion,

"I thought I told you last night. I had to go to Greentop nursery in the morning and talk to the settlers about their mutant problem." He blinked at you in surprise. At least, you thought you had told him, but maybe it had slipped your mind. It didn't surprise you, given last night's activities.

"But… Why didn't you wake me?"

"Because Danse, I've never seen you sleep in, I wanted you to get some rest for once."

"I would have rather been with you." He said quietly. You opened your mouth to speak, but he continued,

"It was irresponsible of you to leave me uninformed, you should have woken me. You scared me, Sole. I thought…" he took a quick breath to steady his voice, "I don't know what I thought. I woke up and you were gone, I wasn't sure if you were in danger, or if you were angry with me, or whether or not you even meant to return."

"Danse, of course I was going to come back, I just didn't expect you to be gone when I did."

"And for that, I apologize. However, I implore you to understand--"

"Danse. It's okay, we're both here now, we're both safe. And I don't know about you, but I'm starving. C'mon." You turned towards the bunker and went to make your way inside. Danse stood a moment, watching you walk away. Feeling began slowly returning to his limbs, and for the first time all day, his heartbeat slowed to its normal rate. He reached down to pick up his rifle, a small smile spreading across his lips as he moved to follow you back into the bunker.

Deacon:

Deacon opened his eyes, only to immediately close them again, as the bright morning sun showed through the windows of Ticonderoga safehouse, and directly into his retinas.

“Damn,” He said, reaching over to grab for his shades from beside the mattress. Once they were placed onto his face, he decided it would be safe to open his eyes once again. Deacon groaned as he rolled his shoulders, and sat up, stretching his arms overhead.

God, he felt good. The tightness of his muscles serving as a reminder of the… ahem, events of last night. Last night, with you. How the hell had that happened? He almost couldn’t believe it. After so many years of being alone, of feeling emotionally inept, and unable to move on. Here you came, seemingly out of some sci-fi novel, with your futuristic, time-traveling backstory, and inhuman good looks, and for some reason, you’d thought he was, of all things, cute. That was the word you had used, he remembered it vividly, and of course he had feigned being annoyed by the use of the word to describe him, but in reality? He adored the fact that you thought so. No one had ever referred to him as such, and the fact that it confirmed you reciprocated the feelings he had for you; that was truly extraordinary. These feelings that he had tried so desperately to bury deep down, where they couldn’t meddle with your friendship, or your professional relationship, or his own crippling fear of being committed to someone again (given how well it went the first time). Now, he barely understood why he had tried so hard to snuff out his emotions if this was one of the possible outcomes of revealing them to you. He never dreamed that you could have returned the affection he had for you. However, if last night was any kind of indicator… yeah, he’d say the two of you had pretty strong feelings indeed.

At least, that’s what he had thought. Until he turned to you excitedly, looking to see if you had woken yet, and found your spot next to him quite empty. His jaw clenched at the sight, but he took a breath and resolved himself to looking around the safehouse for your belongings. His teeth worried anxiously against the inside of his cheek as he noticed the distinct absence of anything belonging to you. Deacon stood in the middle of the safehouse, bringing his hands up to roughly rub at his face.

“God dammit.” He said aloud, unable to keep something from escaping him. Deacon liked to think he had a good bit of self control, it came with the job after all, a spy with no sense of restraint and proper judgment didn't live very long. However, you had this way of making him forget everything he thought he knew about himself. There he was last night, doing the one thing he vowed he'd never do again. Falling for someone. Him! Deacon, the immature, sarcastic, dishonest, and unemotional agent of the railroad; and here he was, head over heels for a widowed, pre-war saint like you. What a pair you two would have made.

I suppose it really was too good to be true. He thought bitterly.

Deacon grabbed his things and set off into the Commonwealth without so much as a glance over his shoulder. He stared dead ahead, refusing to address the pressure he felt in his chest. Trying desperately to maintain his cool and unbothered exterior, to remain the type of person he was before he'd met you. He always knew he could change the way he looked in a day or less, but the way you'd changed his perspective of the world, of his place in it, and his future? He didn't think you could have changed who he'd turned out to be if you had all the time in the world. Deacon was firmly set in his ways, so much so, that even he couldn't change who he was. No matter how much he despised himself at times. But man, had he been wrong, all the disguises in the world couldn't mask the fact that, for the first time in years, Deacon had a priority in his life besides the railroad, and besides himself. And that scared the shit out of him.

Now he wasn't really sure what to think. If you had simply wanted nothing more than a one-night stand, you could have just told him so. At least then he would’ve been prepared for this shit. For you leaving him, seemingly without a second thought.

The sniper shook his head roughly as he kicked up the dust of the wasteland, his footfalls much heavier than they had any business being. He always had prided himself at being a good judge of character, at being intuitive, but he never would have expected something like this from someone like you. Someone who cared about the happiness of everyone else more than their own well-being, someone who was kind, and selfless, and empathetic, someone who constantly put their own life at risk for the benefit of complete strangers. Sure, he did that occasionally, but his life was worth a hell of a lot less. You were a good person, and always had been. From the moment he saw you, everything he heard about you, all of it pointed to the fact that you, even after all you’d lost, after everything you endured, you were a better person than he could ever hope to be. And now, for you to do this to him? It was completely out of character. Whatever, he thought, if this is all you wanted from me, then fine. It's all you're going to get.

As he approached the Old North Church, Deacon mentally prepared himself for the possibility that you too would be at the Railroad headquarters. He decided to simply not acknowledge your… ordeal, and act as though nothing had changed. Though, if Deacon was honest (which he rarely ever was), he would rather not have you as his partner anymore. With the way he was feeling-- the way he had once felt about you, it would be too complicated. He didn’t need complicated. The railroad missions provided enough of that.

He entered HQ quietly, and mulled about, visiting with the others and picking up missions left and right in an effort to acquire enough distractions to keep him out of the church for as long as possible. He figured that way, the likelihood of bumping into you would be decreased enough for him to get a handle on himself before having to face you. But, of course, his plans were all for naught, he realized as you stormed into the catacombs, your glowering eyes falling directly to the bald sniper in the corner of the room; the sniper who was trying desperately to make himself seem distracted as he felt your eyes burning into the back of his head. At least you had the decency to lower your voice as you approached him,

“Deacon!” You hissed, shouting his name as quietly as one could shout.

He continued staring at the blackboard, a hand at his chin as he feigned interest in what was written there.

“What the hell?” You asked, taking another step towards him, close enough that he could feel your hot breath on his cheek.

“Hmm? Something wrong?” He asked, turning his head towards you while his eyes stayed glued to the board in front of him. You took a step back, and the next thing he knew, you had extended your hand forcefully towards his face, leaving a stinging red mark imprinted on his cheek in its wake. Deacon’s head snapped back towards the blackboard at the power of your blow, his sunglasses barely managing to hang onto his face by the bridge of his nose.

I’m not sure if I deserved that or not…

He brought his own hand up to rub the spot you had just slapped, finally letting his eyes meet yours from beneath his crooked shades. He nearly gasped at your expression. Your eyebrows were knitted together above your tear-filled eyes, your mouth a straight line as your chin trembled slightly. He’d say you looked sad, but behind your eyes, all he could see was fire. The same fire he’d felt when he saw that you had deserted him that morning. Or, at least, when he thought you’d deserted him.

Almost without thinking, Deacon grabbed your hand and dragged you back to the more private area of the railroad HQ. Despite your clear vexation with him, you allowed him to lead you to the back of the church catacombs, near the emergency exit.

“Alright, you finally ready to explain yourself?” You asked, wrenching your hand from his grasp.

“Me? I’m pretty sure it was you who walked out on me, and who just slapped me in the face for asking a simple question.” Your nostrils flared at that and for a moment, Deacon thought you were going to do something violent again.

“Okay, look, I know I’ve fallen for your lies before, but I think it’s pretty damn ridiculous for you to think that I’ll believe this one. I was there, Deacon! You left me. You took all your shit and left me alone at the safehouse. I don’t care what happened the night before, even if it was awful for you, or awkward for you to see me in that way, or whatever, you still don’t abandon your partner. We agreed to that the moment I became an agent.”

Deacon’s jaw dropped to his chest at his realization, and your accusation. He had left you? When? How? When was he supposed to find that out?

“Look, Sole, I’m a liar, I’ll give you that. But I’m a good one,” you rolled your eyes at him, a scoff sounding from your throat, “so, I wouldn’t even attempt to lie to you if I could see that you absolutely knew the truth.”

“God, if you’ve got a point, make it, asshole.”

“Ouchies, no need for name calling there, slappy. I’m just trying to figure out the miscommunication issue we’ve got going on here.” You glared at him, and he was forced to continue.

“The truth is,” Deacon looked down at the floor as he spoke softly to you, feeling as though the words were being wrenched from his throat, “I only left because I thought you had first. I woke up, and you were gone. Your things were gone. I thought that was it, that you were done with our… partnership. Done with me. And hey, I can’t say I’d blame you. Especially if you’d really think I could just up and leave after spending a night like that with you.”

“Oh.” you whispered, before trying to explain yourself, “I wasn’t-- I didn’t just leave, I mean, I went up to give High Rise the MILA for Tom. I was gone for five minutes, Deacon. I was coming right back.” The two of you stood a moment, as realization washed over you. And a bit of regret, too. And a sprinkle of foolishness.

Finally, he brought his gaze up to meet your eyes. Hoping his apology was as evident on his face as it was on yours. You brought your hand to his cheek, soothing over the angry red mark that you had left earlier, and Deacon flinched slightly at your touch, his eyes falling once again to the floor.

“It really only took you five minutes to think that I had left you?” You asked gently, the anger that had once been prevalent in your voice dissolving into concern. Deacon chuckled dryly.

“Haven’t I taught you anything? When you assume the worst, it’s a lot harder to be disappointed.”

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense. But I bet it makes it all the better when you find out you were wrong.” Deacon smiled weakly at you, shaking his head.

“Yeah, no. I’m not seeing the appeal in being wrong just yet.” The hand that still rested on his cheek slid to the back of his neck, grasping firmly as you pulled his face towards yours. The pressure of your brow displaced Deacon’s shades as you crashed your lips into his. He toppled backwards against the wall of the catacombs as you pressed more forcefully into him, his arms falling behind him to steady himself against the cold brick, as your unoccupied hand slunk up to his chest, keeping him pinned between you and the wall. You pulled your head back, but kept your hands in place as you murmured,

“What about now?”

“Hmm?” Deacon’s ginger eyebrows raised above his glasses as his mind went blank. You cocked an eyebrow at him, a smirk forming on your face.

“Oh, right. I suppose so. Though, I think I’m gonna need a few reminders every once in a while.”

“Hmm,” you mused, “I think that can be arranged.”

Hancock:

The ghoul awoke with a purr, stretching one ruined arm out to blindly search for your sleeping body. He distinctly remembered curling up with you wrapped tight in his embrace before lulling off into the best sleep he's had in years. For the first time in months he didn't have the nagging ache of wishing you were pressed against him as he settled in for the night. The thoughts of you lying so close but so painfully out of reach were finally pushed from his head to make room for the sheer bliss of being able to touch you, to feel your unbelievably soft skin, to breathe in your sweet scent and relish in the closeness of your body against his.

That was of course, until this morning. Hancock opened his eyes lazily, his dark gaze sweeping over the mess of bed sheets and pillows that littered the plush mattress. The sight of the disheveled blankets bringing back heated memories of last night. Before his brow furrowed at the realization of the current situation he found himself in. Hancock slowly rose from the bed, his dark eyes searching the surrounding room for any sign of you. He found his trousers, his hat, his coat... but nothing of yours remained where they had been tossed last night. If Hancock had a nose, it would have been curling alongside the rest of his scrunched up face as he thought of you leaving in such a hurry this morning. Hancock felt a pain in his chest and immediately craved a hit of something, anything, to numb the hollow feeling that began spreading through his body.

Sunlight shone through the windows of the old state house, the beams of light diffused by the ringlets of smoke rising from the ghoul's mouth as he took yet another hit of jet, trying hard to keep his mind blank, but inevitably failing as his thoughts returned to last night's events. Coming almost in slow motion, he picked apart every movement; every touch, kiss, lick, and caress, nitpicking every action he had made and thinking about what he might've done to warrant your desertion of him. But deep down, he knew that his actions mattered little. You had assured him on numerous occasions that him being a ghoul didn't bother you, but you had never really seen him before. Not in the way you saw him last night. Had never felt his rough skin on yours, had never run your hands up his ravaged body, the softness of your touch only amplifying the harshness of his own leathery flesh. You had never uncovered the gross discoloration of his radiation-ravaged body. But last night, you had finally gotten a good, long look. And here he was, thinking that you of all people could’ve seen past that. You had been able to forgive him for his past, after all. Hadn’t you? But maybe that had been part of it too. Maybe you’d finally realized all that he really was. A reckless and cowardly poor excuse for a man, who spends his life in a haze of delirium rather than facing the pain of being alive. A pain that he had inflicted upon himself to break away from that same self-righteous fog that he’d found himself in in the first place. It’s no wonder you’re gone. Maybe you were never even really here. Maybe you were just another daydream of his, just another hallucination. God, if that was the case, he didn’t even know what he would do. After having you so close, being with you like this? He didn’t really see the point in living without you.

Hancock sighed heavily at the thought. He didn't know how long he sat simply thinking, his perception of time temporarily altered by the jet, but he had to do something to alleviate this torture, and if chems wouldn't do it... well....

"I need some air," he rasped aloud as he stood and headed for the balcony, donning his coat and hat on his way out. The mayor had to keep up appearances, after all.

He almost didn't see you as he stepped through the door, the way you leaned out against the rail, eyes closed, a soft, beautiful smile playing at your plush lips. Hancock could've stared at you until the world around him turned to dust, but you moved long before that musing could come to reality. Turning to look at him, your smile brightened further, and Hancock couldn't keep himself from touching you. He grabbed one of your hands in his, using his other to caress your pink-dusted cheek, affirming that you truly were physically there, standing in front of him.

"And what were you doing out here all by your lonesome? Trying to give a ghoul a little taste of heartbreak?" You let out a soft laugh,

"No, sweetheart," you called him affectionately, leaning into his light touch upon your cheek, "I thought that you would sleep longer. I just wanted to get out and enjoy some sunshine." You turned once again towards the morning sun, the rays highlighting every one of your perfect features. Hancock beamed at the sight of you, before turning and looking out at his city in thought,

"Hmm," he mused, "Sunshine, huh?"

MacCready:

MacCready had been lying on his back for a while now, staring at the crumbling ceiling of the dingy little room at the hotel Rexford. This certainly hadn’t been his idea of an ideal location for your first time together, but who was he to complain? It was safe, and private, and it had been a damn good night. But he’d been staring at the ceiling for what felt like hours, waiting for you to stir. He’d thought it was odd, given the fact that you always woke up first when the two of you traveled together, but he’d like to think you hadn’t yet stirred because of the way he had exhausted you last night, his chest puffed out at the thought of it and he let out a contented sigh. The thoughts of your night together spilled into his consciousness, and he stretched out his arms in front of him, snickering slightly at the soreness of his body, and suddenly, he couldn’t wait for you any longer.

“Geeze, you awake yet, sleepyhead?” MacCready rolled onto his side to face the lump under the covers. He ran his hand over the mattress, over to you, but as he reached the lump beneath the blankets, all he felt was plushness. He withdrew the covers from atop you, only to find… pillows? Just a pillow, and a blanket. MacCready’s body spasmed as he jolted out from under the covers on his side of the bed, his head flying from side to side as he looked for you.

“Sole?” He cocked an eyebrow at the empty hotel room, and as he noticed your absence, his expression quickly changed from confusion to one of anger. You had left? But why? Had he done something wrong? He didn’t think so… but maybe he just... wasn’t everything you expected from him. Feeling like he’d been punched in the stomach, MacCready climbed from the bed, grabbing his trousers from the floor and stomping around the room in pursuit of the remainder of his clothes, not failing to notice how everything belonging to you was no longer in the room either. Heat rose to MacCready’s face as he pulled on his duster, but he wasn’t sure if it was from embarrassment, or anger, or heartache, or some combination thereof.

What the heck? He thought, you were the one to suggest doing this, why would you do that if you were just gonna leave me like this? Right when MacCready had thought he’d found the one. The person who could help him move on from Lucy after everything he’d been through. You were perfect, not just for him, but for Duncan too. You were selfless, and kind, compassionate, resourceful, sometimes you were a bit of a sarcastic ass, but he loved that about you. You were a parent and a spouse, just like he had been. You were both lost, and broken when you found each other, just a couple halves that had made each other whole. You were his future... Or so he’d thought. But who was he kidding? You were so out of his league, the two of you weren’t even playing the same damn sport. He should’ve known this would be the outcome. But then, why the heck did you let it go this far? Sure, he was the one who had poured all of his feelings out onto the table, but he didn’t know what he’d expected you to do. He just felt like he would explode if he held them in any longer, especially when the two of you spent so much time together. He saw you every damn day, and all he wanted to do was hold your hand, he wanted to sleep beside you and hold onto you through the night, to have you run your fingers through his hair and tell him that you felt the same way. MacCready never imagined you’d do something like this to him, never thought you’d get his hopes up, dangling the future he'd always dreamed of having right in his face before ruthlessly snatching it away.

He rolled his eyes at his own ridiculous train of thought and groaned as he bent down to grab his rifle.

“At least you paid for the room up front.” he mumbled as he placed his hat on his head and made his way to the door.

MacCready’s footsteps fell heavily onto each stair as he headed down to the lobby, wondering where he’d go from there. He considered going and looking for you, but what was the point? Clearly if you wanted to see him, you wouldn’t have freakin left. Was he really petty enough to seek you out just to tell you how messed up it was that you’d left him the way that you did? Maybe… but he needed a drink first. To the Third Rail it was, then. What was it, 10am? He could drink at 10am. He could do whatever the heck he wanted, especially now that you were gone.

MacCready reached the bottom of the stairs, looking straight past the small crowd of people that were gathered in the lobby as he made his way to the exit. Just as his hand reached the door, he heard his name being shouted. His body shuddered at the sound of your voice, and he stood stock straight as he decided what to do. One fist clenched as the other hand pushed the door open and he crossed the threshold into Goodneighbor. The door never closed behind him, and he felt an iron grip on his forearm as he tried to head towards the Third Rail.

“Ow, hey!” He spun to face you, face slightly contorted in his confusion. What was he supposed to think now? He was still angry and hurt, but should he be? Ugh.

“Wait, Mac. I know how it must’ve looked, but really, it’s just a misunderstanding.” He stared at you, his deep blue eyes clouded with suspicion. He didn’t say a word, not wanting to ruin anything by making false assumptions or accusations. Instead, he waited for you to explain, wrenching his wrist from your grip as he folded his arms over his chest.

Before you could continue, Rufus came up from behind, asking quietly if he could go through the doors.

“Come on,” you urged, “let’s get out of the doorway.” You herded MacCready to one of the couches in the lobby, seating yourself next to him.

“Alright. Explain.” He said, brows still furrowed. You almost snickered at how put-out the sniper seemed. You couldn’t quite tell if it was an act or not, but knowing MacCready… yeah, probably not an act.

“Rufus was having some trouble with Drinkin’ Buddy.” You told him, “The bot shut down and no one could get him to turn on again. This morning, some sort of warning light started flashing, so he came up and asked if I could help him fix it. I would’ve asked you to come along, but you were still asleep, and I know how you hate being woken up…” You trailed off, waiting for him to say something in response.

Man, MacCready felt moronic. Why had he been so quick to assume the worst? Okay, maybe not the worst, the worst would’ve been… Well, that’s not important. He shook his head, finally letting himself breathe deeply again.

“You sure that was it?” He asked, uncertainty coating his tone as he narrowed his eyes at you.

You leaned forward, smoothing a hand up his chest to the back of his neck as you brought your lips to his. Your fingers fiddled with the hair at the base of his neck and held him to you as your mouth moved against his, trying to answer his question without having to use your words. This was better, anyway. You felt a hand move to your waist as he relaxed into the kiss, his strong grip pulling you nearly into his lap as he returned your fervor. Only when you needed air did you pull back from him, your heartbeat still racing as you watched his gorgeous eyes flutter open.

“Did that answer your question?” You asked cheekily. He smiled, face still pink from the heat of your kiss.

“I don’t know, boss, I may still need some more, ah, reassuring.” You snickered at that, and glanced back at Clair’s desk.

“Any more convincing and we may need that room again. You think if we go now, we won’t have to pay the hotel for a second day?”

God, I think I’m in love. MacCready thought as he nodded to you, a boyish grin spreading across his lips. At that, both of you scrambled off of the couch, quickly making your way towards the stairs and up to the hotel room.

Nick:

The synth didn't sleep, but he didn't mind it. He stayed awake beside you in bed, replaying memories of the night over and over in his mind. Although he wasn't sure how comfortable it could be, he had his arms curled around you, holding you tightly to his synthetic chest while the memories of his favorite night (in either of his lifetimes) were running through his mind. You snored softly in his embrace, utterly at peace, as he gazed affectionately at your soft features. Nick didn't often feel blissful, and he never would've imagined himself in this situation, being completely content with the person he admired, and adored so adamantly, safely wrapped in his arms. He should've known it wouldn't last.

Without a sound, he felt as you slowly and gently pried his arms off of your body, climbing off of the shared mattress. Nick figured that you would give him an explanation; perhaps once you were out of bed? When you went to go and dress yourself? Before walking through the door? But you were silent throughout, even as he heard the door click shut behind you. Nick closed his eyes tightly, sighing to himself and wondering if the pain in his chest was substantial enough to cause him to short circuit. What had he done wrong? Even if it was nothing, he would understand why you had left. Even at his best, Nick could hardly amount to what any average human could give you, and he could never give you everything you wanted. Everything you needed, and deserved. He wasn't real. So he wouldn't blame you for leaving, hell, if he hadn't been so caught up in his own blissful feelings, he might've encouraged you to go. And he had, before last night had truly begun, he recalled asking you if he was what you really wanted. Then, you had seemed so eager, almost laughing at the thought that he couldn't be enough, after all this time the two of you had spent together, and all your pining over him. These thoughts circled through the synth's mind as he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. He willed himself to grab a file and get to work, to do something, anything, to distract himself from the pain, but it was as though the weight in his chest was too much to bear. The height of his earlier high only amplifying the depths of his current low.

Every attempt to look through a case file was a failure, his yellow eyes roaming the first few lines of writing before his mind drifted off. To thoughts of where you could have gone, whether or not you would come back, and thoughts of last night. At the way you made his pistons fire at triple times their normal rate, the way you made his metal heart flutter in his chest, and the way you had come so beautifully undone in his arms. That was it. The moment he needed to remember for the rest of his days on this ruined earth. At that very moment, nothing else seemed to matter. He was sure he'd been foolish before, thinking you could never care for him in such a way. How foolish he'd felt then... it was nothing compared to now. The synth brought his metallic hands up to his face, the tips of his fingers displacing the worn hat on his head. He imagined tears flowing from beneath the heels of his hands as he dug them into his eye sockets, but of course none came. Would that have been acceptable? If he had been able to shed real tears, like a real human being, would you have stayed after last night? If he had been able--

The door to the agency burst open at that moment, interrupting the old detective's thoughts, and sending his head shooting back to see who had busted in so aggressively, his hat flying from its usual place atop his head.

The fact that the synth couldn't breathe didn't matter in this moment as he huffed a massive sigh of relief at the glorious sight of you, the light of the early morning sun casting a warm glow around your body.

"Oh doll..." the words escaped him as a smile began to spread across his synthetic lips, "for a moment there, I thought you were an angel." You giggled at that, your flushed smile causing the whirring in his chest to increase exponentially.

"I can't tell you how glad I am to see you, I was just about to open up a missing person's case on ya." You finally closed the door and made your way to his desk, leaning down to give his cheek a chaste kiss as you smoothed your hand over his chest, stopping to grab at his tie and pull him up towards you.

"Always the professional, hmm detective?" You smirked at him and he gave you a crooked smile before bringing his good hand up to stroke his thumb over one of your soft cheeks.

"Although," you continued, teasingly bending down to pick his hat up from the floor, "your uniform doesn’t seem to be up to the usual standards."

"Oh? Is that what you think?" He said, reaching for the hat before you held it behind your back, a mischievous grin forming on your lips,

"Sure is. You don't have your hat.”

“Oh? And whose fault is that?” He interjected playfully.

“And” you continued, “look at this coat, full of rips. It’s practically in shambles." you ran a finger down his side, allowing the tip of your fingernail to catch at the tiny holes littering the worn fabric.

"Hey now, my coat's always looked like that. You didn't seem to find fault in it when you were cold last night." You shook your head,

"Nope, I'm sorry Mr. Valentine, it's all in disarray, I'm afraid we'll just have to scrap the whole thing."

"Well now, if that’s what you were after, you could've just told me, darling. No need to insult--" His sentence remained unfinished as you tightened your grip on his tie, pulling him in for a kiss that was anything but chaste. He had so many questions left unanswered, but for reasons unknown, he couldn't seem to think of a single coherent inquiry to voice to you in this instance. Looks like it will just have to wait until later.

Preston:

Preston felt uneasy. His eyes had opened slowly when he had awoken, his heartbeat had remained consistently calm, dapples of sunlight shone through the holes in the curtains beside the bed, indicating that he had slept through the night. Why did everything feel so… so peaceful? No nightmares, no panic attacks, the usual insomnia Preston tended to face in the wee hours of the morning had never reared its infuriating head.

Then he remembered.

It was all because of you. Amazing, incredible, infallible, irresistible you. Heat flooded to his face as a coy smile touched his lips. Suddenly, he felt he had to be near you, he had to see you to believe what his mind told him had happened last night.

“Mhm, good morning," he sighed, as he turned to face your side of the bed, "how are you-- ?" Preston's eyebrows creased as he noticed your absence, his voice trailing off as he realized his question had no recipient.

"Sole?" He sat up, rubbing his awakening eyes before glancing around the room of your Sanctuary house.

"Sole?!" Preston said, louder than the first time. Perhaps you had simply gone to the washroom? Or to the kitchen maybe? Rising from the bed, Preston fetched his trousers from the pile of clothes that rested at the foot of the bed, trying not to dwell too much on the thoughts that it inspired.

But... only my clothes are here. He reflected, feeling a pang in his chest, before reminding himself that you might want to be clothed, wherever you’d gone, even if it was just in your own house. He released a bit of his anxiety in a quick breath, before heading for the bedroom door, he opened it gingerly, glancing down the hallway before making his way to each of the rooms in search of you. He did so slowly, hesitantly, in fear of what he might find. Or, rather, afraid of what he wouldn't find.

Preston stood in the empty kitchen, numb, his fear utterly realized. He collapsed into a chair at the kitchen table, afraid to let himself think, but unable to do anything else in his current state. Why, why, why did he have to act on his feelings for you? He just had to tell you how you made him feel, he had to be vulnerable and had to “put himself out there.” He just had to be intimate with you, he had to ruin everything. Why couldn’t he have just been happy with the way things were, with you as his friend? There he was, his life in danger, unable to help the people who needed him most, the Minutemen in complete disarray after having failed those they vowed to protect, and there you were. Here to save their asses, to turn his disaster of a life into one full of hope, full of light, and now, you were gone. You had left because he was an inarticulate, inexperienced, greedy, fool of a man who couldn't keep his mouth shut and just settle for having you as his general, and as his best friend. Why had he needed more? He didn't deserve more, not with you, hell, the whole damn world didn't deserve you, so how did he ever think you could want to be with him?

But you told me you did. You said you cared about me and-- No. Actions speak louder than words, and your absence after the first night you two had spent together… that spoke volumes.

Maybe you finally realized that I'm nothing special. Not compared to you. Maybe you realized that, next to you, and without you, I'm nothing at all. Preston balled a fist and pounded it weakly against your worn kitchen table, the dull thud resounding through the empty house. He sighed, sliding the chair back with a groan as he rose to his feet, heading once again to the back of the house. Entering your room without you felt like a crime, but he figured he might as well remove his things, and put on the remainder of his clothes, before leaving.

He stared down at the pile of tousled fabric at the foot of the bed, slowly untangling each individual article, secretly hoping that, if he took long enough, you would eventually make your way back into the room. That you would give him some inconsequential excuse for your absence, and he could forget all of the confusion and uncertainty of the morning. As Preston gingerly began to re-dress himself, thoughts came unbidden to the forefront of his mind. The way your soft, gentle fingers had undone each of the buttons of his shirt, the pressure tickling his neck, then his chest, down his stomach to his naval, your hands wasting no time as they moved upward to push the silky material off over his shoulders. He recalled the feeling of the smooth fabric of his scarf, as it unraveled slowly around his neck, a chill creeping onto the sensitive skin before you had chased it away quickly with the heated touch of your sweet lips. He remembered the breathy gasp that had escaped from you as your hands grasped tightly at the lapels of his coat, his mouth colliding with yours over and over again as his mind screamed for him to stop, to slow down, to ignore the fire blazing beneath his skin.

This is your general! It had told him, this is your friend, your recently widowed friend, your friend that you desperately need to keep in your life! If you screw this up, how will you ever be able to forgive yourself?

He should have listened to his head then. Why hadn’t he? Preston was sure that, if he had, it would have spared him from the awkward discussion he was bound to have with his superior officer in the near future. It certainly would have saved him the pain he was feeling now.

At the same time though... Last night had been the best night of Preston’s life. Did he really regret having those memories now? Yes, he had to. After all, what did last night matter if it hadn’t made you happy?

Preston shook his head, releasing a breath he was sure he’d been holding since he left the kitchen. Pulling up his boots, he grabbed the remainder of his things and left the room, glancing back at the empty bed one last time before placing his hat atop his head and pulling the door shut softly behind him.

The beams of morning sunlight chased away the fog that had settled in the streets of Sanctuary, bits of bright blue sky peeking through the gaps in the clouds. Looks like it’ll be a nice day. He thought somberly, trying desperately to perk himself up, lest he bump into any settlers on his patrol. He wouldn’t want to worry anyone with his troubled expression, and he certainly wasn’t prepared to answer any questions about his current state. Preston started towards the bridge, planning to begin his patrol of the perimeter from there. He was so focused on his destination, he nearly failed to notice the hand waving him down from the side of the street. When he did turn to look, his breath caught in his throat.

“Sole!” He exclaimed, much too loudly, as he noticed you, nearly dropping his laser musket. A wounded settler was seated on the curb, you were kneeling next to him on one side, wrapping a bandage around his arm, with Sturges standing on the other, an empty stimpak in hand. As soon as he processed what he was seeing, the Minuteman lieutenant tried desperately to compose himself, a blush inadvertently creeping up his cheeks as his eyes met yours. He adjusted his grip on his musket, and cleared his throat, trying to hide his embarrassment.

“Is everything alright over here?” He asked, making his way over to the group, “What can I do to help, general?” you gave him a small smile, assuring him everything was alright, and finished tending to the settler who, as Preston found out, was a new arrival who’d run into a pack of mongrels on his way to Sanctuary. When they were all certain the settler would be okay, Preston quietly asked the general if they had a moment to talk, much to Sturges’ amusement.

“I’ll leave you two lovebirds to it, then. And don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me,” Sturges slapped Preston on the back as he passed by, snickering to himself. Preston felt heat rising to his face again and quickly motioned for you to follow him behind the house, hoping to get a little privacy. He took in a sharp breath, before releasing it slowly, and you smiled warmly at him. That’s a good sign, I suppose.

“How are you feeling?” He asked you quietly. Your eyes looked past Preston, almost as though you hadn’t heard him, and he felt a pang in his chest. Turning your head slightly, you glanced to either side, ensuring no one else was looking on, before turning back to him, looking into his eyes as a flush touched your cheeks.

“If I’m honest?” you started, and Preston’s breath caught in his throat, “I’m a little sore.” you said with a little smile, and Preston felt his knees wobble as his legs nearly gave out in relief.

“Heh, if I’m honest, me too.” He said, shyly looking down at his feet as he felt heat rise to his cheeks. “So, about that,” he continued, “last night, I mean. Did you, ahem, did you like--”

In an instant, your lips were on his own. The kiss was soft, but forceful, affirming all that Preston was uncertain of.

“Last night was… amazing, Preston.” You told him after you had pulled away, your hands resting on his shoulders, keeping his body pressed to yours.

“Then, when you left this morning ... ?”

“Sturges was looking for you when he found the settler on his patrol this morning, but he obviously didn’t find you in your bed, so he came to find me and--”

Preston groaned, an embarrassed smile forcing its way to his lips,

“He didn't see anything, did he?” You giggled at that,

“No, honey, he didn’t see anything.” You rolled your eyes playfully, before pulling at his shoulders, urging his ear to your lips, “But someone did. And I hear they really liked what they saw. You know who it was?” you whispered.

“Who?” you heard him breathe.

“Hmm, you really don’t know?” You sneaked a peek at his face, noting the goofy grin that spread all the way to his warm, chocolate eyes, and you couldn’t help but lean further into him. Preston drew an arm around you, his hand on your lower back, keeping you anchored to him, and all apprehension following this morning’s events seemed to be forgotten.

“You might just have to remind me.” He said cheekily, pulling you into another kiss.

X6-88:

The tightness in his chest was the least of the courser's worries as he woke to find himself utterly alone. You were gone, that, he knew. But where-- no, how? How had you woken and readied yourself without also waking him?

He never should have agreed to last night. Not only was it completely inappropriate, given your future position in the Institute, but it had distracted him from his main duty. The most important mission he'd ever been assigned: to watch over his charge, to keep them safe. To protect you. He had grown distracted, and now you were gone. The future director of the Institute, someone he respected and idolized, a person he cared about, more than anyone he'd ever come across in his existence, was just gone. His loyalty to you was akin to his loyalty to the Institute itself, and that was non-negotiable, unbreakable, hard-wired into him. You had won his devotion on your own, which made it that much more meaningful. And that much more painful when he realized that you might not feel the same loyalty for him. But why would you? And why did he care? He was allowed to feel allegiance towards you without you needing to return it, was he not? But … if you had felt this loyalty for him, you surely wouldn't have left him alone, correct? At least that's what it seemed like, but X6 wasn't particularly knowledgeable when it came to this subject. He didn't know, these thoughts confused him, and normally you were the one to help him make sense of his more... human tendencies and emotions, but clearly in this instance, he was on his own. You had treated him like no one ever had, like a real person, and so he thought he could start acting like one. Feeling like one. But he was wrong. X6 wasn't wrong often, and he hated the feeling. In his current state, every feeling he had was a negative one. He decided to shut it out. These feelings weren't helping him protect you, which was still his mission, reciprocated loyalty or not. Sitting around, contemplating his emotions didn't help him to find you.

The courser sat up and climbed off the mattress, grabbing his clothes that he had folded neatly beside the bed last night, noting that only his were present. After you had fallen asleep, X6 had untangled his body from your own as gently as he could, so as not to wake you, and had placed your clothes beside the bed in preparation for the morning. He had retrieved his courser uniform from the floor, with the intent of dressing himself and sitting on watch for the night, but you had stirred, sleepily requesting he return to the space beside you. He remembered hesitating, before folding his coat and placing it on the table beside your own clothes and doing as you had asked. Sliding beneath the covers, he had laid on his side, placing an arm around your waist. He remembered wondering if what he had done was correct, if he was doing this all right, but you had seemed happy, and that was all that mattered to him. So, if he had done nothing wrong, why had you left? Taken your clothes, and your bag, and your gun, and vanished without a trace? And when had he started caring about your happiness? Your health, and your safety, yes, he should certainly care about those, given the nature of his orders. But now he cared about how he made you feel. He wanted you to be happy, and he wanted to be the one to make you feel that way. But why?

X6 shook his head, attempting to clear it, and grabbed his rifle from the top of the dresser. It was distracting thoughts like these that had forced him into his current predicament, he wasn't about to make that mistake again. Placing his shades onto his face, he prepared to head through the door, and out into the wastes to search for you.

X6 surveyed the surrounding area outside of your home in Sanctuary: the gas station, Abernathy farm, Tenpines bluff, even the inside of Vault 111. Yet, there was no sign of you. He returned to Sanctuary and found your house still empty, the hollowness growing in his chest as he realized that your leaving really had been intentional. Elsewise, he would have stumbled across you, or some sign of you, by now, right? He stood in your old kitchen, his knuckles paled at the death grip he held on the edge of the counter, his jaw clenching as he tried to hold his emotions at bay.

How could he have agreed to last night? And why would you have presented the idea if you had meant to do this to him in the end? With a groan of frustration, X6 pounded a hand against the countertop, leaving a small indent in the shape of his fist. Not only had you left him, you had done so without warning, without explanation, and now he couldn't find you. He couldn't find you. That's what he did, he was a relentless hunter, a cold pursuant, he completed all of his missions efficiently, he followed Institute protocol, he followed orders. What he didn't do was get wrapped up in human emotions, he didn't throw caution to the wind and give into his most base desires. He was a synth. He didn't yearn, or want, or love. Or at least he hadn't.

Not until he met you.

The courser sighed, fists still clenched in frustration. He didn't know what to do, you were his mission, but if you commanded him to leave--? But you never actually had ordered him away... In his eyes, there was only one option for him to consider.

"Unit X6-88, ready to relay back to the institute. Alone."

A flash of blue, and he was back. No one asked him to report in, and he didn't offer. He started straight towards the SRB, wondering what the consequences would be for his behavior. A memory wipe would be the best outcome, especially if... Oh. But if they saw the memories from last night, what would happen to you?

X6 stopped in his tracks, turning quickly to go up the stairs that ascended to the residential portion of the Institute. Once again, he was at a loss. He didn't want to lose those memories, but more than that, he didn't want anyone else to see them. You were the first person he's ever met that treated him as a human, saw him as one, made him feel like one, and he couldn't bear the thought of what the Institute scientists would say about you, say to you, or do to you, if they saw what you had done with him. The courser looked down at his feet as he walked quickly, moving instinctively towards your quarters. He turned down the hallway, and recoiled at the figure that appeared as your door dragged open. X6’s eyes widened beneath his shades, and he cleared his throat to keep himself from gasping in surprise as your eyes met his.

"There you are! I was wondering when you would finally turn up, I finished with the meeting hours ago. I was just about to go out and look for you. Don't tell me you slept in this late?" You said with a grin that spread all the way to your glorious eyes. X6 couldn't form words, he just stood gawking at you, his mouth half open, looking like a complete fool. Right, the meeting with Father. How had he forgotten?

"Is everything okay?" You asked, your smile being replaced by an expression of concern. The courser didn't answer, he still couldn't keep his thoughts in order; instead, he stepped forward until his chest pressed against yours, urging you to back into your quarters. You did so rather hesitantly, a confused expression causing your brows to crinkle. When the door had closed behind him, X6 slowly reached out his arms, wrapping them tightly around you, just as you had shown him last night, he pulled you to his chest and held you firmly. The warmth of you, your soft hair and sweet scent calmed his strained nerves, and he finally allowed himself to take a deep breath and close his eyes, just for a moment. As quickly as he'd initiated it, he pulled away from the hug, squaring his shoulders and straightening his posture,

"I'm glad you're safe, ma'am/sir."

677 notes · View notes

actualsaii · 3 years

Text

the bet

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Word count: 15k

Genre: smut, comedy, university AU

Summary: You lost a bet and now it’s time to face the consequences. Aka when you lose and now you have to get a tattoo.

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30140211

I'm reposting this one in case it's more comfortable for the readers to use tumblr instead of AO3 :)

“I can’t believe they made me do it,” you murmured under your nose as you passed the street, knowing that your friends still sat in the car parked in the lot across the street with eyes pinned on your nervous figure. The closer you got to the two-story building, the stronger the crippling anxiety inside of you grew, causing your inners to shake under the heavy consequences of your Thursday night’s escapade that culminated into your worst nightmare.

Yes, everything started two nights ago in a shabby university bar that you grew so fond of during the past two years of your studies. It was always packed whether it was a school night or not, full of freshmen and also seniors, from time to time even postgraduate students that seemed to be only a myth to you as you’ve almost never met one outside the classes. However, neither of that mattered that night as you successfully finished your last exam and decided to hit the streets with your two best friends that carefully prepared the night to its tiniest details. Conspiracy was the first word that popped in your mind as the night continued to unfold her secrets, although it was quickly erased with the fifth shot of tequila after which you simply found yourself walking straight to the bar with one and only thing your friends managed to set your mind on.

The hot bartender, also a member of mythical postgraduate group, was your main target even though he was currently busy with lining the glasses of RedBull next to each other while smaller shot cups full of golden liquid, you somewhere in the back of your mind recalled was probably Jägermeister, balanced on the tips of the bigger glasses under. Each of his move was precise, yet you knew this wasn’t the first Jäger-train he had built. The man worked at this bar ever since you could remember - and you also recalled the moment he stepped into your first class of Forensic psychology, looking completely different than you saw him the previous night (which was your first time visiting the bar when you were a freshman) in the club. Just then one of your friends told you he was a postgraduate student who worked at the bar and also taught some classes because of his final research paper. And now he was here again, his longish black hair carefully slicked back, exposing the undercut that made him look like a bad boy. His eyes momentarily flickered up from his work and once they laid on you, smirk flashed through his features and he straightened his posture, done with what he was doing.

“Look who we have here on a school night. Isn’t it a little bit too late for you to be out, ___?” he tilted his head to the side, never allowing the smile to disappear from his handsome features. He was famous for many things, but the nickname he used really preceded his name - Worldwide Handsome.

“Kim Seokjin, nice and friendly as always. Not that it should concern you, but I’m successfully done with all of my exams; so tonight, I’m celebrating. And I’m also on mission,” you leaned closer to him, almost knocking the train made of multiple glasses of alcohol, however you couldn’t care less. There was only one thing on your mind - and you know your friends were watching you somewhere from the booth in the back of the bar. At least they tried because your mind wasn’t the only one clouded by alcohol and a stupid bet you nodded to extremely fast and without giving it a thought or two first.

“So, mission it is tonight. Anyway, congratulations to wrapping up the term. Now, is there something I can do for you? Because, as you can see, it’s Thursday night, and the place is already bursting. Also, my masterpiece is ready for the show,” he said, reaching for the empty shot cup, ready to put the train on move. Your eyes flickered from his to the said masterpiece and you chuckled. Of course, there was something he could do for you but you didn’t want to burst it out loud just like that, not when the place was crowded and you felt countless eyes pinned on you because you occupied the spot by the bar for longer than acceptable.

But then again, you were on the mission and that was more important than some impatient freshmen that expected to put their hands on one of the glasses of Jägerbomb Seokjin has just put on the move. He gently nudged the first shot sitting on the rim of the glass and watched with his eyes full of excitement how the following shot cups fell down like a domino. People around you cheered loudly and suddenly they started grabbing glasses one after another until there was just one left. In a moment you decided to snatch it for yourself, your fingers met with another long and slender ones, covered in black ink and shiny silver rings. Looking up, you realized the crowd of people was gone, scattered all over the place and dance floor while only a few people remained lingering around the bar area. And the man, who was about to steal the drink you set your eyes on, was now staring at you with a smirk that mirrored in his deep and dark eyes. Long strands of his wavy blonde hair fell into his face but he quickly pushed them back, yet he took an advantage of the moment of surprise and snatched the drink before you had enough time to say something.

“Too late, love,” he shrugged and quickly disappeared in the crowd of people, only his blonde hair shining like a beacon, eventually disappearing as well. You turned to Seokjin with lips formed in a shape of a small ‘o’, still processing what has just happened. The bartender smirked and started lining another train of glasses on the surface of the bar, this time with a different type of drink on his mind.

“What was that? Who was that guy?” you asked, momentarily confused but you quickly shook it off your shoulders like an invisible layer of dust. You had to succeed with your mission, some blonde guy stealing the drink you wanted for yourself was out of the question at the moment.

“That was Jeon Jungkook, no one you should care about. Now, what can I offer you, ___? Or are you going to just levitate around until you are brave enough to spill the tea? Because one of your friends is peeking from the booth like a chicken hidden in the bush. What is it that you want?” with those words, he leaned closer over the bar surface and you felt his hot breath hitting your face. And even though your senses were already covered by the heavy sheet made out of tequila and god knew what else, you still felt cigarettes and scotch in his breath, the favorite combination of his when he was working.

You chewed on your lower lip while the wheels in the back of your mind spun like crazy, contemplating whether to come out with your plan or just kept playing your little game of a spy on the mission - even though Kim Seokjin could see straight through you as if you were a thin piece of a transparent paper. So, with a heavy sigh, you smashed your palms against the bar in a dramatic gesture, looking him straight into his eyes. If someone was looking at you, and you were sure there was at least one person watching you besides your friends, they must have thought you were some kind of Seokjin’s crazy fangirl. Which wouldn’t be surprising since the man was quite famous at the university.

“I need Jimin’s number.”

“Oh my god.”

“I’m serious, Seokjin. I need Jimin’s number otherwise I’m in a very big trouble. You have to save my ass,” you basically begged him, now almost laying on the bar as you leaned closer to him. The black-haired bartender only shook his head no and gave you a look somewhere between ‘I like you, you are my friend, but I can’t help you’ and ‘someone please just kill me already before I strangle this girl first’.

“I’m sorry but if you want Jimin number, you have to ask yourself. And since I know the number is not for you, you should tell your friend to man the hell up and ask him herself. He doesn’t bite, you know. Well, at least I think he doesn’t,” he shook his head again and handed you a shot of tequila he managed to pour you while he was talking. Small pout formed on your lips and you tried really hard to pull out the most innocent look on your face, but such a witchcraft had none effect on Kim Seokjin.

“You don’t understand - I promised my friend I would get the number for her. We placed a bet and if I lose… Seokjin, I can’t lose! Of my fucking god, I can’t lose this one. That would be the end of me.”

Something in his face shifted and now he looked genuinely interested in your little mission. A tiny spark of hope lit up in your chest when his eyes softened and he turned to you again.

“What’s the bet about?”

You felt the heat creeping into your cheeks each second of standing by the bar, your eyes now pinned on your hands still placed on its surface. The shot laid untouched in front of you even though you felt your mouth watering just by watching it. And although the level of alcohol in your bloodstream was already dangerously high, you reached out for it and downed the shot in one gulp. Just in case you needed some more courage.

“If I don’t get Jimin’s number tonight, I will have to get a tattoo by the end of the week. So, please, you have to save my ass, Seokjin. I mean, it’s not like I don’t want that tattoo, I’ve wanted it for some time already, but I’m still not sure and—“

“You got to be kidding me, ___. This is the most stupid thing I’ve ever heard,” the almost caring look in his face was quickly replaced by his notorious smug smirk and you knew you were fucked for the night. There was no way he was about to give you Jimin’s number, and walking around the bar, asking random strangers for Park Jimin’s number was out of question.

“I will never forget your betrayal, Kim Seokjin. I will never forget how you turned your back on me. And if you come to me asking for help, I will repay you the same,” your index finger touched his chest and while you were sure you looked dangerous and almost and vengeful, Seokjin just chuckled and sent you one of his precious flying kisses.

“Duly noted, sweetheart. Don’t forget to send me a photo of your new tattoo. I will be waiting.”

And just like that, with his words still echoing through your mind, you showed him your tongue and waltzed back to the table where your friends were sitting.

Of course, without Park Jimin’s number.

And the threat of getting a tattoo dangerously hanging above your head.

“I can’t believe they made me do it.”

It was Saturday morning and the betrayal of Kim Seokjin and the following cheering sounds of your friends still rang through your mind like an annoying sound of the alarm clock set on the phone. You weren’t about to get away with new pledges and promises of getting Park Jimin’s number because your friends simply weren’t about to let you. No, a deal was a deal and now that you lost the bet, you had to get that tattoo from the artist in a parlor downtown. It was a new one and judging by what Sunmi told you a few days ago, they only opened the salon three months ago. However, the number of followers on social network sites grew higher and higher each day so you and your friends agreed it was a good place to get your first tattoo.

Although you weren’t so sure now that you were crossing the street with a paper cup of coffee in your hands. It was an olive branch from your friends when they picked you up at the dorms early in the morning, proposing the breakfast at your favorite café near the university’s main campus. At least something to ease your mind before taking such a huge step forward.

You took a deep breath and looked over your shoulder one last time, checking if those two creatures that came straight from the hell still sat in the car parked in the lot. And of course, they were still there, sending you thumbs up as if to give you a courage to step inside and get that goddamn tattoo. Thinking about that, it was all your fault because you were talking about getting one for a while, so it was only natural your friends took advantage of your big mouth and used it as a weapon against you. Although, you had to admit the smoothness they turned the bet into.

“Why am I even friends with you?” you muttered under your nose and took a sip of the coffee before you reached for the doorknob and pressed it, opening the door with a sound of ring bell accompanying your gesture. You peeked inside - and your inners immediately turned upside down with the scene that unfolded in front of your eyes. Not to mention you almost dropped the paper cup with coffee.

The studio itself looked neat and clean, shiny almost as each piece of furniture and accessory seemed brand new. Right opposite the front door sat a massive black desk with an office chair and a laptop placed on the top. But besides the PC, there was a small plant and an opened sketchbook with a picture you couldn’t see properly because you stood too far away. Not that you wanted to peek inside, not really. The wall behind the table was pitch black with a few modern art pieces and shelves full of books standing there. The remaining three walls were covered in various pieces of paper showing different tattoo motives that were apparently free for customers to choose. But that wasn’t what knocked the air out of your lungs and almost made you change your decision with backing the hell out of the studio, no. What made you almost squeal were two men half hidden behind the paravan that covered the tattooing area from the common area with two black leather sofas and a small coffee table. Even though you couldn’t see their faces properly, you exactly knew who they were. And the fact that one of them was indirectly responsible for you getting in this quite unfortunate situation made your blood boil.

“Park Jimin?”

Both of them immediately snapped in your direction while the said man rolled down his shirt and patted the blonde’s shoulder with a grateful smile curling the corners of his lips up. The blonde one only nodded but once his eyes met yours, there was something wicked mirroring behind his irises - and you were quickly reminded of the Thursday’s night and the talk you had with Seokjin after he successfully made the Jäger-train work. The blonde man was the one who stole your drink. The one who ever so shamelessly snatched it right out of your hands and walked away as if nothing had happened. You clearly remembered the wave of drunken rage that almost swept you off your feet the night it happened - the drink was supposed to be yours, not his. Either way, that fact only added to the moment of surprise you went through the second you realized the tattoo artist was no one else but the blonde thief with arms covered in ink.

“Oh, hi? You are the one from Seokjin’s Forensic Psychology class, right? ___? What are you doing here?” Jimin asked and at that moment, you felt like the dumbest dumbass walking the planet earth. What were you doing here? Oh, yes. The lost bet and the punishment you had to accept according to the terms of the deal. However, that wasn’t something you could come clean about since it would make you look like an… idiot. Complete idiot. So, instead of giving him an answer, your eyes flickered to the direction of the blonde tattoo artists who was now in the process of getting rid of the black latex gloves, throwing them into a trash bin. And as if he felt the weight of your eyes heaving him down, he looked at you with a slight hint of smirk tugging on the corners of his lips. He too seemed to be interested in your answer.

“Yep, that’s me. And to answer your question - I’m here to get a tattoo. I guess that’s what tattoo salons are for?” you tilted your head to the side and gave both males your best smile without being nervous about it.

“Do you have an appointment?” the blonde asked and approached the table where the sketchbook and other notebooks laid. As soon as his question sunk in the air filling the room, you cleared your throat and realized that, perhaps, you should have called beforehand, although this whole situation came into an existence during your Thursday night’s pre-game when you were already intoxicated and so determined to get Jimin’s number no matter what consequences might come out in case you simply failed.

Exactly like you did.

And it brought you here.

Silence fell over the room and for a split second, your brain came up with an idea of asking Jimin for his number and immediately backing away from the previous plan, but then, on the other hand, you weren’t about to chicken out of your punishment. You were too proud to do so.

“No, I don’t think so,” you smiled again, wishing for the mother earth to swallow you and spit you out on the other side of the world since the weight of the look in their eyes grew heavier and heavier each second that passed. They must have thought you were an idiot waltzing into a tattoo salon without an appointment on Saturday morning. Because who would have done that? No one but a psychology student who lost the bet and was now facing its consequences.

“Well, then I guess I will just leave you two alone. Lucky you, Jungkook was supposed to have a day off since it’s Saturday, but as I know him, he wouldn’t say no to a nice young lady, would he?” Jimin smirked and before Jungkook had the opportunity to throw the notebook in his direction, the brown-haired guy grabbed his jacket and disappeared from the salon at the speed of light.

And that made you feel bit anxious because right at the moment, it was just you and the tattoo artist Jungkook who managed to steal your drink, which, for some reason, couldn’t let you cold. The small and tiny voice in the back of your mind told you he must have been a member of the mythical postgraduate students’ group as well, but you weren’t stupid to voice your question out loud. You were just frozen in one place with lips forming a shape of a small ‘o’, unable to put together a rather coherent sentence to explain how you got into such a situation. Not that he should know each detail, but then again, he was the artist and according to Jimin’s words, he was supposed to have a day off until you came, and, well, obviously changed his plans.

Again, according to Jimin’s words.

“If you have a day off, I can come another time. Or I can book an appointment and—“

“It’s ____, right? I’m Jeon Jungkook, nice to meet you. Anyway, it’s fine. Jimin wasn’t on my list either when he came banging on the door early in the morning. One more tattoo wouldn’t kill me, really. I don’t have much to do, anyway,” his voice dropped a few tones lower and it genuinely surprised you how quickly he agreed on something that wasn’t on his schedule, therefore wasn’t supposed to happen. Honestly, you expected him to throw you out of the salon with the same sassy smirk and comment he addressed you with the night you met him at the bar. But nothing like that happened and you suddenly felt the inner storm gaining the momentum, throwing you off balance easily. And maybe, that was the reason you kept standing in one spot with lips still half-parted, staring at the young man standing in front of you with a smile plastered over his features. The smile first seemed to be innocent, reaching his eyes but mirroring something not so innocent any longer as the question slipped his lips. “Did you have fun with your friends?”

Wheezing noise came out of you and he raised his brows in unspoken question.

“I’d rather not talk about that night, really,” you rolled your eyes and bit on your inner cheek as the memory of the night came to you as a wrecking ball.

“Had too much to drink? You should be glad I managed to put my hands on the drink before you did then,” his innocent smile quickly turned into a smug one, reminding you of the way Seokjin basically laughed in your face when he found out about the bet. And since the bartender seemed to be familiar with the blonde tattoo artists, there was this one certain question that popped on your mind like a red light. Was it possible Seokjin told Jungkook about the bet? Did he out you?

No, Seokjin wouldn’t do that. He might have not helped you with getting Jimin’s number, but he certainly wouldn’t do something like blabbering about the bet to his friends who had nothing to do with that. Until now.

“About that - it was my drink, I had my eyes on that first,” you murmured but couldn’t help when the smile tugged on the corner of your lips. Fighting about something so trivial like a drink wasn’t really your thing, yet, for some reason you felt like this business needed to be taken care of.

“Then you should have been faster, love. Now, tell me about that tattoo of yours you want to get. Do you have something on your mind or am I free to come up with a design?” he asked, quickly shifting into his artist mode. He wasn’t really curious about the reason you ended up in his studio, nor he blamed you for barging in like Jimin did in the morning. He simply wanted to start to work, that was all. And you had to admit, it once again stole the wind from under your wings and left you standing there frozen in one place with lips parted but no words leaving them. A wave of admiration towards the young man that dedicated his free time to grace the skin of other people woke up inside of you and brought the butterflies in your stomach to life.

As the question settled in, your mind was suddenly blank like a fresh canvas, not a simple idea crossing it. Your loss of words made him chuckle before he turned to his table and reached for yet another sketchbook laying there. The sound of pages flipping filled the room, accompanied by Jungkook’s soft humming until he found what he was looking for.

“What do you think about this? It’s a free design I made a few days ago but I was too busy to put in on the wall. It looks like something that might suit you. Of course, it’s just my opinion,” with those words he handed you the sketchbook opened on a page with the design he had on mind for you. And you had to admit, it was beautiful. A simple line of flowers tangled together, nothing too exaggerating, quite the right opposite. However, you couldn’t quite grasp the concept of place where he wanted to put it.

“It looks really beautiful, and now I will probably sound too stupid, but where do you want to put it?” you asked, genuinely interested in his answer. Of course, he must have had an idea of where to place it once he was working on it. Your question brought a smile to his face as he came closer and gently grabbed the sketchbook from your hands. He put it back on the table while his right hand remained cuffing your left wrist.

“Here, around your wrist like a bracelet while the rest of the tattoo will continue to the back of your hand. Exactly here,” his fingers traced a delicate way from your wrist to the back of your hand, leaving a burning trace behind. Breath almost hitched in your throat when you realized how close he got to you without you realizing it, however, you quickly collected yourself and fixed your posture, looking into his dark eyes. “It’s your first tattoo and I believe I don’t have to tell you how important it is for you to choose the right place. Consider this a friendly opinion of mine. It would really suit you, ___.”

Just as he finished his little speech, his touch left your hand, yet the burning sensation remained lingering over the surface of your skin.

“That sounds like a really lovely idea,” you murmured as you brought your hand closer to your face, examining the place he traced with his fingers just seconds ago. As much as you weren’t excited about the idea of getting a tattoo this fast, although you’ve always wanted one, you started changing your mind in a snap of fingers. And whether it was the picture you really liked or Jungkook’s aura that was only hard to resist, you didn’t know. What you were sure about was the one and only thing - you weren’t about to back away from this decision. Not anymore.

You were surprised by yourself and the sudden discovery you missed the way Jungkook chuckled and shook his head over your strange behavior.

“Are you sure about that? Because I don’t really want you to chase me down the university halls in case you don’t like it anymore, you know? Tattoo is mostly a permanent thing and let me tell you, it’s really painful if you want to get rid of that. Not to mention it’s almost twice as expensive. Think about it, love,” it almost sounded like he tried to change your mind, and honestly, you felt like a child getting a lecture. Which you didn’t like at all.

“Of course, I’m sure. I wouldn’t be here in the first place if I wasn’t. I’ve wanted a tattoo for a very long time, I just didn’t give it a proper thought - as of what to get and where to place it. I was hoping that since you are a pro—you could help me out with that. Which you did, so…” you shrugged, giving him a look full of confidence. At least, you hoped you did. And as to seal your words, you took a step closer to him with a smile gracing your features. “So, can we do it today?”

Smirk flashed through his features and mirrored in his eyes.

“Of course, love.”

Jungkook put everything into motion rather smoothly and you had to admire the way he basically danced around the salon while he prepared everything he was about to need for your tattoo. From time to time, your eyes flickered to the already prepared design laying on the small table near the tattooing chair you were aiming for. Excitement rushed through your bloodstream just when you imagined the art on your hand. Funny, how everything changed in a snap of fingers and your annoyed mood was quickly replaced by the excitement in the form of butterflies fluttering in your tummy.

“Do you mind if I play some music?” he asked with his back turned to you as he did some last preparations for your tattoo.

“Not at all. It’s your place, play whatever you want,” you shook your head and shrugged down the leather jacket you were wearing. The room was hot and you shouldn’t be wearing it anyway, so you took it off and climbed into the chair, waiting rather impatiently for the blonde artist to be done with his little preparations. The soft tunes of hip-hop music filled the air and you had to smile. For some reason, even though you didn’t know him at all, the music suited Jungkook very much. It went along the aura his persona gave off, almost hand in hand.

“What is that? I’ve never heard this song,” you asked curiously as you made yourself comfortable in the chair, leaning against the leather surface with the butterflies still playing the game of catch in your stomach. Have you really been that excited about getting that goddamn tattoo? Or was Jeon Jungkook responsible for the weird excitement you haven’t seen coming once you stepped out of your friend’s car? Such questions popped in your mind and you had to sigh in defeat as you didn’t have a single answer.

The way your question captured his attention and the way he turned to you with eyes sliding up and down your body in the tattooing chair certainly didn’t help to calm the storm inside of you.

“Do you know Jung Hoseok? He is one of the postgraduates, but other than studying, he likes to work on music. This is one of the songs he released within his mixtape a few weeks ago. It’s only on SoundCloud, so I don’t blame you for now knowing it, but you should give it a try. He is really good,” Jungkook smiled as he was apparently praising one of his good friends, reaching for the box of latex gloves to put a clean pair on. The gesture itself told you he was ready to start working on your design.

“Not only you are a mythical group everyone is talking about, but it seems like all of you have that hidden side no one knows about - well, besides Seokjin. Everyone knows he is the most handsome bartender. I guess he is the reason why the bar is still so packed. But hey, I will give that mixtape a shot. It sounds catchy,” you wondered out loud without giving your words a thought or two. Yet, it has already escaped your mouth and you couldn’t do anything about it. And when Jungkook chuckled, you only hoped he didn’t think you were a complete weirdo.

“Is that so? I’ve never heard anyone calling us a mythical group but I can see the point. It’s just we are always busy with the university and when there’s a slight chance to do whatever else than the research for doctoral thesis, we simply do what we love to do - and it differs from person to person. For me, it’s the salon and the art of tattoo. Although it mostly belongs to my older brother, every time I’m free from uni, I spend my time here,” he was open with you and it almost made your heart melt because even though he didn’t know you properly, he talked to you about the daily basis of his life as if you two were old friends. Plus, his words convinced you he didn’t think of you as a weirdo, which was definitely a very good sign. “I’m sure there’s something you love to do too.”

That made you wonder. There were many things you enjoyed doing, but suddenly, none of them came to your mind as Jungkook kept staring at you, probably waiting for the answer. Your brain worked faster than on the university entrance exam, yet the more pressure you put on that poor thing, the more alert it seemed to be.

“Honestly, I’m glad when I have a weekend off. This is my second year on the university and keeping my shit together is getting harder and harder. But well, there was this period of time when I enjoyed doing Yoga almost every day. Currently it’s just reading books and listening to music. Now you are going to think I’m one of those boring people who like to stay inside instead of partying with a large group of friends,” you decided to be honest with him because there was nothing left to lose. Also, why not being honest with someone who decided to sacrifice his own free time in spite of giving you tattoo?

“Why would I think you are boring? I love being by myself with a good book or a good movie on Netflix. However, I also like to go out with my friends from time to time. And I bet you do, too,” the teasing smirk was back on his lips, although it didn’t last long as he reached for your hand with excited sparkles dancing in his eyes. “Are you ready?”

You only nodded, watching him like a hawk when he reached for the disinfection and turned back to you with a smile tugging on the corner of his lips. And just like before, Jungkook easily slipped into his tattoo artist mode, moving around with grace and something more that made your eyes stay pinned on him rather shamelessly. He must have felt your eyes scanning him up and down when he did the magic to your hand - aka applying the disinfection and then wiping your skin gently once he was done. After that, he put some kind of gel on your skin and when you asked what he was doing, he only chuckled.

“I need to print the design on your skin. It helps with the process,” he said, not giving you a single glance as he was so drawn in each step of his job. Next time you looked down on your hand, he was pressing the paper against your skin, peeling it off after he was sure the design was completely imprinted. The picture came out blue and blurry in some places, but you knew that wasn’t an issue for someone like Jungkook. “Is it okay like that? Do you want me to move it a little?” he asked, pushing back on the chair he was sitting in for you to have space to inspect the future design of your tattoo. You brought your hand closer to your face, inspecting each detail of the pattern, internally already excited about how it was going to look once it was done and completed.

Honestly, it looked nice and somehow, you felt it suited you well. Exactly like he told you when he first showed you the design. Simple and delicate, yet somehow daring. Nonetheless, you must have been checking it for way too long as Jungkook cleared his throat and you were quickly snapped back to the reality.

“Oh, yeah, sorry about that. I think the place is amazing, you don’t need to move it. I can already imagine it,” you smiled without the realization Jungkook was closer to you once again, his hot breath brushing against the skin of your exposed shoulder. You weren’t going to lie here, the shivers danced down your spine crazily and your head spun a little when the scent of his musky cologne attacked your senses. How come you didn’t catch it sooner? Never mind, this wasn’t the right time nor place to be weak for the blonde artist.

Although he was hot.

Very hot.

“Okay then, let’s get this beauty done,” he smirked and you couldn’t do otherwise but mirror the excitement that was entangled within his voice. You outreached your hand for him, mentally preparing for the pain to come. Bonus points for Jungkook who let you breathe out for a while before he grabbed the tattoo machine and leaned closer to you to the point you felt his breath and cologne again. Damn, that kind of thoughts must have clouded your mind completely because you hissed when the needle first touched your skin. Thankfully, you didn’t flinch nor you moved an inch in your seat. Soon, you grew kind of used to the new sensation glazing through your skin.

“You okay?” he looked up to your eyes after a minute or two, you didn’t count. You only nodded, chewing on your inner cheeks because you couldn’t describe the weird sensation. On the scale of ‘it hurts’ to ‘it’s kind of annoying’, your feelings balanced perfectly in the middle.

“Yeah. Just can’t decide if it hurts or not. I mean, it doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it was going to hurt. Am I weird?” you voiced out your thoughts with a chuckle accompanying them, hoping Jungkook would understand the message you tried to send.

“You are not weird. I’ve met countless people who couldn’t quite decipher what they felt, and to be honest with you, I’m surprised you are not squealing in pain considering the place you chose for your first tattoo is quite painful. No offense, of course. Anyway, yeah. Long time ago, me and my brother agreed this type of pain was… somehow exciting. You are expecting something great and you are willing to go such a length to get it, whilst the pain. I, personally, like that pain.”

“I can see that. Considering your arms are basically drowning in the ink. I like it,” the bold confession slipped your lips without you even realizing so. Jungkook stopped working for a split second and looked at you, eyes hazy and suddenly full of something that hasn’t been there before. And as much as you yelled at yourself internally to avoid his gaze, the other half of yourself did quite the right opposite. You started back with the growing smirk curling your lips in a teasing matter. Something inside of you enjoyed the little game that was slowly but surely getting out of control with each second that passed. If he could call you love, you could play with him in return as well.

All while keeping his eyes on yours, he started talking, the process of tattoo momentarily completely forgotten.

“Most of it is mine work, some of it my brother’s. Got my first one when I was sixteen and parents almost killed me. My brother went with me, he played the role of my legal guardian since I was still a minor. And that’s basically how this addiction started. First tattoo, drawing my own designs, getting the machine and experimenting on my own skin. I fucked up some and my brother had to cover it with another design. And I still want more,” he said, giving a special emphasis on the last word as his eyes flickered in your direction for the last time before he started working on the tattoo again. The stinging sensation grew heavier, yet you prevented yourself from yelping or flinching in your place.

Because the sensation of his burning stare caused you feel more than the process of inking your skin itself.

“That really is a sheer talent,” you murmured under your nose, still bothered with the thoughts that kept whirling in your mind like a vortex that swept everything along the way. You thought about his words again and again until a question rolled down your tongue. “Do you think I might end up wanting more too?”

He looked up to you with the long strands of blonde hair falling into his eyes. The urge to push it behind his ear was too strong and you had to resist hard not to reach out to do it. Damn, there was something about him that kept bugging you like crazy.

“I don’t know, love. You can get rid of the tattoo in a year or less. Or you can come barge in like Jimin did because you will want another one. One can never know,” he said as he reached for the paper wipes to clean the first part of the tattoo that crawled around your wrist. His touch was gentle and caring, almost as sweet as the smile that appeared on his lips when he said: “I’m going to finish the outlining and then we can take a break if you want. But I should warn you that after the break, it might hurt a little. Your skin will be triggered, so if you feel dizzy or something, let me know.”

“Now you sound like I might pass out.”

“You wouldn’t be the first one,” again, the sound of his laugh filled the room and you rolled your eyes. “But so far, you are holding really bravely. You are definitely not going to pass out.”

The next twenty minutes passed in silence between the two of you, only the soft tunes of R&B music filled the room. However, that wasn’t something that disturbed you, quite the right opposite. You managed to relax yourself, body almost melting against the chair as you let Jungkook finish outlining the tattoo. However, despite your relaxed state, you couldn’t stop thinking about the way he touched you even though it was just a part of his job. Of course he had to touch you, of course he had to be careful with what he was doing.

But there was something more to it. Something more about Jeon Jungkook and the way he talked to you when he explained the story behind his tattoos. The way his eyes from time to time flickered to you and refused to leave just to hold a tiny piece of eye-contact. Not that you wanted to flatter yourself, but you did. This wasn’t only in your head - he was staring because he probably felt the same connection or how you should call it.

No, it was not connection.

Perhaps something else.

Something you would dare to call desire.

But then again, you didn’t want to flatter yourself.

But you did.

The realisation you were all hot and disturbed because of the blonde tattoo artist covered in ink felt fresh and exciting, however, you were quickly pulled out of the pool of your thoughts when he pushed back and put down the machine, getting rid of the gloves. He threw them into a trash bin and when he looked at you, there was this bunny smile gracing his features.

“Time for a little break. Do you want coffee or something? I bet the one you brought with you must be already cold,” he shook his head and got up from the seat, eyes still pinned on you. For some reason, a thought of him being able to read your thoughts momentarily flashed through your mind - and you felt stupid for even thinking about it. Of course, it was only able in those fantasy books you loved reading.

Yet, his eyes mirrored something deeper.

“Coffee, please. With milk and sugar if I can ask.”

“Of course. Everything for you, love.”

Jungkook wasn’t lying when he said it might hurt after the break. The skin on your hand was triggered and burning, however, you were too proud to admit it was getting too painful and too unbearable. Instead, you kept biting on your inner cheek while your eyes remained on his focused face and his skillful fingers that were almost done with the tattoo. What was first a design in Jungkook’s little sketchbook was now a beautiful art gracing the skin of your hand in a very delicate way. Just when the art was done and Jungkook cleaned your skin, he put on a transparent tape over it and gave you yet another bunny smile.

“And, we are done,” he pushed away from you and got rid of the latex gloves, cleaning the mess around while you hopped down from the chair and checked yourself in the mirror on the wall (although you didn’t really have to since the tattoo was perfectly visible just by looking at it). As you were scanning your posture in the reflection, you also felt something else. A pair of eyes running up and down your body rather shamelessly, and you had to admit - you enjoyed the attention he was giving you.

“You are strangely silent and I’m not sure if I like it or not,” Jungkook surprised you with his words, causing you to finally turn to him with a smile tugging on the corners of your lips. He was already done with cleaning the space, now sitting in the tattooing chair with arms folded over his chest. Something about him was so mesmerizing you found yourself unable to look away and take a deep breath. He seemed the same, though, giving you a rather intimidating look full of undisclosed attention and something more.

“I was just checking the masterpiece you created, that’s all. It looks amazing,” your voice came out strong and steady, surprising even yourself when you finished the sentence with a smile plastered over your features. Ever since you crossed the threshold of Jungkook’s salon, you managed to boost your confidence a little over the small talk and the cup of coffee you two had together during the short break.

“Now you are exaggerating, love. Anyway, I’m glad you like it. The first one is always very special. At least in my case,” the smirk was soon replaced by the bunny smile you found too cute on a guy like Jungkook. His appearance and look probably confused many people - including you. When you saw him for the first time, you thought he was a bad boy, a player, someone who would toy with you around only to tell you off the next day. But the more you were talking to him through the session, the more convinced you grew he was actually a nice guy with passion for art and tattoos. He was a nice example of that ‘to not judge the book by its cover’ saying. Those thoughts seemed to occupy your mind for longer than you thought as Jungkook slid down the chair and came closer to you, examining the tattoo he has just given you. “And it looks very good on you. Hot and tempting, but also sweet and delicate. It’s complimenting you well, love,” this time, he put a special emphasis on the last word, catching you completely off guard. However, you quickly collected yourself as your eyes found his, already staring. Once again, he came too close to you, completely destroying the last pieces of your personal space, but for some reason, you didn’t give a damn. If he was about to play, you weren’t the one to chicken out of this. No, not really. Therefore, came the answer with a smile flashing through your features and the smirk your eyes managed to pull out.

“Thank you, I like that place too. And who knows, I might come for more once I think about it deeper,” you smiled and internally fought the urge to touch him somehow. Anyhow. The aura around him was so welcoming you almost heard it whispering those teasing words into your ear, luring you to come closer despite the fact his work was over for now. You didn’t want to be done with him, not yet. You wanted more.

And moreover, you wanted him to call you like that again.

Gosh, being attracted to someone has never been more annoying than at this very moment when you wanted nothing more but to lean closer and—

“I’d be very happy, to be honest,” he took a step back, however, the smirk remained lingering over his facial features, giving you that tiny spark of hope that the game wasn’t finished just yet. But then again, he took a step back and it was a sign for you to do the same.

“Surely I will let you know in advance next time. Now, how much do I owe you?”

“How much what?”

“How much for the tattoo, Jungkook,” you couldn’t help but put a special emphasis on his name that rolled down your tongue easier than you first expected. He seemed to be caught off guard momentarily before a soft sound of him chuckling filled the room.

“Nothing,” he shrugged as if it indeed was nothing, as if he just didn’t grace your skin with his art.

His answer made you look at him in pure shock, blinking once and twice before his answer settled and you finally understood the simple word that left his lips. Just when you were about to scold him a little, he caught you unprepared with yet another shocking answer. “I stole a drink from you, so think about this as a payback. Also, you seem to be friends with Seokjin - and Seokjin’s friends are my friends.”

It was quick and bold answer, leaving you standing there as if someone spilled a bucket of cold-ass water over your head. Your lips formed a shape of a small ‘o’ and you very probably looked like a complete idiot.

“No, I can’t let you do that. I came here on your day off; you can’t give me a tattoo for free.”

“My studio, my rules, love. However, you are right about this one,” he wondered out loud, giving you a look that you couldn’t decipher, quite the right opposite. The look and his answer made your heart beat faster, almost as if it wanted to jump straight out of your ribcage. However, you kept it cool, just casually waiting for him to tell you more.

But he didn’t.

“So?”

“So… let’s just say you owe me this one, love. Let’s settle this as a debt I can collect anytime I want. What do you think about that?” he tilted his head to the side and gave you a look that was supposed to look innocent, yet there was nothing innocent about the mischief burning in his eyes. And despite the fact you didn’t know what did he mean by the ‘debt he could collect anytime he wanted’, the idea somehow excited you, causing the butterflies to play the game of catch in your tummy again.

“I think that’s something I can agree on.”

“Then give me your number, love,” he fetched his phone and unlocked it, handing it to you right after. You took a deep breath, typing the number and giving it back almost immediately. You didn’t dare to save the number, honestly curious about what name he was about to use for you. But as much as you tried to peek, Jungkook turned away from you, typed something down and then gave your phone a quick call so you had his number as well. Just then he put the phone back into the pocket of his jeans. Pout momentarily flashed through your features, but once he turned back to you, it was quickly replaced by a smile. At least you had his number now.

“Alright so… I’m gonna go now. Thank you for… you know, staying and working despite you were supposed to have a day off.”

“No need to thank me, pretty one. Let me tell you, it was a very well spent time. I will see you around? Perhaps on Seokjin’s anniversary party at the bar next week? Or… perhaps sooner, who knows,” the same mysterious look appeared in his face once again as he gave you a look. You tried not to pay attention to the way he ghosted after you while you collected your stuff and slid into the leather jacket. “And don’t forget to take care about the tattoo. Leave the tape on for approximately twenty-four hours and then gently wash it. And use a special lotion, here, I almost forgot,” it was impressive how quickly he snapped into his artist mode, reaching for one of the tubes standing on the shelf nearby. “Here, use this. Twice or thrice a day. If anything, call me.”

“Thank you, Jungkook. I will see you.”

“I already can’t wait, ____.”

Perhaps Jungkook was right when he said he would see you at the bar next week. And maybe, just maybe, you expected that stupid call or debt-collecting way sooner. Because once you came home from the tattoo session at his salon, you did nothing else but stared at your phone, almost cursing yourself for being that worked up over a boy you’ve only spent a few hours with. Yet, he left you excited and expecting, although nothing came. The week was long and boring, you mostly spent it with your friends or cuddled under the blanket with Netflix and bottle of red wine. From time to time, you thought about giving him a call first, but you always declined the idea as soon as it rubbed against your mind. You didn’t want to seem desperate; you didn’t want to look like another freshmen thirsting over the postgrad student, way out of your league.

But then again.

The way he talked to you never left your memory, quite the right opposite. Your brain decided to rub it in your face until the night of Seokjin’s anniversary party came and your friends came barging into your dorm room with paper bags full of alcohol they claimed to be a ‘pre-game you needed’. Drinks were followed by loud laughter and fight over who was about to use the bathroom first - because it had the biggest mirror and the best lightning needed for a precise make-up process.

Hours later, you finally made it to the bar, wearing short black dress your friends chose for you despite your loud protest. At first, it felt a bit uncomfortable because you were used to visit the place wearing jeans or shorts with comfortable tops, but once you realized you weren’t that underdressed, it calmed your mind a little since there were girls wearing considerably less amount of clothes.

“I’m thinking about tequila, what about you?” one of your friends asked, actually not waiting for you answer as she made a straight bee line towards the bar. Not caring about people waiting, she fought her way towards the bar and ordered you a round of the drink you swore you would never drink again. Yet, some promises were made to be broken - all over again, in your case.

After you received your shot of tequila, you cheered with your friends but not for long. It literally took them ten minutes to disappear, dancing in random corners of the bar with random dudes while you tried your best to find a calmer place - which was a corridor that led to the restrooms and deeper, where the visitors of the establishment weren’t allowed.

Not that you weren’t about to have fun, not at all. You just wanted to check your phone in case… well, you were probably very much head over heels for Jeon Jungkook who didn’t give you a call or spared you a text since last Saturday, but who were you to blame him?

“Looking for someone?”

You almost jumped in your place, placing the phone back into your purse as you turned around and face Seokjin, the handsome bartender to whom this crazy party has been dedicated. Instead of his usual place behind the bar, he seemed to have a night off, enjoying the party at its fullest.

“No, not really. My friends dumped me and I wanted to check my phone, that’s all,” you shrugged with a smile on your face, crossing your arms over your chest right after. “What about you? Aren’t you having fun tonight? It’s your third anniversary as the most handsome bartender - as I heard. What are you doing here?”

Yes, what was he doing there? In the hallway that led towards the door to the supply room when he wasn’t even working? Perhaps he was seeking some lone time as well, you didn’t know.

“Oh, we are at the VIP box with the guys but we ran out of some bottles so I was just going to get them. It’s easier than fetching it from the bar. Do you mind giving me a helping hand?” he asked with a genuine smile plastered over his features. You quickly nodded, following him to the supply room. You’ve never been there before which made you feel like going on an adventure. Seokjin quickly grabbed a few bottles of whisky, handing you two of them as he collected more. You gave him a look but he left it without answer which only left you wondering just how many guys were out there, sitting in the VIP box he had mentioned before.

“So, are you enjoying the party?” you asked and followed him out of the supply room, hands full of bottles of alcohol. Seokjin scoffed but smile crawled to his lips almost immediately.

“I’d rather spend the night behind the bar. I mean, I’m not saying I’m not enjoying the night, but it feels different to be on the other side. I guess I’ve been working here for way too long to enjoy a proper night off.”

“Come on, this is your party, you should enjoy it,” you nudged him as you navigated your way through the crowd of people dancing on the floor. The VIP box was located on the second floor of the bar, way calmer spot for people who just wanted to chat and enjoy the night without bumping into already intoxicated (mostly) freshmen. Way up there was a bit challenging with high heels and your hands full, but you successfully reached the spot - and almost dropped the bottles when your eyes met with Jeon Jungkook’s. He seemed to be surprised to see you up there but he quickly adapted to the situation and offered you a smile that quickly transformed into a welcoming smirk.

You put the bottles on the table, completely ignoring the looks of others, and straightened your posture.

“Okay, so… I’ll go,” you didn’t know who did you address your words to, but Seokjin was the one to answer you almost immediately.

“Why would you go? You said your friends dumped you. Stay with us for a while and then you can go. I don’t think the others would mind,” he said, turning to the guys sitting around the table. They shrugged one after another until it came to Jimin and Jungkook. The duo seemed to welcome you way warmer than the others, deep into a conversation about a thesis that was completely out of a place.

“Come, sit, sweetheart,” Seokjin ushered you to the last vacant spot next to Jungkook who immediately moved to give you slightly more space. Not so much, though, as he shamelessly threw his arm on the couch over your arms. He didn’t touch you, but you knew the motion spoke for itself.

“So, you got dumped, huh?” he asked, leaning a bit closer so you could hear him. The music might have been a bit more silent than down there, but people still needed to sit closer to each other if they didn’t want to yell like crazy. Exactly like the rest of them since the conversation seemed to escalate into something reminding more of a fight.

“It depends on the point of view. They were pretty much smashed before we even arrived here. You know, the pre-game and stuff. So, after a shot of tequila, they disappeared to look for an adventure like Powerpuff girls. I’m not blaming them, it’s not the first time. And right now, I guess I’m talking way too much, aren’t I?” you looked at him, kind of flustered by your own behavior. The words just fell off your mouth without you thinking about them first. Perhaps you were intoxicated more than you first thought and it perfectly mirrored on the way you were talking to him - shamelessly and without filter between your brain and mouth.

“You can never talk too much, love.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. At least you are not blushing and giggling like crazy. That’s really something I’m not digging,” he shook his head and looked into your eyes but soon, the gaze dropped to the hand in your lap. He gently reached for it, his thumb recreating the lines of the tattoo that was already in the process of healing. “Seems like you didn’t forget to take care about it. Good girl,” his voice dropped a few tones lower and his breath caressed your skin. Your eyes met and your heart fluttered, the urge to lean closer was back and on the highest alert. Yet, you were still not intoxicated enough to simply lean closer, grab his collar and kiss him right here, in front of his friends. Also, the way Seokjin peeked over his shoulder to check on you to stopped you from proceeding with the plan that has just come to life in your mind.

But taking one brave step forward would harm anyone, would it?

You leaned closer to his ear, desperately fighting the way his cologne was making you go crazy, and whispered: “Exactly like you told me, Jungkook.”

His posture changed and you could swear you saw the muscles shifting under the layers of clothes he was wearing. With clenched jaw and closed eyes, it took him a while to come back to his senses. Yet, you never pulled away from him, enjoying the scent of his musky cologne taking over your senses rather quickly.

“Love, what are you doing right now?”

“What am I doing?” you asked, blinking once and giving him an innocent smile. “I’m not doing anything, Jungkook. I just let you know I’m taking care about my tattoo the way you told me to.”

“Right,” he straightened his posture and cleared his throat. Something inside of you chuckled, the silent voice telling you that indeed, the game you started to play last week was on the table once again. With those thoughts, you watched as he reached for one of the bottles on the table and turned to you with a question mirroring in his eyes. You only nodded, giving him a go to pour you a glass.

Suddenly, you completely forgot about the pre-game drinks and the round of tequila you had shortly after you’ve arrived at the establishment. You forgot how annoying the hungover might be in the morning. Also, it was too late to think about it when Jungkook handed you a glass of whisky you brought with Seokjin. It was neat, without ice cubes you would be happy for, but this had to do.

“To—is there something we should cheer to, love?” he asked, taking his previous place next to you. Dangerously close to you. You looked at the glass in your hands and let out a humming sound.

“First, we should toast to Seokjin. In the end, this is his party,” with those words, you turned to Seokjin who occasionally kept an eye on you two. He smiled and nodded, joining the toasting process without even being invited. When the others joined and their loud cheering filled the space, you turned back to Jungkook without taking a sip of the drink. “And then, perhaps, we should drink to this masterpiece you managed to create on my hand,” you smiled softly, yet the softness never reached your eyes as the game has already started. And you hated being on the losing end.

“You are the fierce one, I see. Honestly, I misjudged you a bit,” he said, downing the drink and putting the empty glass on the table. You did the same and leaned back, your nape brushing against his arm that managed to find the way around your shoulders once again.

“Now you got me interested. How did you misjudge me, Mr. Jeon?”

“Easy as that - you came to my studio visibly stressed on Saturday morning. I knew you were not sure about getting the tattoo at first, but then, something changed. As if something has clicked inside of you and you took the complete opposite direction. I liked that. I liked that a lot. But then again, I’ve already told you I’m not digging the fake shy game. You decided to be honest with me,” he shrugged, offering you a genuine smile.

And that was the moment the smile vanished from your face.

Because you weren’t completely honest with him.

You didn’t tell him the whole tattoo thing was just a bet because you didn’t manage to get Jimin’s number. Yes, that satan who now sat at the same table as you, laughing loudly on something his best friend told him. However, you weren’t mad about the bet anymore, because what came out of the consequences you had to accept was something beautiful. Something you fell in love with your eyes fell on it.

And perhaps that was the reason you decided to be honest with Jungkook once again. You took a deep breath, desperately trying to calm the inner storm that dispersed the game of catch the butterflies played in your stomach.

“Actually, there’s something I have to tell you.”

“Come at me, love. Tell me whatever you want.”

“The tattoo… when I came into your salon last weekend, without having an appointment… it was a consequence of a bet I lost the night you stole my drink. I— I believe I don’t have to tell you what that bet was about, but the condition was simple. If I fail, I’m about to get a tattoo. I believe my friends used it against me because I was talking about getting one for quite a time, so… this was just a push for me,” suddenly, you weren’t so brave and bold as before. You felt shrinking in your seat, the touch of his hand on your shoulder almost burning. For some reason, you expected a storm coming but instead, your senses met with a chuckle that escaped Jungkook’s lips. He shook his head, giving you a rather unbelievable look.

“So, a bet, huh? I’m not gonna lie to you, love. You are not the first one to get a tattoo because of a bet. Although, I didn’t consider you the type to accept conditions like this. I guess I should put that on the mental list I made about you - things about ____ that keep surprising me. We should drink to that.”

You looked at him with mouth wide open, probably looking like an idiot. You were expecting a lecture but instead, he laughed in your face - and didn’t forget to flirt along the way. And although you were pretty much caught off guard, you quickly collected yourself and relaxed a little. Your little secret was out and you felt much lighter.

“May I know what was that bet about?”

“No, you may not. Now, pour us that drink.”

“Savage. I like that as well,” smirk graced his features momentarily. Your glasses were soon filled with another round of the golden liquid that easily slid down your dry throat and numbed your senses more. The good old feeling of intoxication clouded your view of world and your head spun a little, making you lean into Jungkook. The blonde didn’t seem to mind as he finished his drink and his hand other hand slid to your thigh, leaving a burning trail as it finished its journey on your exposed knee. He was silent for a moment, his eyes dropped to his hand that explored your skin, fingers dancing on the floor of your naked skin. The sparks of electricity were undeniable, making you take a deep breath.

“So? How did you decide? Do you want to get rid of that or do you want another one?” his hot breath met the sensitive skin under your ear as he leaned closer to ask you a question you didn’t see coming. Just then his hand left your knee and grabbed yours, thumb once again recreating the lines of tattoo he gave you. The way he was basically curled around you, shielding you from the outer world that seemed to go wild around you, made your breath got stuck in your throat, unable to give him a proper answer even though you were basically screaming in the back of your mind.

“I haven’t given it a thought yet, to be honest. But if I wanted another one, I’d definitely book an appointment beforehand, no worries about that.”

“Well, that’s your call to make. You have my number, so it’s going to be fairly easy,” he murmured, leaning even closer to you, not giving a damn about his friends sitting around the same table. You looked at him, taking a deep breath just to get a little bit higher on his musky cologne. And although his breath was mixed with alcohol and perhaps cigarettes as well, you so wanted to lean in and kiss those two sweet cushions. Inches of air held you from kissing each other, inches of nothing but space you hated so much. You hated it existed and you hated it prevented you from kissing the blonde tattoo artists. Although, everything you needed to do was simply to lean in and steal the kiss.

You didn’t do it.

No, you didn’t.

Because he was faster.

He crossed the last line of your personal space and pressed his lips against yours in a kiss that was sweet but tempting at the same time. You felt the tip of his tongue caressing your lower lip, wordlessly asking for a permission to slip in and give you more.

But there was this thing.

You weren’t alone. Not at all.

That was the reason you pushed back even though the kiss left you feeling like a hot mess. And before you had a chance to speak, he pressed his index finger on your lips.

“It’s time to collect my debt, love.”

“Collect how?”

“Do you want to get out of here?” he asked, boldly.

You felt your head spinning and you didn’t know whether it was because of the alcohol or the excitement that rolled through your body and settled in your core, sending painful pangs to your lower parts. Yet, you managed to give him an answer right away.

“Like where?”

“Like to my place.”

“Gladly.”

The cold night outside seemed to be the only witness of your little escape from Seokjin’s party. Jungkook’s friends sitting around the table were too busy with the fiery conversation going on to notice the two of you left, and your friends were nowhere to be seen. The club was packed, so Jungkook had to hold your hand tightly when he navigated the way through the ocean of dancing bodies. You liked it; the way his fingers tangled with yours, holding tightly onto you just to be sure you wouldn’t disappear or bail from his debt-collecting plan.

When you finally got out of the club, the cold air brushed against your skin and sobered you up a little to the point you realized what you were about to do, but Jungkook didn’t seem to care as he led the way down the street, knowing exactly where to go. Just when you crossed the street and walked for a few more minutes, you realized his studio wasn’t that far away.

The studio.

Was he really taking you to his studio?

“Didn’t you say we are going to your place?” you asked, a little bit dumbfounded when he didn’t aim for the main entrance of the tattoo salon, but instead led the way to the other side of the building. Another door came to your sight and Jungkook fished the keys from the inner pocket of his leather jacket. He noticed you staring at him with furrowed brows and he chuckled.

“Of course, love. This is my place, you just haven’t seen it all, that’s it,” he said as he unlocked the door and pulled you into a dark hallway. He closed the door and locked it again, but instead of turning on the lights, his arms sneaked around your waist like a pair of snakes, pulling your body closer into his. The way he teased you back in the club was nothing compared to how he held you at the moment, his chest hot and heaving with every breath he took brushing against you, igniting the fire again. “I hope you didn’t change your mind, princess.”

“Not yet,” teasing words rolled down your tongue and were followed by loud yelp when Jungkook’s hands slid down your bum and made you jump into his arms. The dim light of the street lights that peeked inside through the windows illuminated his face and revealed the smirk curling his lips.

“Love, you know I like it when you are fierce, but even I have my boundaries. So, if you don’t want to end up with blue ass and shaking legs, I wouldn’t go there if I were you,” he murmured into your ear and turned around as if you weighed nothing. His motion only made you wrap your arms around his shoulder and bury your face into his neck. Soon, you felt him climbing the stairs to the upper floor. Curiously, you looked around only to see nothing. The room was covered in darkness, not even the street light reaching inside.

“Mhm, mysterious,” you mumbled under your breath and squinted your eyes in desperate effort to scan the place. Jungkook only chuckled and continued in his little journey until he reached one of the doors, bringing you inside. Finally, he switched the lights on and revealed the place he brought you to.

The room was coated in darkish colors and was dominated by a big bed with sheets crumpled in a messy pile. Opposite the bed was a working table with PC and a pile of sketchbooks and in one of the corners stood a guitar. The rest of the room was made by wardrobe, drawers and shelves. It was simple yet it somehow complimented his persona. For a while, you just stood there, looking around yourself to grasp a tiny detail that would tell you something more about Jungkook’s character. And just when you were about to dive in, a pair of strong arms curling around your waist from behind cut the train of your thoughts.

“Do you want something to drink?”

You turned in his arms, wrapping yours around his neck to pull him into a kiss that seemed to be the most natural thing ever. Your lips met in a sweet kiss that soon grew into something more heated, perhaps a fight for dominance you immediately lost as he pressed you closer to his chest and caressed your lower lip with his tongue. You opened your mouth, welcoming him with a silent whimper that crawled from deep inside of you. He smirked into the kiss, deepening it a little to lure another series of moans out of you. And when he pulled away with the same smirk still playing over his features, you pouted.

“That wasn’t an answer, sweetheart.”

“I don’t want to drink. I want you,” you murmured and your fingers started to work on his leather jacket, slowly rolling it down his shoulders until the piece of clothing hit the floor. But you didn’t stop, the jacket wasn’t enough. Your fingers found the way to the buttons of his shirt, undoing one after another until his firm chest came to view and you took a deep breath.

“Seem like you like what you see, love,” Jungkook wondered out loud, chuckling right after. Honestly, you didn’t mind stripping you off the clothes that covered upper part of his body. He didn’t even mind when your fingers touched his burning skin and recreated the lines of tattoo covering his chest and stomach, mainly the tattoo of tiger and its paw that disappeared under the waistband of his peeking boxers. When you touched him there, his hand shot up and handcuffed your wrist. “In this household, we play the fair game,” with his words, you found yourself pressed against the wall with his lips lingering around the skin of your neck. So close, yet so far; his lips left you desiring when he didn’t kiss you there. And you were craving him. You wanted him like crazy. Your mind was clouded, your eyes seeing red as he carefully peeled your jacket off your body. Cold air mixed with his hot breath gently caressed your skin and you trembled, wishing for nothing but to be in his arms already.

“Then strip me,” surprisingly, your voice came out steady and full of confidence. Even Jungkook blinked once before the infamous smirk flashed through his features - and to your very surprise, he took a step back until the back of his knees meet the bed and he sat down. Spreading his legs while leaning back on his elbows, he teasingly clicked his tongue and you felt his eyes running up and down your body.

“Why don’t you do it yourself, love?”

Wave of heat rolled through your body and your cheeks flushed momentarily. He took the game to yet another level and for a split second, you weren’t so sure about playing. But then again, your eyes briefly flickered in his direction and you had to swallow the whimper crawling up your throat.

“Fine,” you shrugged and reached for the straps of your dress, internally cursing your friends for making you wear it. This piece of dress was too tight to allow you to wear a bra underneath, but thankfully, you could afford to wear at least panties. The process of thinking slowed down your motion which only boosted the hunger in Jungkook’s eyes. The spark of power play flashed between the two of you as you finally managed to pull one string down - and the second followed right after. You’ve never stripped in front of anybody - if you didn’t count your friends, but that was a completely different case - so you weren’t so sure about what you were doing. Yet, Jungkook seemed to like it. His hand slid to his crotch where the bulge started to form while a silent curse left his lips.

You pushed the fabric lower over your hips and let it hit the floor before you stepped out of it, kicking the high heels off your feet along the way. Shivers danced down your naked spin and you trembled a little under the weight of Jungkook’s heavy gaze. He was silent for a while, only staring at you as his tongue poked his inner cheek.

“I always knew you were a piece of art, love,” his words surprised you and brought yet another wave of blush to your cheeks. Even in the middle of a heated moment he was complimenting you like a true gentleman. His posture straightened as he sat on the bed and signaled you to come closer. “Come closer, sweetheart.”

Your body acted on autopilot, approaching him only to stop between his parted legs. He looked at you from down there, long blonde strands of hair falling into his eyes as his hot breath brushed against the soft spot under your exposed breasts. The shyness went completely away when he leaned closer and his lips traced a line of wet kisses down your stomach. And again, as if your body didn’t belong to you at all, your fingers found a way to his hair, tugging on the strands tightly when he slid down the bed and dropped to his knees to reach lower.

The tingling started in your fingertips, making them numb to the soft feeling of his hair, and continued to your inners, travelling down to your core that you already felt dripping wet. Your panties were ruined the moment Jungkook stick his tongue and copied the curve of its lacy hem. But before he could do something more, you pushed away, looking at him through your hazy eyes.

“Sit.”

Throaty laugh crawled out of his mouth, but he obediently sat back on the bed, waiting for your move. You weren’t so sure about your next move, but what you knew what that you couldn’t let him continue in his little play. You were already balancing at the edge of falling down the pit of pleasure - and honestly, you didn’t want to let go that easily. And that soon.

You waged your way between his legs only to drop to your knees like he did seconds ago, undoing his pants rather quickly. The bulge in his pants didn’t escape your attention and you found yourself licking your lips. The situation completely took over your senses and turned you into a someone who desperately sought something raw and feral.

“Must be painful, isn’t it, honey?” he was the pro in using pet names, but who said you couldn’t give him one as well? Mainly when he looked like he really enjoyed you calling him like that. However, you quickly hushed those thoughts to the corner of your mind and rolled down his pants, throwing it into the space behind you. Fierce, really. Suddenly, Jungkook was sitting in front of you only in his boxers, yet you decided to get him rid of those as well.

Wearing nothing but ink and the smug smirk on his face, you took another deep breath to calm your senses before your eyes dropped to his lower area. Tall and hard, his cock brushed against his underbelly with his red tip that called for some attention.

“It indeed was painful, thank you for your help, little one,” suddenly, his voice dropped a few tones lower and you swallowed hard, contemplating what to do next. Of course, you weren’t stupid, you knew what to do next. However, you wanted to adore the view in front of you for a little longer.

Because the naked man in front of you kicked the air out of your lungs completely.

“Well then we should do something about it, don’t you think?” you leaned closer, fingers curling around the base of his pulsing cock. Whimper escaped Jungkook’s lips and you smirked, leaning even closer to gently kiss his rosy tip.

“Love, don’t tease me,” he murmured, voice deeper than before because of the tense atmosphere lingering around. You had none of his shit as you took him in and twirled your tongue around his length, feeling the veins popping out. You gave him a few licks before diving deeper, letting his tip brush against the back of your throat. His whole body tensed under you and his hand found a way to your hair, tugging on it rather harshly. Not that you minded.

“Fuck, love, just like that—“ he threw his head back and moaned loud, causing you to swallow on purpose. You looked up at him exactly at the same moment he looked at you, eyes wide open as a deer caught in the flashlight in the middle of the road. What happened next was too fast for you to catch up but suddenly, you found yourself caged under his firm body on the bed, legs wide apart as he squeezed himself in between. His whole posture changed, the features of a soft artist were gone and replaced by something harsher and hungrier. He was hungry for lust and passion. He was hungry for you.

“It’s time for you to get rid of these,” he murmured, pushing away only to get you rid of the panties. The sound of fabric ripping filled the room and you gasped, giving him a rather offended look.

“Those might have not been my favorite one, but hey! I’m not going home completely underwear-less!”

“Who said you are going back home?” the cockiness in his voice caught you completely off guard and unprepared when he parted your legs again and slid lower, making himself comfortable in between. “Because I’m not letting you go home that soon, love,” with those words, you felt his lips burning a fiery path down your underbelly until he reached your womanhood. And then, the fireworks exploded behind your closed eyes. First, you felt his lips sparing your nether lips soft kisses, nibbling and sucking gently. Then, you felt his tongue sliding up and down your slit, lapping around to drink your juices. And last, you felt his teeth gently teasing your clit which almost pushed you towards the bliss you wanted to hold off for as long as possible.

But your plans were ruined the moment you felt one of his fingers pushing in slowly, curling inside only to leave your body twisting on his bed and in his sheets. Soon, second finger followed, stretching you oh so good while his lips never stopped the wicked dance with your clit. Moans mixed with curse words fell down your lips and your fingers tangled within his blonde locks in a desperate need for climax. And as it was slowly building inside of you, you rolled your hips against his face and now three fingers that pushed in and out in a desperately slow manner. The man exactly knew what he did to you - and he enjoyed it.

“Jungkook—I—I need to cum. Please—“ you stuttered with the last strength you found in yourself, giving him a look. He started back, looking like a hot mess between your legs with your juices glistering all over his face.

“You sound so good when you are pleading, love. Do you want it that much? Huh?” he asked, picking up the pace and you nodded, desperately rolling your hips against his hand. You felt the spasm coming, dangerously close, peeking around the corner. Chuckling sound filled the room as he dove deep into your core again, this time sucking harsher. That was the last action that finally pushed you towards the first orgasm of the night. You let go and welcomed the warm arms of the bliss, screaming and moaning while Jungkook tried his best to guide you through the paradise. The motion of his hands slowed down and he spared your inner thighs sweet kisses to calm you down a little.

It’s been a while since you experienced orgasm this hard and heavy, clouding your senses for minutes until you came back to yourself. You opened your eyes to meet Jungkook’s. He was hovering over your, his erecting poking your inner thighs only reminding you that indeed, he needed some release as well.

“You are so beautiful,” with those words, he leaned closer and gave you a taste of yourself, the kiss so sweet but so passionate at the same time. After you were sure your body recharged at least a little, you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer, bodies colliding together. Yet, what was sweet once again turned into something not so innocent anymore. His hips rolled against yours and you were again reminded of his pulsing shaft.

“Jungkook—“

“Yes, my love?”

“I need you. Take me. Make me yours.”

“As you wish, my love,” he spared you one last kiss before he pushed away and reached for the nightstand. You gave him a confused look before you realized he was reaching for a pack of condoms. Smile sneaked to your features as you grabbed his arm and pulled him closer again. And at that moment, it was his turn to be confused.

“You don’t need that. I’m clean and on pills so—“

“Shit, don’t tell me twice,” he was back above you, his hand crawling down to his shaft to give himself a few pumps before you felt his tip brushing against your slit. The familiar wave of heat rolled through your body and you didn’t even have enough time to collect yourself as he slowly pushed in, grunting noise accompanying his motion. Slowly, from the tip to the base he filled your pulsing walls and halted, his eyes scanning your face to find a tiny hint of discomfort. However, there was none, only a pure need to urge him to move.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” his voice came out low and hoarse with the first roll of his hips. Unable to form any coherent word or sentence, you only nodded, desperately reaching for him to hold onto something. The gentleman he was, he leaned closer, however the motion caused him to part your legs even wider until you find yourself in a position when your legs were pressed against your chest while Jungkook picked up the pace, sliding deeper and deeper with each thrust of his hips. He looked at you and despite the lust that almost sent you to another dimension, you managed to give him a smirk.

“I told you—I did yoga.”

“From now on, you are only practicing yoga with me, love,” smug smirk tugged on the corner of his lips as his thrust became harsher and you felt his tip hitting your cervix.

“You wish,” your teasing manners didn’t leave you even in such a situation, and you soon felt your legs pressed between his and yours shoulders as he decided to lean in and shut you with his own lips. The kiss was hot and heavy, broken from time to time because you the moans that crawled out of your throat. Each thrust of Jungkook’s hips became harder and deeper, which made you call out his name loudly. You felt the sensation building inside of you, slowly but surely. Clenching around him, you tried desperately to push him towards his own limit which was already visible in his hazed eyes. He was close and so were you, yet letting go still seemed out of option.

“More,” you murmured, tugging on his lock, pushing him closer and closer to the finish line. You felt him twitching harshly inside of you, first drops of precum warming your insides.

“Fuck, love, I’m so close.”

“Then cum with me,” your voice came out as a desperate cry, eyes almost tearing as you looked at him, completely lost in the view he provided you. Hot mess was nothing compared to the man towering over you, desperately chasing over the sweet release.

His hand found a way between your sweaty bodies, crawling lower until it reached your clit and gave it a few rubs which finally pushed you towards the finish line. Your body was momentarily caught in a spasm before you allowed yourself to let go, screaming and desperately digging your nails into the skin of Jungkook’s back. The second orgasm of the night felt stronger than the first one, mainly when Jungkook kept thrusting into you, still not there. And you let him. You let him overstimulate you until his body tensed and his cock twitched inside of you for the last time before the thick warm sprouts of his release coated your insides and eventually leaked out into his sheets. His body collapsed into yours and you let a whimper. The heavyweight of his relaxed body made you unable to breathe and when you tried to push him away, it didn’t work.

“Kook, baby.”

“Hmpf.”

“Jungkook.”

Nothing.

“Jeon.”

“What?”

“I can’t breathe.”

“Crybaby,” he murmured and slowly pushed away while gently pulling out of you. The sudden lack of his girth made you whimper but you soon found yourself comfortable as he rolled over and pulled you closer to his arms. His chest was firm but soft at the same time, the slight scent of his musky cologne mixed with post-sex scent lingering around. He pressed a kiss to your hair and chuckled.

“What was that?” you asked, too tired to actually look at him.

“Nothing. I just didn’t imagine collecting my debt to end up like this.”

“Now you are lying.”

“No, I’m not, love,” he shook his head and spared the crown of your hair another kiss. “I wanted to ask you on a date. Well, I guess we skipped that stage. Unless…”

“Unless?”

“Unless you want to go on date with me.”

Now that was something that made you look at him with a question mark hanging above your head. The man that has just fucked the soul out of you turned into a complete sweetie asking you out for a date. How unbelievable.

“That I’d love to, Jungkook.”

Heavy sigh left his lips. It almost looked like he was relieved.

“And you know what else I want?”

“What is that, my love?”

“Drink. I want my drink, Jungkook.”

“I swear to god… You are going to be the death of me.”

#bts fanfic #bts fic #fanfiction #jungkook #jungkook fanfiction #jeon jungkook #jungkook x reader #smut #college au #bts au

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callmemythicalminx · 3 years

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Into The Valley Of Death - Tommy Angelo x Reader (Angst)

Fandon: Mafia Definitive Edition

Warnings: Angst, major violence, blood, explicit descriptions of bodily harm, refrences to sexual assualt, kidnapping, explicit language.

Summary: The gang war in Lost Heaven is at it’s peak. In a twisted and cruel move against Salieri which sets the end of the conflict into motion, you are catalyst which pushes your family charging into the valley of death.

A/N: Please don’t read this if you are triggered by any of the warnings or feel you may not be able to handle what this fic has in store. It’s dark in many ways and I wouldn’t want anyone be affected phsyical or mentally, so please read with caution.

Dedicated to: @kaiiiiiiparkerismyhusband @lolita-wolfson@mayday1284 @xxsamanthaxx @kneelingforvillains@loutino20@levitate-gengar @dorothynerding @blackbladevika @my-blog-for-me @rammstein-obsession @octorebel @demonsouthere

---

Things are tense in Lost Heaven. This gang war is sending shockwaves through the city, leaving nothing but destruction in its wake. Everyone you know is on edge, constantly looking over their shoulder and preparing for the worst. The men are stressed but try to stay immovable in the face of danger, the love for their family overpowering all fear. Yourself and the rest of the women are supporting them in any way you can. Together, you’re fighting against Morello, but you can tell the line is drawing thin. A catalyst to end this war is coming, you can feel it.

You’re all exhausted beyond measure. Late nights spent planning, shootouts in the streets and the losses of those held dear had taken their toll. This was especially evident in your husband- you don’t think you’ve ever seen Tommy this tired before. Being one of Salieri’s most trusted men meant he was constantly out, running jobs. Nowadays, you only ever see him when he comes home, late into the night. He can only muster up enough strength to give you a sweet kiss before collapsing into your arms and falling asleep beneath the covers of your bed. You always lie awake as he sleeps, absent-mindedly stroking his hair while you pray to every god imaginable that he’ll return home safe the next night, the one after, and every other for the rest of your lives.

As you stand in the bathroom of Salieri’s, looking at your pale, wet face in the mirror, you pray even now that he will return home to you. After drying your face and swirling your mouth out, you turn towards the toilet and flush down the remaining contents of what was in your stomach not five minutes ago. You sigh as your gaze slips down to your stomach again. In the dim bathroom light, you can barely see the small bump there. Your hands rise, caressing gently. It’s time to find out. If something happens to you… or him. You need to know for sure.

You leave the bathroom, thankful there’s no one around to ask why you were in there so long. As you make your way back to the meeting room, you pass Sarah who gives you a small sympathetic smile. She’d guessed weeks back after you’d thrown up while she was cooking that you might be pregnant. Not a day later, she’d booked you in for a test at the doctors across the road. You didn’t want to believe it, worried about bringing a child into the world during such a tense time. Somewhere deep inside though, you were excited at the thought of carrying a baby inside you… something beautiful that you and Tommy had created together.

You collect your purse from your desk, closing the account books and locking them away in the safe. You’d finish your work for today as soon as you got back from the doctors. After slipping on your coat, you leave through the back of the bar and head towards the gate around the side. One of the guards, Antonio, frantically runs over to you before you can open it, pushing his hand against it.

“I’m sorry Y/N, you can’t leave right now. We ain’t got anyone on hand to escort you.” This is another thing draining everyone. Straight from the Don himself, he ordered that anytime anyone left their home or the bar, they needed someone with them for protection. You appreciated it of course, but it was exhausting having someone follow you everywhere and you knew the soldiers were always tired too, having to look after themselves and an important family member at the same time. You smile at Antonio gently and place your hand on his arm.

“I’m only going across the road to the doctors, I don’t need an escort today.” At his unmoving expression, you sigh in frustration. “This is a very important appointment- I can’t miss it. You can just keep an eye on me from here, just stand near the gate and you’ll still be able to see me. Okay?” You can see the wheels turning in his head, his face twisting this way and that. Eventually, he must come to a decision as he quickly nods his head and reluctantly opens the gate slightly, enough for you to slip out.

“Just be quick.” You can hear the bite of fear in his voice, so you send a small reassuring smile his way, nodding, before quickly walking across the road into the clinic.

---

As you step out into the sunlight again, you stop and take a deep shuddering breath. Inside your chest, your heart still pounds, hyperactive with all the emotions flooding your body. You’re actually pregnant. You’re going to be a mother. And Tommy… he’s going to be a father. Tears form in the corner of your eyes, slipping down your cheeks before you can try to stop them. You’re overjoyed. Worried. Excited. Scared. You feel like a million questions are racing through your head, your thoughts a jumbled mess. All you can seem to fathom or even understand in the frenzy... is that you’re going to have a baby.

You’re too wrapped up in your happiness to notice the truck parked down the road drive closer. Your jumbled mind doesn’t recognise the men getting out as it slowly moves. The sight of the men in suits doesn’t register in your mind. Nor do the handguns in their hands. It’s only as the truck stops in front of you, blocking the sunlight, that your eyes focus. The glint of silver metal shines in the corner of your eye before a crippling pain explodes in your head and you fall to the ground.

Through a daze, you hear chaos erupt. You hear bullets, shouting, curses in Italian. Strong hands grab you and roughly pull you over their shoulder. You try to speak, to scream for help, but your mouth won’t open. Vision blurred, you can barely register moving onto the street, the gravel swirling beneath you. You feel the breath leave your lungs with an incredible force as you’re suddenly thrown into the truck, slamming against the hardwood. Your lips part to gasp, but no sound comes out. Like shooting stars, you see bullets fly through the material of the roof, hitting one of the goons in the head and narrowly missing another. They leave little holes of sunlight that catch the dust dancing in the air and the blood that sprays as another goon falls to his knees. You hear shouting and then suddenly you're moving, the truck speeding down the street leaving a trail of tire smoke and chaos. Distantly you think you can hear your name being called, but as you slip deeper into the abyss, you can only think of two things. Tommy. Our baby.

---

Tommy’s exhausted. He’s nearly falling asleep behind the wheel as he drives back to Salieri’s, Paulie near passed out beside him. It’d been a long day. The two had traveled early in the morning last night out of the city to one of Morello’s farms, awaiting the arrival of one of his most trusted associates. It was a simple job, all they needed to do was execute the guy and get out safe. But there’d been more soldiers than they anticipated and the target ended up escaping leading to a long car chase. Lack of sleep and general tiredness we’re barraging Tommy like a ton of bricks. All he wanted now was to just head home with you and fall asleep. He just desperately hoped you were already done with work.

As he pulls onto home turf, he’s relatively lax until he begins driving down the road leading to the bar. He spots the shattered glass on the street first, stained red with the blood of the men and women littered like flies across the gravel. When he notices some of the bodies wearing the uniform-like suits of his enemies, his foot slams on the break without a second thought. Paulie flies into the dashboard, yelling gibberish as he looks around disoriented for a few seconds until his eyes settle on Tommy’s pale face.

“What they hell was that?!” His best friend doesn’t answer though. Instead his hands frantically find the handle on the door, pushing it open quickly and jumping out into the street. Paulie looks at him confused for a second until he looks forward at the road, all colour draining from his face as he witnesses the carnage in front of him. He’s quick to follow his best pa as he runs towards the bar.

Tommy can barely think. Unfiltered thoughts are running rampant in his head, clouding his rationality. The only thing he can focus on is you. Checking your okay. Keeping you safe. He pumps his arms faster as he runs round the back and enters the bar, ignoring the guard’s shouts and Paulie’s frantic nonsensical questions to them.

When he bursts into the meeting room, effectively silencing everyone in there, his eyes only focus on one thing- finding you. As he scans every face, each one growing progressively more sympathetic and worried, he can barely stop himself from passing out. Finally, he lands on the final person in the room and it’s not you.

“Boss. I-I… Wh-Where is she?” His words sound surprisingly calm even to him. He can see Sarah walking closer to him, hands outstretched in comfort, feel the weight of Paulie at his back as he finally arrives. Still he can only focus on you.“Tom, I-”

“Where is she?!” There’s a pause. It lasts only a second, but it feels like a lifetime of agony.

“She’s been taken Tom.”

His breath rushes out his lungs. His knees buckle. All he can hear for a moment is his pounding heartbeat in his head. He can feel Sarah grab his arm, feel the weight of Paulie’s hand on his back. Sam appears out of the corner of his eye, his hand rising to rest on his shoulder. His family are around him, comforting him- but he feels nothing. Because you aren’t here.

He barely recognises the gruff, raspy sound of his own voice as he grates “Where?”

“Some of our boys followed them to the docks. We’re going to lay waste to it tonight. Trust me Tom, there won’t be a single recognisable man left alive in that building.” Salieri’s words strike through the fog clouding Tommy’s mind. He feels his blood boil, his heart pounding like a war drum. Tommy has never been an overly violent man. But just this once… just this once - He’s going to kill every one of them for hurting you.

---

Excruciating pain. It ricochets through your head, sears from your palms up your arms like red hot wildfire in your veins. Barely conscious, you flex your fingers in an attempt to escape the pain, the movement almost unrecognisable from the numbness that’s settled within your bones. Through slittled eyelids, you manage to look down. Two long, thin blades slice clean through the middle of your palm, impaling your hands to the sides of the wooden chair you’re sat in. Your blood gathers like a puddle at your feet, dripping down with maddening drops that echo around the small dark room. You can barely tell where you are, your vision too hazy to understand what’s around you.

A sob bubbles in the back of your throat before bursting out of your mouth, the noise grated from the dryness of your throat. You feel like you might puke when you notice your dress has been ripped down the front, your undergarments thankfully intact but pulled tight and misshapen against your skin- someone had looked at you while you were unconscious.

The small bump of your stomach, visible through the ripped fabric brings tears rushing out of your eyes, the pearly drops falling to drip down the slightly swollen skin.

“Ah! Our guest is awake!”

Your head snaps up at the sudden noise, the force sending your vision into a disoriented mess once again. Through the stars in your eyes, you can just about make out the stark white suit in the doorway of the room, almost blinding in the low light. As he walks to stand in front of you, behind him red shadows from what you can only guess is a fire swathe him in a red glow. He looks like a demon masquerading as an angel, the flames seemingly curling around him in the haze of your vision. You know immediately that the man in front of you is Morello.

Somehow, you muster up enough strength to spit at his feet.

In response, his palm strikes against your cheek, the pain wrenching a gasp from your lungs. He’s suddenly there right in front of your face, your eyes forced to take in the sneer engraved into his skin as he growls at you. “Show some fucking respect!”

You take in a shuddering breath, but continue looking into his eyes through the haze of your tears and pain.

“Fuck… You!” You manage to stutter out, refusing to let this coward scare you. Your smugness is only short lived as his fist flies into your stomach, the force hunching you over. Your hands pull at the blades and you scream at the burning pain as they dig deeper into your skin.

Morello laughs above you, turning to look behind him. You hear other laughter and guess you’ve got an audience of his goons with you as well.

“She’s all talk, no bite, ey boys?!” More laughter rings out, echoing in your head. You try to curl into yourself unconsciously, your legs trying to pull up, but they seem to be strapped to the legs of the chair. Almost hanging there, you hunch over limply, your hair now dangling down in front of your face. You can see Morello’s pristine white shoes swiftly turn back to you, the sudden action making you flinch.

One of his hands suddenly wraps around your hair, pulling it tightly around his fist. Before you can even comprehend what’s happening, he’s pulling you up by the stands, forcing a scream from your lips. Your hands rise with you, ever so slightly rising up the blades. By Morello’s scoff, he’s not happy enough with how little you’ve moved as he wrenches you higher, the blades ripping through your flesh so the handles are pressed against your skin. In the silence of the room, your sobs echo, barely recognisable to your own ears. You refuse to open your eyes and give him the satisfaction of seeing your tears, so you squeeze them shut tightly.

Morello growls again, his free hand striking against your cheek. You feel one of his rings cut clean through the skin, a scorching ache immediately settling deep into the skin. The slap forces your head unnaturally to the side, your hair and neck twisting painfully. It makes you yelp, gritting your teeth, but still you refuse to look at him. There’s silence for a few moments except for your heavy, shuddering breaths. Your ears become hyper aware, searching for any sound. They pick up the scruff of shoes coming towards you, the telltale sound of a blade being pulled from a sheath. When you feel the cold edge of the metal press against your stomach, your eyes fly open to see Morello’s face right in front of you, a smug look in the deep pits of his irises.

“We’re gonna have a nice chat dollface. If you are corporate, I might just let you live. If not… Well, let’s just say you and this baby won’t ever see daylight again.”

You try to nod against his hand, which tightens in your hair, not trusting your voice to say anything back to him. He smiles, an expression so vile and haunted, you feel sick at the sight of it.

“Good!” Without warning, he releases your hair, the strands falling through his fingers quickly as your body limply falls back in the seat. Your palms sink down the blades only half way, leaving them propped up unnaturally. Helplessly, your body twitches away from the pain, making it worse as you tug at the blades. You can see Morello’s smile deepen above you, his eyes darkening in the dim light with a hidden evil. Unconsciously, you shrink back from him as he shouts to the soldiers. “Hang her up boys. It’s time we get properly acquainted.”

---

“Jesus Christ Tom, would you stop fidgetin’, you’re shakin’ the car!”

Paulie’s words barely register in Tommy’s head. He hasn't been able to stop moving all day, constantly fiddling with his cigarettes or scanning over the maps of the city. By the time it came to leave, Sam stepped in to drive, knowing his friend was too distracted with fear to get them to the docks safely. But truth be told, they were all out of their minds with worry. Tommy’s leg was bouncing nonstop, his hand twitching every so often over the Lupara in his lap. Paulie hadn’t stopped talking since they’d got in the car, needing to fill the silence so he wasn’t just trapped with his thoughts. Sam was quiet and contemplating like usual, but as Tommy looked at him out of the corner of his eye, he could see his partner nervously tapping his fingers against the wheel, his mind a million miles away.

As they cross through the Works Quarter, the convoy of soldiers behind them sticking close, Tommy feels sweat bead on his brow just looking at their approaching location. He isn’t worried about the goons, he’d killed enough of them to know nothing was gonna stop him from getting to you. The thought of pickin’ such a big fight with Morello didn’t scare him either. No, he was only terrified of what’s happened to you.

All day, his mind has plagued him with images of his enemy’s victims, bloodied and beaten to a pulp. He couldn’t stop the thoughts of you flashing before his eyes, hurt and in pain. Just from thinking about it now, he can feel his heart nearly beating through his chest, his blood sizzling in his veins. God help anyone who gets in his way, because he wasn’t giving any mercy tonight.

“We’re here.” Sam’s voice cuts through Tommy’s thoughts. Immediately, the atmosphere in the car changes, determination and anger filling the air so quickly it nearly gives Tommy whiplash. Behind him, Paulie primes his gun, passing one to Sam who stares ahead, eyes focused.

Looking down, Tommy picks up his own gun, cocking the trigger. He feels the eyes of his closest friends on him, their hands both coming to rest on his arm.

“We doin’ this?” Paulie whispers. A deep shuddering breath. “Yeah.” And so they go... Into the valley of death.

---

You don’t know how much time has passed. As you drift between unconsciousness and awake, all you can do is look down at your stomach through the glaze of tears in your eyes. Morello was true to his word, not laying at hand on your baby. The same can’t be said for you.

Your arms are utterly destroyed, red raw from the damp ropes used to hang you from the celing. Tracks of blood streak from the holes in your palms like dark rain, now impaled once more in the wooden chair you first woke up in. You hunch limply, too exhausted to hold you weight.

After Morello’s soldiers had strung you up, your feet absent of shoes just slightly hanging above the floor, they’d left you alone for some time, just standing there watching you. Morello had sat to the side, smoking a cigar like it was the most normal thing in the world. He read the paper while you swung in the wind, whimpering every so often from the ache of the rope against your skin. The soldiers would laugh quietly, staring at your exposed flesh as you dangled there like a doll. You felt like a piece of meat.

Eventually, Morello put out his cigar and folded up his paper, throwing it on the table with a huff. He picked up knuckle dusters, slipping them on in full view of you and flexed his fingers with an expressionless face. After a beat, he looked up at you and smirked seeing the fear in your eyes.

For what must have been only an hour, yet felt like years, Morello played with your body like a rag doll. He’d asked you incomprehensible questions, growing furious when you didn’t know how to answer. Using those deadly brass knuckles he’d inflicted hit after hit on your face, just above your stomach, anywhere that wasn’t where your little baby grew. He grew tired of hitting you quickly, changing his weapon of choice to a long knife.

In long, drawn out strokes, he had traced it along your body, digging in deeper to leave long open wounds in areas he knew were most sensitive. As he traced you, Morello’s hand had eventually started following, touching you where only your husband had touched before. You’d tried to arch away from him, twisting in the rope, but it was no use. He touched you more… and laughed when you sobbed.

You desensitized yourself to the pain eventually, thinking of an old memory with Tommy with every slice and hit. When you first met and how nervous he was, nothing like the ladykillers Sam or Paulie are. You’re first kiss, under a starry sky after he’d taken you for a romantic meal. The night you gave yourself to him fully, awake till the early hours of the morning in his arms. Watching him sleep after a long day's work, holding you close, always protecting you. As you swung there, you’d imagined what Tommy was doing knowing you were missing. He was no doubt going crazy, you knew your entire family would be. It brought a smile to your blood stained lips to remember just how loved you were. Salieri, the father you never knew. Sam and Paulie, the brothers you always wanted. Sarah, the close sister you could always depend on. The family, an open armed hug of warmth, ready to keep you safe. And Tommy… the man you were lucky enough to call your husband.

It brought more tears to your eyes as you sat alone now, worried about the future. You couldn’t remember how you got back here, you’d blacked out eventually after hanging up for so long. You’d woken up not so long ago, your whole body numb and aching. Everytime you swallowed, you could taste the blood from the wounds on your face, providing little moisture to your dry mouth. Your face has to be swollen, your eyes no doubt black and bruised. It feels like you have weights attached to them, pulling down your eyelids. You begin to lose strength to keep them open and let them shut, focusing on your breathing to keep you awake.

In your mind, you travel back to a calmer time, when there was no war. You imagine sitting down at a table in the bar, gossiping with Sarah. The boys enter the room, Paulie and Sam noticing you first and coming towards you to leave kisses on your forehead. Then Tommy appears, smiling wide. He leans down and presses a gentle kiss on your lips, retreating slightly to command “Scootch”. You laugh, but get up, so he can take your place and pull you into his lap. His breath tickles your ear as he whispers your name. Only, when you really listen, he isn’t whispering at all. It sounds like he’s shouting actually.

You grow confused, your daydream evaporating like a pile of ash in the wind. But still you can hear Tommy, shouting your name.

“Y/N! Darlin’ where are you!”

Your eyes shoot open, looking around manically. There’s no one else in the room. For a second, you lose hope, guessing your mind is playing tricks on you. But then again. A shout, echoing and loud. You hear other voices, ones you know so well. “Y/N, where the hell are you?!” Paulie’s voice. You can hear Sam’s too, strong but panicked.

They’re here.

“Tommy...” You try to shout, but your voice is quiet, grated because of your dry mouth. You try again, but it barely echos around the room you're in now. Panic and hope sets in, pushing you to shout louder. You need them, you need Tommy to find you.

“Tommy!” You can’t say anything else, you just keep screaming his name. Through your shouting, you can hear the voices get closer, hear the worry in their voices. The sound of heavy footsteps against a wet floor gets closer and then suddenly the door of the room swings open, light blinding you for a second. But then a figure appears in the doorway, a body you recognise in an instant. On a sob, you breathlessly whimper “Tommy.”

He’s running towards you straight away, collapsing to his knees right in front of you. His hands reach up to your face, cupping you as gently as possible. You sob louder, tears running uncontrollably down your cheeks in red stained streams. Tommy catches some of them gently, his eyes filling up as he breathes heavily. You hear two other pairs of feet enter the room and stop short. You look up and see Sam and Paulie, mouths open in horror at the sight of you so broken. The former, a man you know to rarely show any emotion, actually sheds some tears, his gun dropping beside him.

Your eyes fall back to Tommy and you begin laughing lightly in relief through your tears. “You’re here… You found me…”

Tommy smiles yet his face is full of pain, hurting for you. “Yeah darlin’... W-we got ya.”

For a moment, you just stare into each other's eyes, lost in the feeling of being reunited. Relief that Tommy’s here. Relief that you’re alive. Sam appearing like a shadow at your husband’s back breaks you both from your reverie. You look up at him but his eyes are glued to your hands, his face emotionalness except for the tears leaking from his eyes. Paulie’s grief stricken face appears next to him, a small sob leaving his lips when he sees your hands too.

“Tom… We-we need to get her to the doc. Her ha-hands…” Sam barely gets the words out, breathing heavily. Tommy’s eyes move from your face, taking in the sight of your palms impaled on the blades. His face fills with anger, his teeth gritting violently. “Those bastards!”

Somehow they all move as one, Paulie going behind the chair and gently pulling you back so he can gently wrap his arms around your shoulders to keep you still. Sam and Tommy each move to a hand, their hands gripping the handles of the blades tightly. You know what’s going to happen, but you can’t help the look of fear that crosses your face at the thought of them being ripped out again. Your husband notices and a few more tears slip down from his eyes, dropping onto your hand when they slowly slip into the open wound.

“I’m so sorry for this darlin’.” Then together with Sam, he pulls out the blades. You scream, so loud and harshly, you see black for a second.

“We need to stop the bleedin’!” Sam’s shouting brings you back into consciousness. You open your eyes to see them quickly wrapping their belts around your hands, cloth from the shirts trapped beneath to stop the blood spurting out. They quickly move onto your legs after, untying them. Once they're free, Paulie’s hands slip from your neck and Tommy replaces them, his arms wrapping around you back after he takes off his long coat.

Slowly, with the help of Sam, he lifts you up, taking your weight as Paulie quickly wraps your husband’s coat around you. It’s oversized on you and envelops you like a warm hug, his scent calming you. You can barely stand up, so Tommy picks you up in his arms as soon as you’re covered, already heading for the door as he pulls you tight against his chest. Looking over his shoulder, you can see Sam and Paulie follow close behind, their faces worried and focused on you.

As you all leave the room, you can see now you’re in some kind of warehouse. You can also see the battle that your family have just had to fight to get to you. There are bodies littered everywhere. Thankfully, there’s more of Morello’s men than your family. Just before you leave the building, a body catches your eye. Though it’s not as blinding as it was before, you can still recognize Morello’s white suit which is now covered in ash, his body burnt and punctured with multiple bullets. It settles some peace in your heart knowing he won’t be able to hurt you or anyone else you care for anymore.

As you step outside into the night sky, the smell of the ocean assaults your scenes. You know immediately that you’re at the docks, not even 10 minutes away from the bar. Salieri’s soldiers are stood around everywhere, helping some injured men and celebrating the end of this war with those still standing. They all go silent when they see you cradled in Tommy’s arms, barely recognisable with all the blood, bruises and swelling. You hear Sam yell at them, only making out him telling them to “make tracks”, before your husband is climbing into the back of a car, keeping you clutched tightly in his arms. Paulie jumps into the passenger side, turning round almost immediately to check up on you.

“How ya doin’ Y/N? We’re gonna take you to the doc, just hang tight.” He passes Tommy a handkerchief as Sam gets into the driver's seat. He quickly stars the car and drives off, titling the mirror towards you to check you’re alright as well. It warms your heart to see your closest family so worried about you. You curl deeper into Tommy’s chest as he begins gently wiping away the blood around your lips, his breathing heavy and shuddering. Even in your weak state, you still ache to comfort him, you hand rising to stroke against his cheek. It’s a featherlike touch, leaving some residue of blood from the gaping wound in your palm, but your husband curls into your hand nonetheless, his face so full of pained relief.

“I’m gonna be okay Tommy. I gotta be for our ba-”

You slip into unconsciousness before you can finish, catching sight of his eyes widening in surprise before your own close fully.

---

You look so peaceful as you sleep. It’s something Tommy has noticed before, but as he sits beside you in the Doc’s home surgery, slowly brushing his fingers through the hair, it’s something he’s glad for after the horrors you’ve just been through. He still doesn’t know exactly what’s happened yet, but he can see just from the trauma that’s been inflicted on your body that it wasn’t easy. In that moment, he’s glad he was the one to kill Morello, painfully slow. He would’ve drawn it out more if he had the chance, but his instinct to find you was overpowering him.

He was right to be so worried. Tommy doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to get the sight of you in that godforsaken chair out of his head. The blood, the wounds, the sounds of your sobs- he shudders, shaking his head. As soon as the four of them had arrived at the Doc’s house, who was ready and waiting with a nurse for backup, it’d be a blur for Tommy. He’d stood helplessly at the foot of the surgical bed, watching the nurse clean you. With every cut and bruise that was revealed, he felt his heart grow tighter, his hands shaking uncontrollably. When the Doc moved onto your hands, announcing he’d have to do surgery on them to try and close the wounds, Tommy had nearly passed out. Sam and Paulie both had to drag him away, thrusting a bottle of whisky into his hands to settle his nerves.

For hours, they all sat together, silent except for the occasional sound of liquid sloshing in a bottle as one of them took a drink. The housemaid came in at one point, putting on some slow music to rid the space of the stifling silence. She left a bowl of water for them each with a cloth to wipe away the blood on the skin. Tommy didn’t move at first, too wrapped up in his thoughts. It wasn’t until Paulie pointed out the droplets of blood and the smudge you’d left after you’d caressed his cheek earlier that he finally moved to wash it away. Salieri had called at some point asking about you and the fate of Morello. It was a quick call, but the message was portrayed quickly. The crime boss had made you suffer, so the boys made sure the favour was returned. After that, they all returned back to silence, plagued with worry for you. Tommy was busy overthinking what you had said to him before you passed out. He was too scared to believe it to what his mind was telling him to be true. He wanted to know you were okay first… he needed it.

Finally, the Doc had come into the room, announcing that you would be alright. Your wounds were severe but with a lot of rest and luck, hopefully your body would heal. There would be scars of course, something that made the boys all hang their heads in sadness, but you were alive. And that’s all that mattered.

Tommy’s brought back to the present when he feels you tug slightly as his hand which tightly clutches your own. He leans closer to you, lightly whispering your name on a raspy breath.

“Y/N, darlin’. I’m here, open up those pretty eyes.” You tug harder at his hand, your face turning towards the sound of his voice. You slowly open them, as much as you can with the bruising and swelling. Your eyes find him immediately. Tommy smiles, laughing throatilty in relief. He leans down, placing a long kiss on your bandaged palm, smiling wider when your fingers flex against his face.

“Hi…” You whisper, your voice raspy. Tommy grabs a glass of water and helps you take small sips, supporting your head with his hand. Your eyes, though half shut, gaze at him with so much love, he feels his heart pound against his ribcage. After he’s placed the glass down, he hears you gasp quietly, his head whipping round to see if you're okay. He calms down when he sees you’ve just spotted Sam and Paulie, hunched together asleep on the couch. It looks quite humorous as the former lies head back, collapsed essentially between the pillows. Paulie lies with his head against Sam’s arms, his mouth opening dribbling onto Sam’s expensive suit.

“They stayed?” Tommy can hear the tears in your voice, the love you have for your chosen brothers seeping into the words. He squeezes your fingers gently instead of your hand, cautious of hurting you more. Your head swings back to his and you smile at him, tears slipping down your cheeks. “You stayed?”

He huffs as if it’s the most silly question in the world. Tommy holds your hand against his cheek as he rasps “Course we stayed- we ain’t goin’ anywhere darling. We were so worried ‘bout you, we ain’t gonna leave you for years at this rate.” You laugh lightly, the sound like music to his ears.

“I don’t know what that bastard did to ya. If you don’t ever want to tell me, that’s fine too. But know this darlin’- I ain’t goin’ anywhere. You’re my girl, this all happened just because your mine. So I’m gonna love you hard for the rest of my life, because I nearly lost you today… and I ain’t gonna waste a minute more. Not with you… or our kid.”

You let out a sob at his words, tears falling harder now as his hand moves to your stomach rubbing gently.

“I-I was gonna tell you t-today. Tommy, I was leavin’ the doctors when they took me. I’d just found out, I-”

“I know, darlin’, I know. I should’a been there with you. I’m here with you now though. And I ain’t ever leavin’ you again. No one’s gonna hurt my family anymore.” He places a kiss on your palm again, moving to your stomach to gently place one there too. Your free hand slowly moves to his hair, stroking through it slightly just like you do every night.

“Come to bed Tommy. We both need some rest.” He can’t resist you. After taking off his shoes and leaving his jacket draped over a chair, he climbs in beside you, carefully maneuvering himself so he can take you into his arms. For once, he’s gonna be the one to stroke your hair as you fall asleep, praying to every god to keep you safe. As his eyes begin to shut and he slips deep into his own slumber, his hand pressed against your stomach, he dreams only of his family and the home you’re both gonna create.

-----

A/N: Thanks for reading minxies. Sorry the ending is kinda meh. I really hoped you’ve all enjoyed though, I feel like this is one of the best things I’ve ever written.

(Unedited)

#mafia 1 #mafia #mafia remake #mafia definitive edition #tommy angelo #tommy angelo x reader #TommyHoes #sam trapani #paulie lombardo #writtenbyme

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katehuntington · 3 years

Text

Title: Black Dog - part three Word count: ±2700 words Episode summary: When Sam gets an anonymous phone call with information about his father, Dean receives a text message with coordinates to different location. The brothers clash and split up, one following orders, the other trusting his instincts. Meanwhile, in the wilderness of Cascade Range, Washington State, Zoë loses grip on a personal case and is forced to confront her demons. Without back up, this might very well turn out to be her final hunt. Part three summary: Two leads point into different directions. Which one are the Winchester brothers going to follow? Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and medical procedures. Supernatural creatures/entities, mentions of demon possession. Swearing, smoking, weaponry. Descriptions of torture and murder. Illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks. Descriptions of suicidal thoughts and tendencies, depression, panic attacks, hallucinations. Author’s note: Beta’d by @winchest09 & @deanwanddamons. Thanks, girls!

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist

S1E03 “Black Dog” Masterlist

Dean gives his Chevrolet Impala a final clean up and looks at the end result. Ronny nods satisfied, too. “Good as new.” They mechanics carefully beat out the small dent in the lid and restored the paint with a polisher. The lock of the trunk took some time to replace, but now it closes perfectly.

“Thanks, man,” Dean says gratefully, offering him some money for the work. “Any time. Put that away. I owe you Winchesters more than that,” Ronny reminds him. “Sure you guys don’t want a beer?” Dean hesitates, but then shakes his head. “I’d love to catch up, but we should get going. The world isn’t rid of all evil motherfuckers just yet.” Ronny chuckles at that. “Fair enough. Good to see you again, though.” “You too. Take care, Ron,” the oldest Winchester brother returns.

The ex-hunter retreats back into his garage, and Dean glances at the trunk for the second time and smiles satisfied. He’s glad he got it fixed. The clunking sound every time they hit a pothole was driving him crazy, and with enough arsenal for a small military operation inside, he wasn’t really keen on leaving it unlocked either.

As he takes a look around the abandoned street, he realizes he’s missing the tall individual that usually occupies the passenger’s seat. Where the hell did Sam go? Instinctively, Dean scans the area, uneasiness evident in his stomach, a sensation which arises ever since he was a kid, whenever he loses sight of his little brother. Then he spots him a bit further down the road. He’s on the phone with someone, and for a second he wonders if it’s Zoë he’s having a conversation with.

Waiting for his brother to return, he leans against his car, shoving his hands in his pockets. The sun feels nice and warm on his back as it burns away the coolness of the night. Now that he has nothing to do for a moment, his thoughts sneak off. He doesn’t like it one bit, but he can’t help but think of the huntress they crossed paths with a little under a week ago. He may pretend that he doesn’t give a shit, but he has to admit that she has been on his mind more than a couple of times. Not that he likes her, fuck no, but Sullivan left an impression that has him wondering. She has been through more in the twenty-five years that she has walked this earth than most endure in an entire lifetime. Maybe that is why he deep down cares; he can relate to her.

Dean exhales, not dwelling too long on the reason behind the intrigue. Instead, he wonders if Sam’s presumption is actually true. The fierce Zoë Sullivan being in deep shit; he can barely picture it. She always seems in control, even when things don't go as planned. She caught him off guard. He, Dean Winchester, can you fuckin’ believe that? The older Winchester sibling rolls his harmed shoulder, testing its mobility. She shot me, for fuck’s sake.

Even though he has been in the field longer than she has, Zoë seems to expertly know her way around the world of monsters that is their reality. She’s a bright girl, skilled, fast, fearless. She has every aspect of a perfect hunter. But after those last words back in Paragould, he was left with the impression that the battle she was going towards, is one she didn’t expect to win. It truly felt like a final goodbye. A disturbing question pops up in his head; did he make a mistake not going after her? The two guys they saved from a werewolf in Waco probably don’t think so.

Dean stares ahead, pulling at his bottom lip with his teeth while contemplating his choices. Maybe they should go after her anyway, see if they can pick up her trail. North is indeed a big place, but then again, a hot chick on a Harley Davidson would stand out. It’s a long shot, but if they play this right, they may be able to find her.

The matter escapes his mind when he feels his phone vibrating, the buzzing device startling him slightly. Somewhat annoyed by his own reflex, the hunter takes his Motorola and notices the small icon of an envelope in the right upper corner; he has received a text message. It’s probably Erin, his hook up back in Waco, who had to wake up alone this morning. She must be wondering where the man she met in a bar three days prior has gone. But when Dean opens his inbox, his eyes widen in shock.

At the top of the list of incoming messages, it says ‘Dad’.

Dean’s heart has picked up speed, now pounding twice as fast than it was seconds ago. Last time he checked, his father’s phone was inactive, and now there’s a message coming in from that number? Different scenarios flash through his mind, not sure if he should prepare for good or bad news. With shaky fingers, he opens the text.

Job: 48°13’11.00”N 121°41’4045”W

Dean exhales, still staring at his cell. He can’t fucking believe it. John disappeared from the face of the earth, nowhere to be found, and after all this time he sent a few numbers and letters. The older Winchester brother huffs out a laugh. It doesn’t matter, though. Relief frees Dean from the crippling worry that he has tried to stuff down for over a month now, but kept him up at night nonetheless. This text confirms what he’s been hoping for; Dad is alive.

Thrilled, Dean turns around and glances down the street, noticing Sam, who hastens towards the car. He can’t wait to share the news, knowing they have both been so desperate for a breakthrough.

“We’ve gotta go,” they both say at the same time. “Me first,” Dean demands, childish. “What are you? Seven?” Sam huffs, raising an eyebrow to match with the sass. Despite his accusation, he counters in the same manner. “What I’ve just heard is bigger.” “Bigger than this?” Dean brags while flashing a grin, victoriously handing his brother the Motorola.

Curiosity wins and Sam takes it, attentively reading the message. His eyes narrow, but then his jaw falls open when he realizes who the sender is. John’s youngest son isn’t impressed, though. In fact, what shows on the display infuriates him.

“That’s it?” he scoffs, agitated, giving the phone back to his brother. “After a month of silence, that’s what he gives us?” “Sam, don’t you realize what this means? He’s okay!” Dean brings to mind. “Don’t bitch about this.” “Just because he’s able to send us a text message, doesn’t mean that he’s okay. We’re not even sure it’s him!” Sam returns bitterly. “Oh, come on. This is so Dad. One word and coordinates, that’s straight up Marine Corps right there. It’s more convincing than his fuckin’ signature,” the older brother argues.

“And what the hell are we supposed to do with this? Trust him blindly and do a job he can’t find the time for because he’s hunting whatever the thing is that killed Mom?” Sam assumes, his arms flying up before he lets them come down to his sides again. “Exactly,” Dean states, matter of factly. “Don’t you see, Sam? This is what I’ve been telling you. He doesn’t want to be found, he wants us to hunt.”

Dean opens the passenger side door and rummages in the dashboard locker. When he straightens his back, he pulls out a brown notebook; it’s John’s journal. “This book. This is dad’s single most valuable possession. Everything he knows about every evil thing is in here. He could’ve taken it with him, but he didn’t. He’s passed it on to us.” Dean looks deep into his brother's eyes while he points at the leather bound book that is the representation of the Bible to the Winchesters. “Dad’s journal, the text... Dad is telling us he wants us to do what we were trained for.”

“You know what I want? I want to find him,” Sam returns determined, handing back the phone. “And how the fuck were you planning to achieve that, huh?” Dean returns. “I don’t need a plan, I already know where he is,” the younger brother states.

Puzzled, Dean stares at him, waiting for an explanation. There has been zero contact between their old man and Sam for years, and now all of a sudden he has figured out where John is at? “How?” he questions, suspicion rising. “I just received a call. He’s in Tennessee. In Nashville to be precise,” his sibling states. Dean frowns. “A call? From who?”

The shrug of Sam’s shoulders is nonchalant. “I think she might be a hunter or something.” “She? Does this mystery lady have a name?” Dean questions further, trying to get details while frustration bubbles in his chest, triggered by his brother’s short answers. “She didn’t give it, but it doesn’t matter. We’re going to Tennessee,” Sam decides.

Dean laughs out loud, dropping the journal on the passenger’s seat before he turns away. Then he returns to glare at Sam as if he just made a joke. “You wanna go to fucking Nashville based on an anonymous call? Did the sun fry your brain or something? This could be a fucking trap, Sam!” Dean shouts, indignant. But his sibling is determined. “I don’t care. If he’s there, I’m going.”

Dean steps closer and halts right in front of him. He has to look up to stare into the eyes of his taller brother, but that doesn’t make him any less intimidating.

“Dad has given us an order,” he growls, his words spoken in a low tone. “I said: I. don’t. care,” Sam battles him. “Well I do, you stubborn dumbass!” Dean counters with a raised voice. “What you are planning to do is fucking dangerous! Dad doesn’t want you on his tail, you’ll blow his cover!”

“You’re calling me a dumbass?! Dad is after an incredibly powerful monster by himself, alone! He’s the dumbass for not accepting our help! We already lost Mom, I lost Jess, I’m not going to lose him too. I want answers, I want a piece of that son of a bitch that ruined our lives and I want it right fucking now! If Dad doesn’t want me there, that’s his problem!” Sam shouts angrily.

“You’re going against him?” Dean isn’t impressed with the outbreak, and slightly shakes his head. “Oh right, I forgot. That’s what you always do; the exact opposite of what he asks!” he continues cynically. “He doesn’t ask. He orders,” his brother corrects. “And you follow those orders like a fucking lapdog.” “It doesn’t matter how he tells us what to do, Sam! He’s our God damn father, so you better suck it up and fucking LISTEN!!!”

Dean is sure one of Ronny’s neighbors is going to emerge from one of the houses, telling them to shut up and take this argument elsewhere, instead of fighting it out in the middle of the street. He doesn’t care, however. His little brother has forgotten his place, and he needs to set him straight.

“I do whatever the hell he tells me to do because I trust him, because I respect him, which is something I’m gonna strongly advise you to do as well, because your attitude fucking stinks,” Dean lectures, his moss green eyes penetrating, fire burning in his irises. “Now get in the fucking car, because we’re going to drive to wherever those coordinates lead us to.”

Puffing his chest while straightening his back to make himself seem even taller, Sam crosses his arms. His older sibling might think he has all the authority, but he’s not a little kid anymore who he can boss around. Those days are long gone. He thought his departure to Stanford taught Dean a lesson or two, but apparently he needs to remind his brother that he plays by his own rules, and no one else's. “I’m not going with you,” he decides, standing his ground.

For a moment, Dean just stares at him, giving him a second to reconsider that conclusion, but Sam doesn’t even blink. Their gazes battle, the air between them almost too thick to breathe, rivalry carving a deep canyon between the two. “I’m gonna give you a choice,” Dean snarls. “You can come with me and solve that case, or you can go fuck yourself.”

Sam gulps, but stands his ground. His facial expression doesn’t change as he steps back, away from his brother, and heads over to the back of the Impala without breaking eye contact, until he opens the trunk to grab his duffel. The glare Dean receives when he slams the lid closed says enough; he’s not coming along for the ride.

Stunned, Dean stares at him and huffs in disbelief. Un-fucking-believable. He has always known Sam was stubborn, but now he takes the cake. Disappointed, the older brother shakes his head. This is the second time Sam has chosen a different path and leaves him without even batting an eye, but it scares Dean just as much as when he left and went to college. He’s not alright with what he’s about to do, but he can’t give in. He has to listen to his father. Frustratingly, he pulls open the door of the Impala. “Goodbye, Sam.”

Trying to hide his unpleasant surprise, the man left in the road watches him. He didn’t expect this, Dean taking off without him, but then again, how could he not expect a soldier to follow orders from his general? It doesn’t change anything, though. He is dead set on investigating this lead and finding his father.

The man who is about to put a distance between himself and the one person he swore to never part with again, glances in the rearview mirror. He wishes he hadn’t, because the coldness in Sam’s hazel eyes seems foreign, yet familiar. As Dean starts the engine, he realizes he is either having a major deja-vu, or is reliving one of the worst days of his life. Despite the painful pressure that’s building in his chest and the panic that floods his brain, he lowers his right foot on the gas pedal, and the car rolls away. He doesn’t drive off as fast as he normally would, because he’s fighting the urge to turn around. Pained, he glances in his mirror again. “C’mon, Sam. Move,” he begs.

But Sam doesn’t even lift a finger, and he remains in the exact same spot. Then he does move, but not in the way Dean hoped. His little brother turns his back on him and heads towards downtown Hillsboro, in the opposite direction.

With a deep sigh, Dean shakes his head, clamping his left hand around the wheel until his knuckles turn white. “Stubborn bastard,” he sighs.

His jaw clenches, as West Elm Street flows over in Route 22 and the landscape around him changes. Small homes and sheds make room for stretched out farmlands. But he doesn’t notice the scenery. His conscience is fighting his heart. He wants to hit the brakes and pull the car into a 180° so badly, but he has to listen to his father. Never in his life has Dean done anything else than that, disobedience not being a word one could find in his dictionary. Yet in this situation, both of the options are pitfalls. It doesn’t matter which way he goes, he will make a mistake either way. Because the one line that his father drilled in his mind over and over again keeps haunting him.

Take care of Sammy.

He grinds his teeth, but continues to drive further and further away, his upbringing leaving him no choice. The hunter has made his decision; he’s going to find the location of those coordinates and do the job his Dad has given him. He knows what he’s doing, he’s just hoping Sam does too, because if something happens to his little brother, Dean knows he will never be able to forgive himself.

Well, shit. The boys have gone separate ways. Who do you think will find what he’s looking for?

Thank you so much for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to reblog my work or ��buy me coffee (Link in bio at the top of the page)

Read part four here

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halo-jpeg · 4 years

Note

sorry for asking, i know you’re busy, but can you do norman, michael, billy, and thomas with a male s/o who kills for the first time and realizes he likes it? and not to be picky but can you make the s/o the more dominant one in the relationship?

Of course!

Slashers with an S/O who Kills for the First Time and Loves It

Norman Bates

The situation is pretty tame at first. A man breaks into you and Norman’s home with the intent to rob you quickly, leaving without harming anyone.

Norman sees that you are in danger- a gun is pointed in your direction, after all. Norma starts to take over, and he begins to grow threatening.

You know it’s only a matter of time before he attacks and most likely gets shot. You have to do something, calm him down.

When you reach to place a hand on Norman’s arm in a calming manner, the thief panics and fires a shot at the spot beside you, sending Norman into a flurry. Before you know it, the gun is swinging in his direction with a point-black shot to the head or chest.

You don’t even register as you grab a smashed shard of vase from the table beside you- the place where the bullet had hit- and lunge towards the man. You reach him before the gun even fires, planting the shard in his neck.

The adrenaline rush and the satisfying sound and feeling of the glass sinking into the mans neck as fantastic. You watch as blood spreads on the floor, and then Norman is hugging you tightly.

“That felt great...!” Norman is worried for you, but Norma is cheering you on, glad that you can finally protect her son like he’s been protecting you.

Michael Myers

The first time you kill is when someone runs into you and Michael speaking quietly in a deserted alleyway. It was its supposed to be a quick chat, a “stop staring at me through my work buildings window” chat.

You hadn’t even registered it. The person had screamed and turned to run, but you had pulled out your pocket knife and set off after them, afraid to lose the perfect life you had with Michael.

You had just meant to threaten the person and let them go, but the power you felt when you pressed your knife to their throat went straight to your head.

You slit their throat without thinking, and almost collapsed from the sheer satisfaction as their life drained away. You felt so strong.

Michael dealt with the body, and knew already that you would be addicted to killing.

He offers to bring you on hunts with him, promising at least one kill if you don’t get in his way and ruin things.

After a while you get really good at the hunting thing, and no one ever finds out that you’re killing too because Michael is so skilled with hiding evidence.

Billy Loomis (Is he the right Billy?)

It was the one and only time Billy hadn’t warned you of a kill beforehand. The one time he was just going to head out quick, stab them thrice, and ditch, and yoh stumbled into the middle of it all.

You had distracted Billy for a split second and the victim had gotten the upper hand, aiming a sharp object towards his heart. You knew it would be fatal, or at least crippling.

You had tackled the victim off of Billy and to the ground, battling for the sharp object and driving it through their eye and into their brain.

After the adrenaline wore off you realized how great it felt to defend Billy for once. You turned back to him with the biggest smile, in which he returned.

From then on, he told you about all of his hunts, though sometimes you ‘forgot’ and stumbled in again to steal the kill.

Billy always makes sure you come out clean, no one suspecting a third Ghostface. Stu is also pretty proud to have a trio instead of a duo, even if you never wear the Father Death costume.

Thomas Hewitt

It was as simple as a victim slipping away and into the basement, where you had been hiding, waiting for the chaos to be over.

The victim had found you, begging for help, promising to save you too- and then realizing you were a Hewitt. What came next was obvious.

The person had attacked you, and in the first fight, began searching for something to finish you off with.

You knew the place better than them, having just tidied everything up, setting everything in its place once more. You were able to find Thomas’ sledgehammer before the victim would secure a thin, crappy blade.

Two brutal smacks to the skull and they were down for the count just as Thomas came crashing down the steps. He was surprised to see you had inch dealt with the most problematic victims, this groups ‘final girl material’.

After that, you asked to be counted in on the killing. It felt so exhilarating, you understood why the family did what they did.

Though Thomas kept a close eye on you through it all, he was surprised by how good you were at your job, and begs to trust you on your own more and more. You were just as capable of defending yourself as he was.

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eligos-venator · 4 years

Text

In regards to Villainy

I’ve been watching the villain post make its rounds and reblogged it earlier quietly with a small rant in the tags about personal concerns of my own. It’s shown up multiple times since then to where I feel some clarification is required on my part personally, as Eligos’s writer.

Communication and mutual agreement is required on all sides in RP, and nobody gets a free pass to do whatever they please because of some label that helps define their typical position in a roleplay. My gear gremlin was made for me as a player to enjoy watching him learn and grow as a person, and to provide minor inconveniences for other players should they wish him to get in their way as a way to help provide character growth for their muses. Not to be some big bad boss who gets their jollies by harming others. And I will not change him to suit anyone’s personal tastes but my own.

Read on if you want to see my whole take on this. Or not.

Let’s start with what the definition of villain actually means, given it’s a vaguer concept than most would like to think:

Definition of villain

1: a character in a story or play who opposes the hero 2: a deliberate scoundrel or criminal 3: one blamed for a particular evil or difficulty

These definitions are a rough guideline, but overall, all it takes to fall into the category of being a villain is a willingness to oppose a hero, regardless of reasoning or intent. Even in a clash of two heroes, you could call one the villain in that particular story for how they oppose the other. It’s a matter of perspective. One could be the villain of a story merely because they aim for the opposite goal of the hero of that tale, even if both end goals are suitably noble in the scheme of things. We often see in literary works that the villains of stories oft have either selfish or noble intentions, and in the case of the latter, what turns them into villains is how they view the world and how they may have let other important aspects fall to the wayside in their single-minded devotion to their goal.

Rarely is it that a good villain is written to be cruel and harsh for its own sake. The villain’s view of the world may be twisted, but there’s always an element of logic and reason, the same as you might see in a heroic character. Even initially good motivations and desires can be twisted into something absolutely horrendous and monstrous with the right pulls of the string in a character’s history. Some can have their world views changed for the better with time, while others struggle in vain to understand to the bitter end. But that’s how the cookie crumbles. Not all endings are happy, and not every character deserves a happy ending in a story book, especially so when considering how many that they have made suffer through their actions. But by that consideration, heroes aren’t above similar karmic justice as well, simply because they wore the mantle of hero. Nor are they automatically entitled to their happy ending. Harming others, regardless of role one sees themselves in a story, inevitably begets wrath and a desire for similar harm upon the one who originally inflicted it. And while that may lead to interesting interactions, it doesn’t always unfold in a way where things work out where each party gets their just desserts as people believe they should. We watch what happens as a story unfolds, and the job of the mun in roleplay is to portray the character as their motivations, desires, and ethics would bid them do, be it for weal or woe.

But there are additional aspects to keep in mind when roleplaying, and it isn’t simply limited to keeping to the character. Communication ahead of time, and discussing what is acceptable, what isn’t, and what one expects to come of roleplay with another, must all be done in order to ensure things go in a manner both parties are ok with what may happen and are on the same page. There never should be any ‘well that’s what my character would do’ bullshit when it comes to discussing boundaries and hard limits on what one finds acceptable versus unacceptable in roleplay. If you feel your character would not be able to be played in a manner in which you prefer due to said boundaries or rules, it is best to find roleplay elsewhere. To push or pressure one into ignoring their own personal comforts and boundaries is unacceptable. Even when walking up to someone, there still is an expectation of some communication on an out of character level should you intend to harm their character. This isn’t reserved only for villains to do. That’s placing undue burden on one player type while relaxing standards for the rest. All players must heed this if communication is to be healthy, in order to avoid crossed wires.

Which brings us to concerns people run across in roleplay. There indeed are players who play a character type due to the power fantasy, and do not properly communicate with their fellow players, nor keep in mind what they may face for their actions. Please note how I did not specify sides. In my time in roleplay, I have seen many players of heroes pull the same exact thing that they are so quick to accuse villain players of: ignoring what consequences they would logically face for misdeeds and attacking others in the street, as well as attempting to kill without communication or agreement on an OOC level, on top of trying to maim and cripple characters in permanent ways over small slights, such as spilling a beer on them, or harsh words exchanged. All of this, with not a single word of communication or planning ahead of time. One person falling into one side or the other between ‘hero’ and ‘villain’ does not give them a free pass for such behavior. It’s reprehensible behavior no matter who does it, and using the OOC information that someone happens to play as a character on the other side of what one considers good or evil as reasoning for a free license to do so is even moreso. Actions have consequences, no matter what side you are on. It is better and more interesting roleplay to roll with the consequences of a muse’s actions than it is to straight up ignore them. Talk shit, get hit. Hit someone, be hit in return. No party should expect a blanket immunity due to what they consider themselves. But neither should players feel they are given an automatic pass or ability to control the fate of another’s character. That’s still up to the writer of the character themselves, regardless of how much you may dislike the character being portrayed.

In particular, I’ve seen a disturbing number of individuals who feel it is within rights to execute player characters with zero communication out of character, and it’s mostly the players who play the ‘good’ characters saying this. If you feel you have an innate right to execute a character played by another, without any sort of communication ahead of time, you may be better off writing by yourself than with others. No player is allowed to force character death on another, regardless of the roles played. You may discuss and plan, and plot ways any encounter may go, but the moment one tries to bully or force another player into killing their character off, regardless of why, they have gone too far and should not be surprised if the player in question chooses to remove themselves from the roleplay or ignore it entirely.

In regards to the claims of that the guards would not allow such characters in, that is ignoring just how vast a city is and the limited number of troops that would be there to patrol, in comparison to the rest of the populace. What we see ingame doesn’t necessarily correlate to the actual size of each location, as areas have been limited in size both due to technical limitations of the game as well as to ensure a relative amount of convenience for the players.

Certainly, should a character with a bounty and known face get noticed for their deeds or a guard is called for, they should be prepared to potentially face consequences for their actions or try to escape. Actions have consequences. But one cannot simply whip up a dozen super-powered city guard NPCS to try to execute another player simply because they dislike that the player is not playing the type they want them to. Especially if the character in question may not even have a wanted poster or have done anything that would warrant the guard’s attention. That is gatekeeping roleplay at its finest, deciding who should be where based on personal preferences with little regard to others beyond personal feelings. By that sort of standard, any player who disliked someone else could do the same and merely claim that the face is close enough to a bounty that they should be killed on sight. Better to alert a player of a guard character and let them handle it, if you do want to have guards interfere, or plot with said character’s player to see how guards can be involved and then step in if they are agreeable to such. If not, drop it and either watch, or ignore. Whipping up random NPCs to do your bidding and to try to force someone out of roleplay without any discussion will not encourage people to do as you expect, and instead is more likely to earn you a spot on the block list.

Often times, a player character that falls on the villain side of the spectrum may not necessarily have a bounty because they have handled their personal situations or misdeeds in a way that keeps them under the radar, or they are skirting the line between legal and illegal. Assuming that all deeds are known and skipping straight to confrontation is poor form at the least and is considered metagaming. No player gets a free pass to do that. Many villain players have rules that one must adhere to when engaging their characters precisely because as players we’ve all seen people assume what our character would and wouldn’t be let known, or what they would say, and then run with it without even a word to us as the player of said villain. The rules we have are used to avoid such mischaracterization and help ensure that communication is healthy on all sides. Players of both sides get particularly upset when key details are left out and things they do not want nor did they agree ahead of time to are sprung on them.

Finally, a character does not represent the writer. A character may adore strawberries and peanuts, but the writer may be highly allergic to where they are sent into shock even on mild contact with either of them and thus loathes them. And what a character may think of said foods may also differ drastically between what the writer thinks of them as a result of those differences. This is the difference between in character and out of character. I explain it as such as I have seen the community grow progressively worse over time in understanding that what one’s character may do may not necessarily reflect the writer’s view in real life at all. Too many see a character that is morally questionable and believe that the writer behind them will behave in the exact same way as the character, and that how the character may see things is no different than how the player does. If you struggle to comprehend that a character does not necessarily represent the player, then you misunderstand what roleplaying is. It is not merely and only inserting yourself into a game setting down to the last detail. You may do that, but others have just as much right to write out something different, and approach a character not from a perspective of how they themselves feel, but from a point of analyzing of how someone who experienced the history forged for the character might behave and in doing so explore the resulting mindset.

Such history may scar a character or traumatize in a way that brings out behaviors that the player themselves would never consider till they sit down and consider just how the character may respond after all factors are taken into account. Just because one character hates something or someone does not mean that the writer does as well. Darker characters and villains often have traumas that skew their views to some degree, but just because the writer has taken the time to consider what that may result in does not mean they require therapy themselves as a person or that they share those same views or ideals. To say so and paint all players with such a broad brush and claim them to be mentally unwell is disgusting and indicates that, as a player, one cannot separate themselves from their character enough to comprehend that others are able to portray views other than their own personal set of beliefs held as a person. It also discourages dialogue, as it shows an innate, hostile bias, and there are not many that are willing to put up with such hostility and narrow-mindedness as it is being aimed at them as a person and attacking them as a person rather than disliking the character forged. You cannot expect someone to willingly listen and try to see your side when attacked on a personal level for little more than having made something you dislike seeing in your personal roleplay. If you dislike it, don’t interact or involve such a character in your plot line. If they ask for your view, you can always provide constructive criticism, but if you offer it unbidden you should not expect it to be listened to or taken. Especially if it is very clear from how you approach it that your problem is personally with the player and not the details or how they portrayed the character.

As a personal example, Eligos would be categorized as a villain. He works for whoever pays him the most as a minion, and while he mostly does perfectly legal work, he absolutely has done less-than-legal work and then carefully covered up his misdeeds after by pulling the strings of the people who owe him favors. He is considered a villain mainly as he will do whatever he is allowed to within his contract in order to succeed, and often times finds himself working for the wrong [losing] side because his messed-up priorities led him to see the extra money offered as indication of good faith in his abilities and also valuing him as an asset, and not being able to see why acting on behalf of someone he thinks valued him more is a bad thing. He will work with anyone if he’s given a good enough reason or money, or against them if someone else makes a better offer. He won’t kick puppies or harm kittens, or hurt anyone unnecessarily, and if it does boil down to combat, it’s something I absolutely discuss ahead of time to find out limitations and also what one desires to see happen, so that personal growth for the character he is facing off against or with has that opportunity to grow and learn as a person. If someone says they dislike something? That’s now off the table and no longer up for discussion, period. But by virtue of his poor life choices and habitually finding himself on the wrong side of conflict due to his values, he is a villain, through and through.

But playing a character like him isn’t a simple power fantasy made to flex virtual muscles. There’s easier and simpler options, and if I wanted to do that, I’d have just made a hero, as those characters tend to not be analyzed so hard for compliance as villains are. If Eligos had been made to be some stupid power fantasy and nothing more, he’d not be yeeted into a wall half as often as he has by both those around him and his own tools malfunctioning. Nor am I mentally unwell and think the same way he does, simply because I let him say and do the shit that he does. I personally dislike many of his life choices, but do find it amusing to watch him go, and then pile on karma later for all of his misdeeds so he regrets his actions later. He’s an arrogant little gear gremlin who exists to help further stories of others while providing entertaining moments. Just because one individual personally may not see the karma carried out or get to execute him simply as they dislike him doesn’t mean he gets away with no consequences for his actions. As the player, I decide how to punish him. Not others. Him being a villain does not strip me of that right and give it to you simply because you dislike seeing him around.

#mun speaks #mun rants #villain

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lisinfleur · 4 years

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T&T - Chapter 8: Copyright

Author’s Notes | It has been being ridiculously hard to keep my mind focused and being able to produce chapters and shots. My anxiety has been fucking me up hard. But I managed to produce this one and I really hope you guys like it. I'll keep fighting! This brain will come back to work! Words | 1946 ⁑ Warnings: None

After some days of living in that castle, Ivar's wounds were pretty better. With the right supplies and no limitations, Atli was able to show his whole talent as a healer, and Ivar's body was almost fully healed at this moment.

With his new breath, the fallen king took some time to walk around the castle, discovering the many halls that place was composed of while Iliana was taking her turn serving tables and cleaning the place.

His crutched steps took him through a hallway where he could hear Brynjar's voice along with some others, discussing.

The familiar sound of plans of battle and war called Ivar's attention and he gently approached, trying to hear without being noticed hanging around. His ears caught the subject in the middle but it wasn't hard to really understand what was happening inside that room.

"...must understand, my king, that the absence of an heir..."

"It's not something important, Udir! For Odin's beard, stop disturbing me about Brimir's death! I have no heirs, then what? I'm still this place's king and they still owe me respect!"

Ivar approached, observing the figures inside the room around a big and beautiful map carved in a trunk in the middle of the hall - probably the map of Brynjar's lands. Brynjar's index hit potently a part of that map marked with some wooden pieces painted in red as he spoke. Ivar presumed those were enemy armies marked for them to recognize.

"These lands are mine! Those men are Earls who swore over their arm rings oaths of loyalty they're not fulfilling! I am their king, Udir! And if they want to call themselves kings upon my lands, they can wait for me to die since there is no heir to succeed me anymore or they can fucking put their grown-men pants and come! And kill me for the place they want so badly!"

So, Brimir's death brought more problems to that king than Ivar could imagine. Maybe he could help the old king to solve his problems with the rebelled earls as a way to compensate for the loss he caused.

The bearded man beside Brynjar sighed, and Ivar started paying attention to him as well as he patted Brynjar's back - maybe a counselor...

"Calm yourself down, Brynjar. Things are harder than before and we must put our minds to work. Do we really need these lands this much?"

The man was thinking of giving up. Ivar sighed. He knew exactly what was that flame into Brynjar's eyes.

"These are MY LANDS, Udir! My people! My father's lands before being mine! I brought these bastards here and they swore to me they would be loyal to my father's legacy! Don't you dare to ask me to abandon the place he fought and bled to conquer!"

Those words touched Ivar's spirit and he felt his heart clenching inside his chest. Kattegat was his father's legacy. His father's lands he lost to a bitch and her consort... If there was someone inside that room that could understand Brynjar's feelings, this person was Ivar himself.

"Then if you won't accept any deal with them, then you should listen to what I told you: go through the breach with your best men as I keep them here with mine. It will gain you time and the surprise element, Brynjar. I'll hold them back and you'll be able to cross the breach and take them from behind. We kill these earls and finish this senseless war."

Ivar saw Brynjar sighing, tired. But his experienced eyes ran over the map observing Udir's fingers pointing the breach and location where he would be with the earls.

"Udir..." Brynjar tried.

And the counselor insisted, pointing the place once again.

"It would be stupidity to face them face to face, Brynjar! You know that! Don't you trust me? Go through the breach."

Ivar's face frowned. There were several other possibilities to execute that plan and attack the enemy earls from behind, from their sides, all of them not taking such a strict way. Why was that man insisting so bad with that breach in special? Ivar lost the conversation for a moment as the counselor was insisting with Brynjar about the plan. His blues attentively running the map, looking around, absorbing the information, and observing the enemy earldoms and red spots. That place...

Something clicked on Ivar's mind: the breach was a road to one of the enemy earldoms they were facing. A road...

... just like Repton's road...

Ivar's eyes got large for a moment: Udir was leading king Brynjar into a trap?

"You think about what I said, Brynjar. It will be the end of the war, once and for all. If you want to put an end to this conflict, then prepare your men and gimme the order. You go through that breach and we stop this conflict together." Udir finished, patting the king's back before leaving, passing through Ivar with a frown, following the corridor out of the castle.

Ivar came into the room, looking at the map now close enough to confirm what he was thinking: it was a road just like Repton's road, with the form of a valley.

Perfect for archers to swallow an army entirely before its king could scream the retreat...

It was a trap. A trap he once used against prince Aethewulf. A plan of his that someone was trying to use against Brynjar.

The old king was deeply breathing, trying to get his head colder when Ivar's voice woke him up to the new presence inside the room.

"Since when do you know this friend of yours... Udir?" Ivar asked, looking at the king who sighed once again, taking a seat near the table, trying to relax.

"He's the son of a friend my father had for his whole life. I know him since I was a young man. He's around ten years younger than me but I got him as a counselor because of his conquers. A good strategist, good warrior. Not that honored as I wanted him to be, but good anyway," Brynjar answered, with a tired voice.

"I can see he's not that honored," Ivar said, walking around the table towards the part of that beautiful map where the breach was carved.

"What do you mean?" Brynjar asked, ready to defend his counselor from the strange who just arrived in his castle and was daring to move the pieces of his map.

"I've heard it once from an enemy I had. One that I defeated. Yet one that will always have my respect," Ivar started as the eyes of the old king were following his fingers slowly moving the red pieces through the way as if he was playing with toy soldiers, moving the enemy armies towards the breach.

"What battles did you won?" Ivar repeated the old words, moving the pieces, spreading them all over the representation of the hills around the road, as if they were archers, ready to attack whatever could cross that road with a privileged position.

"What battles did you lose?" his eyes found Brynjar's large eyes as everything started to make sense in his old mind while Ivar moved the blue pieces through the road, showing the plan in execution right in front of his experienced eyes.

Ivar stopped the pieces right in the middle of that road - the whole army would be lost at that point. Brynjar's eyes found his, shocked with the terrible revelation in front of his eyes, but Ivar kept speaking, clarifying to that man that the crippled man in front of him wasn't just a simple wanderer.

"In victory, you earn a lot, my friend. But it is in defeat that you learn the most. Whoever is this man you have by your side; he's leading you to a trap. He'll put an end to this conflict indeed. But the earls won't be the ones falling in this day."

"Who are you?" Brynjar asked, seeing such a wise man standing in front of him as if Odin himself had come into Ivar's body to warn him about that meticulous and cruel plan against this life.

"I'm a man who lost everything. I was once a king, like you, my friend. A king who ruled over beautiful lands beyond the sea. Lands that were my father's legacy. Lands I fought my brothers to rule over. Lands that I lost to someone I trusted with my life. I've learned with my defeat and now, I humbly bring this knowledge to a friend I owe my life to. Listen to me, king Brynjar: this man you call your friend will bring you nothing but doom. I saw this happening before," Ivar said, pointing the breach. "This road in the middle of the valley will be a beautiful channel of blood and dead bodies, all of them holding arrows in every part of their armors an archer could hit. And these bodies will be your best men, taken down without the chance of a fight if you listen to what Udir says this time."

Brynjar looked down at that valley once again. The valley that Udir was insisting so much could cover his army's passage. It was so close to the enemy territories! Brynjar noticed he was so absorbed trying to deal with the dishonor of attacking the earls from behind that he didn't take notice of how close that valley was of the lands he was trying to take back: the earls would take his army down without even having to travel with their men! He would be carrying his best men - as Udir was insisting so much for him to do - straight to death.

"Exactly, my friend," Ivar said, with a smile in his face, as if he could read the king's thoughts through his enraged eyes. "Your best men would be taken down without effort. All the men that could prevent them from reaching your kingdom and taking your crown. The strongest ones would be with you here, to die by the arrows, as the weaker ones or the ones who could easily be converted would be their second target to be taken after you couldn't prevent them to move forward into your town anymore. A smart plan that counts with the idea that you would be unaware of their actions... However, it can be a good moment for you, my friend."

Brynjar was lost. How in the nine realms to have such a close figure betraying him that horrible way could be turned into a good momentum for him? Ivar could see the disappointment and disorientation dancing into the old king's eyes - feelings he knew very well in his heart.

"Focus," he called up, making Brynjar look straight into his eyes once again. "It doesn't matter how hard it is, there will be time for you to mourn once this situation is over. Now, it's time to keep your mind focused, my friend. Doom is knocking on your door and Lord Odin prepares your seat in Valhalla. I think we can make him wait a little longer."

"How?" Brynjar's voice sounded full of determination once again and Ivar couldn't help himself from smiling.

The old man was full of life and there was still a lot to be done for his kingdom. Approaching, Ivar took his decision: he failed his father's lands, but he wouldn't fail Brynjar's. And if he could help that king to save his people and his crown with his knowledge, then maybe it was a sign from the gods that his own kingdom was still recoverable for him.

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aurorafreerose · 4 years

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Confessions- P1 of the Summertime series

[Hi!!! This is my first ever fanfic, I hope y’all like it!!]

Fandom: BnHA, Pairing: Izuocha Category: F/M

Words: 1316

On the first day of July, Izuku Midoriya tells her he likes her.

Or maybe even- his heart clenched at the very thought- loved her?

Izuku, known affectionately by some close to him as Deku, shook his head awkwardly at the very thought of it, refusing to entertain the possibility of his gloriously inexperienced-with-women self having the sheer audacity to love her.

Or was it- he hastily corrected his long-winded thoughts- being in love with her? Or loving her?

Never mind, his mind communicated to his heart, albeit rather disdainfully, because Izuku had impulsively decided to do away with the very notion of even considering such a far-fetched thing. Izuku lightly hit himself on the head in a placated manner, chastising himself for his cowardice and then pondering the matter again, ruminating over the matter for a long bit even though he'd just prohibited himself from doing so less than a minute ago.

On the first day of July, Izuku Midoriya will tell her he likes her.

Izuku rapidly scribbled the newest edit over his original proposition in the broad strokes of his trademark felt-tipped pen, its inky-black marks having graced his notebook's pages for as long as he could remember. On the previous page was All Might's autograph, scrawled in dramatic fashion in accordance with his- well, mighty- persona, and Izuku mustered a faint smile at the thought of that fateful day on what seemed so long ago. A whirlwind of things had happened since then, and while his life's events were admittedly chaotic, he found himself overcome with genuine appreciation as his first year's events overtook him in a sweeping reverie. He'd met so many people he admired- whether it was the explosive Bakugo, solemn-faced Todoroki, straight-mannered Lida, or-

His brow furrowed now, Izuku circled "will" in big bold swirling circles that made his daunting task quite excessively clear. He then proceeded to adorn the sentence with a host of messily executed exclamation marks, his fervor becoming apparent in the felt tip's repeated assault against the paper, more violent each time, dedicatedly barraging it to the point of nearly tearing rips through it.

!!!!!! On the first day of July, Izuku Midoriya !!! WILL !!! tell her he likes her !!!!!!!

Izuku holstered his pen in a satisfied kind of way, finally content with the results of his endless rumination. It didn't seem to matter what topic his mind wanted to gambol around with; time upon time again, his mind's inner workings seemed to converge on a singular object, sometimes a word, a phrase, an eye-appealing visual, or simply a nice sentiment- Ochaco Uraraka. Even when it was the most arbitrary matter- letting his mind rest upon the prospect of becoming a pro hero, for example, growing to embody his personal hero All Might, his mind would slowly, yet ever-so-surely, re-orient itself- after he accomplished his goal of becoming the number-one hero, what would his life entail? Would he have a family, akin to the hot-tempered Bakugo household- Midoriya crinkled his eyes softly at the thought, finding it laughable he would ever emulate his polar opposite- or his own mother?

Izuku found small pools congregating in the corners of his large green eyes as he thought of his mother. Her stringent dedication to his well-being, her constant worrying over his sudden forays into the great world of heroism, her tears shed on his behalf- paralleling his eyes' burgeoning rivers that now threatened to burst. Izuku's tears suddenly hushed as his mother's love reminded him of someone else in his life, the only person he really knew who he could fathom of having those same feelings, with that same depth, in his future- Uraraka.

His heart swelled fit to burst as his thoughts flooded with Ochaco Uraraka, whose crippling worry for him rivaled his mother's, which made Izuku feel quite guilty as he thought of it. Ochaco, whose sweet face of round cheeks and good-natured features grew crimson many of those innocent moments when they were in each other's company. He would have a marked reaction to her presence, his stomach doing backflips or twisting itself into knots whenever the mere possibility of conversing with her brought itself up in his head. Next was the giddy feeling of happiness he always felt as a result from simply being with her, which teased his mind and threw his heart into overdrive, and finally, a similar reddish tint arriving to call his freckled skin home. She, over time, came to rule his thoughts, small wisps of her image flitting in between every passing measure of time in his over-pressurized head. At that moment he made up his mind, markedly imbuing himself with a strong resolve that on par with his dreams to become a superhero.

"He will tell her," he thought to himself, repeating it like a mantra and drumming it in as if it wasn't already engraved in the stream of thoughts shooting constantly throughout his mind. He'd carefully picked July first, about a month from now, as it was the day their school year drew its curtains to a close, trying to mimic the day they first met. When she'd saved him from a painful trip, inviting the first introductions of that soon-to-be-familiar embarrassing blush to his face, and worming her way into his heart somewhere along the way after that.

He wanted to make it a picturesque moment, a tediously manufactured scene straight out of a western movie where the hero confesses his undying love to his love interest-well, he corrected himself, fellow hero, now that he thought about it. He'd already chosen the spot- a charming stone-paved pathway residing next to a magnificent large reservoir, and picked a time hovering carefully between sunset and nightfall, making sure to manage the balance between the extremes, to give it that rosy feeling he'd only ever seen when he looked up "romantic confession inspiration" on the online forums he'd eagerly stalked years ago for the newest tidbits regarding his favorite heroes- now, it was for relationship advice.

Izuku wasn't going to let his feelings for Ochaco meddle with his quest to become a hero, but even so, it was remarkable at how important she'd become to him; he cherished her, wanting to hold her tight and close in the small moments he was able to steal away when he wasn't in a fever busy training, to see her innocent face beaming back at him when she was happy, to be able to relish that fact as long as humanly possible. But that would never happen if he didn't work up the nerve to tell her.

Stupid, he mused while staring pointedly at the floor. He had fought deadly villains, trained brutally for months, and still couldn't steel his nerves enough to tell a girl he liked her? What would All Might do? No, that didn't make sense. For all he knew, All Might had never had romantic interest in anybody.

He decided to analyze the situation, predict its weaknesses, and formulate his next move, just like when he was in battle.

After some time, he realized the only actual pitfall to his plan was the possibility of her rejecting him. What would he do in that case? "Well, if that happens, I'll... run away and avoid her? No, that's a terrible idea! I could...

I could...

He realized there was no concrete solution to his problem. The only way to go through with it was to plunge himself into the unknown headfirst, and cross his fingers hoping he'd come out with the promise of happiness on the other side. He leaned back in his chair, letting it swivel, and closed his eyes shut. The subject of girls was tiring, which was why he preferred not to think about it if he didn't have to. Strategizing about the enemy was easier compared to figuring out this alien species, not including Mina....

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absence-of-decomposing · 4 years

Text

Demametamort

Have you ever heard of the term Demametamort? If so then this story might make sense to you. If not then please please refrain from looking it up in my personal dictionary and stick around till the end for an explanation. I will now begin his story.

Imagine a light grey sky, like the ones that make rainy days feel emotionless. Then imagine an unofficial road that borders on a cliff. The cliff has a hard drop into the ocean and at that moment a car had been recently met with sharp rocks and the high-pressure water. The water surrounded the tan automobile in waves that hit the skin of investigators like knives.

If you looked around a bit more you could see the face of a boy who had somehow survived the tragedy. As he stood emotionless and highlighted by red and blue he was led to dry off while his 6-year-old body was drenched in saltwater. His dark hair and green eyes accompanied by a police officer to the ambulance where most adults looked in awe at how torn up this child was, frantically moving to apply pressure in the right spots. No one could explain how he could have survived the impact and sharp rocks; if that didn't do him in the water would have. This is a prime moment we can look at as an example of how things always worked out in his favor, as long as he didn't bring attention to it he could avoid any consequence.

The most shocking part, however, took its place in the unphased attitude of the child. Every adult at the scene was shocked he survived, shocked his parents had dragged him along for their suicide, shocked. Shock is what defined the atmosphere so they wrote off Luca’s behavior as him being in shock.

Little did they know this boy genuinely didn't care. His parents were scared of him but he didn't know why so why should he care? All he did was draw on the walls. Sure it was with the neighbor’s pet mouse but no one seemed to miss it after he stole it at the end of his playdate with their 13-year-old daughter. They just got a new one. And sure, his babysitter didn't know he stole it but to him, the rodent would be much more useful being used as paint than in a cage where it sat in its own mess and made squeaking noises.

Apparently, this was the last straw. His parents started to talk about how they “couldn't do this anymore!” and “At least it's not as bad as when he was 3.”. Luca doesn't remember what other things he's done but no punishment made his actions not worth it so he had little memory of anything that was deemed “bad”. His parents tried to punish him for his behavior they really did, but it was hard to punish him when he stopped showing his “art” to them. In the end, they considered getting Luca into therapy but this had his mother and father worried about being judged as parents so, in the minds of a couple of parents whose will was stretched too thin, suicide would probably sound like the only option. They loved their son so maybe that's why they brought him with, or maybe it was an attempt at stopping his actions.

If we move on to the next event of his life you'd see a hospital room with white walls and a small window, where he stayed for a couple of weeks until a caseworker came to situate him into a foster home. You'd see his emerald eyes opening in the hospital bed and his small feet moving to pack up his pencils and toys before his hands where being held on either end by a perfect cookie-cutter family. You'd then see him staying in that home for many more years because the Bander family took a liking to his obedient behavior and witty humor, and as Luca grew in this privileged household he learned to accommodate to people's expectations because that meant he could keep practicing his illegal passions without losing the attention he received from others. The same kid who played football in high school was watching people bid on body parts on the dark web. The same kid who laughed and teased his friends about being stupid compared to his straight A’s was the same kid who was planning to kidnap a few of those same friends and turn their beings into soulless sculptures. He was pleased with how smoothly his plan worked, how the laws of not just humans but of karma has never touched him. He reveled in how simple everything was and how godlike he was compared to his peers who were always facing a misfortune and getting dragged for their underage drinking or for harassing a girl at school. It was when he made his first kidnapping, one so obviously tied to him that it would hurt the observing eye. That is if eyes were ever on him, despite the girl nailed to the walls of his basement being his girlfriend, no one ever questioned him. That is when he realized he was different, god must not know he exists. He's a ghost among men and as visible to every eye as he was not there. I think this is when he rationalized the idea of, “If God doesn't know I exist, then neither does death. Right?”

Today Luca is a couple of years out of high school, he lives in a studio apartment while on a break from college and has a body count of 7 and his work has been all over the news. As he sat on a leather couch and toyed with the volume of his Tv his frustrations grew and grew.

“Stop ignoring my work! It took me ages to make that!” He whines in frustration to no one in particular as the screen flashed images of his sculpture made of a female body whose bones were exposed due to the skin and muscle being nailed apart like a dissected frog. It zoomed into the bone where he was mastered the art of carving into. After cleaning the bones and draining the blood of the body out, he drills away to create designs so beautiful it could be compared to Chinese ivory or jade sculptures. Beautiful waves of the sea that represented the girls' love for surfing, a few animals like tigers and rabbits also danced along the streams of her life. It was truly beautiful despite its canvas. Lucas carefully tanned skin started to shift over to the arm of the leather couch before placing his hand down for support and standing. He began to pace around, mumbling incoherently. He then made his way to a laptop that was propped up on the counter of a kitchenette.

“I will make them see, they will worship me. People have begged for this! They loved being used, they cried in joy when the found out they had been chosen by ME!” he claimed. His shadowy whispers did hold some truth however, a few victims had fallen victim to love him and would do anything for his approval.

However, Lucas fetish for attention was currently driving him mad as his fingers type away at the obsidian keys and made the finishing touches on a public Instagram. He began to upload image after image with his name and face next to countless bodies and gore that he had only ever shown in private forums. The next morning he woke up outrage on his phone and in the news. He had missed calls from his family and friends and he just smiled in glee as he picked up the phone and called his mom back.

He expected to be greeted with admiration like the last girl he carved but in his delusional mind that was realistic, I guess. He was greeted with screams and tears.

“Luca why! Tell me this isn't true? This is someone else framing you right baby?” she said with obvious distress.

“Mama I just made another sculpture, it's not a big deal.” He said, confused at her reaction.

“They have feelings, Luca! FEELINGS! And I am not your mom anymore. I'm calling the cops.” she said shakily before hanging up.

Luca didn't think she was being serious, I mean she knew he that would affect him, right? He put on his apron and gloves and had just picked up the head of a dog he had recently started to work on as a side project when a loud, sharp knock was made from outside his apartment. With head still in hand, he opens the door only to be tackled down by police forces and dragged outside in cuffs. Bright rays of light burned into his eyes as he yelled and laughed. His confusion apparent and his resistance futile. He had dropped the dog's head in the process and suddenly he began to cry out.

“Get off me! Its what they wanted! You know you can't kill me right?” he laughed. This was met by a shaky voice.

A woman was standing in the crowd with puffy eyes and sagging skin. Her auburn hair mirrored that of his last victim, and she held a gun. Without a moment's hesitation, she said,

“Want to bet?” before her shaky hands released the firm hold on the gun to pull the trigger.

Lucas's life didn't flash before his eyes. His life didn't matter much to him but when he fell to the ground he looked at his reflection in the pooling blood coming from his throat. He recognized the look on his face and that similar to those when he was 6. He recognized shock and fear in his face before he was put into the black void of death.

Crippling and quiet black and was like white sound in a realm with no structure. No walls or floor yet his non-responding conscious was suspended in it. Time did not exist and although empty it was not peaceful. It wasn't a place that provided a feeling of tranquility nor did it scare. It was completely empty. That was until Luca's vision reappeared through opening slits. He could suddenly see a different and darker black, his hands could suddenly feel silky cushion on his hands and his mind was suddenly able to register these things. He was awake, but was he? How could one tell when he all he could see was darkness and the smell of wet soil encased his nose. One would have to define being alive and being dead, what requirements are there to be considered living? Is it the ability to crave and breathe air? To need it? Because Luca definitely craved air but no matter how much he gasped there was no oxygen to fill his lungs. Wheezing was barely possible and when his fingers moved to touch the scabbed hole in his throat, it explained why. Gasp after gasp he was brought back to nothingness and his suffocation was over. Until it wasn't.

He woke again and the events repeated.

Again.

And again.

So, do you think you can guess what a “Demametamort” is? If not I will let you in on it.

A Demametamort is someone who believes they are above, beyond, or better than death. They don't think they can die or can change death. And sometimes they can.

#oc #creative writing #new word #imaginary word

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ibroughtanarsenal · 4 years

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FLASHBACK: FIRST MEETING

WHEN: November 2019

WHERE: Life Recovery Center

WHY: Jason goes to see Roy for the first time in three years.

WHO: @thatsjasonfkntodd @ibroughtanarsenal

Jason: Jason had kept himself busy since practically the second he’d broken things off with Roy, whether it was the day after, a week later, or two years. He’d given neither of them so much as a moment to second guess it. Roy hadn’t had a chance to stop him and, as always, Jason did not allow himself to stop it or take it back. So when it was done it was done.

He’d heard through the grapevine of things that Roy had gone to Gotham, which Jason had avoided like the plague for a whole host of reasons. Roy being there had just been one more to add to the list. By the time he had gone back, Dick and Roy were already in Star City, so then he’d avoided that for awhile, too. A gun to his head wouldn’t have made him admit the reason in so many words. He would’ve said he went where the work was, and that was even partially true. His family and Roy in the same place had been more than enough to keep him away, though.

A few months ticked by. Whether it was purposeful or not, Dick dropped the info that Roy was a counselor in a rehab center. Even Jason struggled to tell when his rambling was only rambling and when he meant for someone to get something from it. It was an incredibly irritating technique. Either way, he still sat on the knowledge for a few months. Bruce dropping the bottom out of everything by revealing his identity had been a distraction, but that had partially worn off by the holidays.

Whether it was coincidence or his mind trailing back to it subconsciously, Jason found himself standing in front of the little rehab center late one night. He’d gone half his usual route as Red Hood and come up empty handed enough to get bored. He couldn’t turned over some stones or spent the night fucking with NOVA, but...he walked in the front door of the center instead. He’d dumped his gear and his mask already, so it was just Jason, a pair of jeans, and a hoodie pulled up around his face. Roy: Roy wasn’t the type to dwell. He never thought he was, anyway, even though the past had a nasty habit of catching up to him when he least expected it. That was what repression was all about, right? All those god damn buzzwords were always in his brain. Sometimes he hated adopting the vernacular that sounded rehearsed coming from the wrong people. That was part of what attracted him to this job. He could relate to the kids and wayward adults who saw through the bullshit. Most of them were just over it.

The news that Jason was in Star City hit him hard. He didn’t let it show, not with Dick staring at him like he was waiting to fetch some smelling salts, and he made an offhand, sarcastic comment he couldn’t even remember now. They hadn’t talked about it since. He pushed the conversation from his mind and tried to forget about it completely. He didn’t know why Dick had to tell him in the first place, or what good it would do, and the memory came to him inconveniently throughout the day or - sometimes - in the middle of the night. He didn’t know exactly how he felt about it, but whatever the feeling was left him sitting on his fire escape nursing vodka hidden in a Dasani bottle just in case Dick or Bruce were lurking on a nearby rooftop.

At least he had his job. He liked it, for the most part, even though he was always the first one out the door when it was time to leave. Not that he had anywhere to be, but by the time his day was over he was sick of hearing people talk. He wanted silence. He wanted his quiet apartment with its peeling paint and the bolted door. There were demons there, but they were safe ones. He could handle them.

Today was different. He got wrapped up in a session - and afterward, he couldn’t get the kid out of his head. Once he started researching his background, he ended up in a veritable rabbit hole. There was too much information to wade through and he was fascinated by all of it. When he finally stopped to look at the clock, he was shocked to see that it was almost seven.

Sighing, he reluctantly turned off his computer and picked up his jacket, fishing his keys out of the pocket as he made his way to the front of the building. It was quiet; he had a vague recollection of Nancy (Norma?) telling him he would have to lock up.

He didn’t even see Jason at first, preoccupied with figuring out which key locked the door (because fuck, who chose to work late when they didn’t have to?) and by the time Roy looked up and saw him, he started so violently that the keys practically flew from his hand and slid across the floor. “Jesus Christ! …Jay? What the fuck? I thought I was about to get mugged.”

Jason: He hadn’t checked the hours of the place. There had been a light on and he hadn’t had to break in to get inside, so if it was out of the norm for Roy (or anyone) to be there, he didn’t notice. The reaction he got did make him smirk, though, and as soon as the keys hit the floor he caught the corner of one with his boot and flipped the set up into the air to catch them.

With his free hand, he reached up to pull his hood down. The shock of white hair right in the front of all the black was still there. “When’d you get so jumpy? If I was mugging you, did you think squealing would stop me?” Roy: “You’re an ass.” Roy snatched the keys from Jason’s hand and gestured at the hood, as if that were enough to explain his reaction. “But I'm afraid we don’t offer rehabilitation for that.” He was kidding, sort of. It was easier than letting the reality of the situation sink in. Even though Jason had been on his mind frequently, he didn’t expect to see him standing there, right in front of him, and it shook him up more than he cared to admit. He hated how obvious it was.

Exhaling softly, he leaned past him to bolt the door so they were locked in. The center closed an hour ago. Norma (it wasn’t Nancy, he was pretty sure of it now) would be pissed if she knew he didn’t close on time. “Didn’t expect to see you any time soon.”

Jason: “First step to recovery is admitting you’ve got a problem, and I don’t recall confessing to any of that.” It would’ve been easy enough to just stage some kind of stupid run in on the street, probably in broad daylight. Roy was far from stupid, but he didn’t tail people like Jason (or anyone who’d ever worked with Batman) did. He could’ve followed him and made it look natural. That had seemed more dumb and contrived than just giving in and walking into the rehab center.

Jason shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans like he was creating some invisible bubble of space around himself that he both wouldn’t leave and wouldn’t invite anyone else into. “Any time soon? Did I get hit in the head again or has it not been almost three years?” He got the feeling that Roy didn’t need reminding of that anymore than he did.

Roy: Roy chuckled dryly and leaned against the door, crossing his arms over his chest. “Well, here’s your chance and I’m your priest. That’s why people come to places like this.” Not that the steps ever worked for him. He had to figure out his own combination of therapy and medication. Even that was still a work in progress. On the outside he was a hell of a lot better than he’d ever been, but he wasn’t cured.

Three years. Had it been that long? Frowning, he shook his head slightly, but then stopped himself as he thought about the series of events that followed their separation. Time passed differently before he got back into rehab. He lost months of his life. There was a whole summer he couldn’t remember, other blank spots in his memory, and the alarming thing was that it wasn’t alarming. “Yeah,” he finally said. “Funny. Doesn’t seem like that long to me.”

Jason: “Father Harper. That creeps me out even as a joke. Black never was a good look for you anyway.” Now that he was there in front of him, he wasn’t sure why. If Roy asked him, did he have an explanation? If it was only to know that he was alright, he could’ve asked Dick. Hell, he could’ve just followed him long enough to see.

Jason moved to lean his back against the cool wall. The place smelled like some kind of cheap cleaner someone had used on the floors. “Yeah...me either,” he admitted. Probably because he hadn’t stopped for the entirety of it.

Roy: “Don’t… don’t ever say that again.” The banter made it easy for Roy to put off the inevitable question, even though he did want to know why Jason was there. He assumed it was to check in on him, some sort of misplaced guilt or obligation, maybe to make sure the result of his tough love hadn’t crippled him or something. Not that he would expect Jason to admit he was there because he was worried about him or anything.

And maybe in the past he would have given him that space, avoided putting him on the spot or making him uncomfortable, but he wasn’t going to stand here and guess what Jason’s motivations were. He would probably be wrong anyway. “Why are you here? Why now? Dick told me months ago you were in town."

Jason: “Of course he did. Dick can’t keep his mouth shut about anything ever.” Except pretending to be dead. He’d been real hush hush about that. Either way, Dick was of course the reason he’d known that Roy was there, too, and exactly how to find him. He was more sure by the second that was on purpose.

Jason turned his head and looked back out the glass part of the door. The street in front of it was dead and didn’t offer one single distraction. “I was in the neighborhood.”

Roy: “You were not.” Roy wasn’t an idiot. He knew Jason knew he wasn’t an idiot. He also knew Jason better than to think his nonchalant attitude was 100% genuine 100% of the time. It didn’t mean he was going to get a straight answer, though, and he kicked his heel against the doorframe, gripping his keys in the palm of his hand.

It wasn’t right that Jason could waltz in like this and here he was, like some lost puppy dog, hanging on his every word. “Why do you gotta be so…” He trailed, gritting his teeth.

Jason: “Charming? Talented? Disarmingly handsome?” An asshole. Roy was trying to ask him why he had to be such an asshole, he was sure. If Jason had an answer for that buried somewhere in his head, he didn’t reach for it. Instead, he pulled his hands out of the pockets of his jeans and lifted them both briefly into the air before letting them drop. “It’s been three years, man. You can tell me to get out if you want to. I just wanted to see you.” He wouldn’t have even taken it that far for many people. Hell, even his family wouldn’t have got that straight of an answer most of the time. Jason didn’t want to be told to leave.

Roy: The words were disarmingly close to the actual words in his head that Roy had to laugh. “Exactly. So first off, fuck you for that. I didn’t even brush my hair this morning. I probably look like a muppet.” He wasn’t going to tell him to leave. There was a reason he was leaning against the door, subconscious as it was, and the fact that Jason had given him an answer at all was enough for him to relax and release some of the tension he didn’t even know he was holding onto. It was simple, but it was enough. “I’m not going to kick you out, dude. I missed you. I wanted to see you, I just didn’t know what to say. You made a choice and I was trying to respect it, you know? That’s something they taught me about. Respecting boundaries and all that.” Jason: “You’ve got that Elmo look going on.” Despite Jason’s continued insistence that he needed no one, not family, not friends, not partners, he always seemed to find them. Or they found him. Either way, Jason Todd, loner extraordinaire, was rarely anymore alone than Bruce was. A lot of that had been on Roy, who had adamantly refused to let him be. He’d been fucking annoying about it, even, until Jason had relented. For awhile he’d been better for it, but he hadn’t been selfish enough to put that first.

“I didn’t set the boundaries for me.” And, frankly, he hadn’t wanted Roy to come find him and talk to him first, because it would’ve meant that it hadn’t worked. Roy: It took every ounce of self control for Roy not to reach up to fix his hair. He could already imagine what it looked like. He threw on his clothes that morning in under ten minutes. If he knew this would be a day much different from all the other days that just bled together, he would have gone about it differently. It didn’t help that he slept through his lunch break to catch up on a restless night, either. Shitty break. Jason’s timing was never on point.

“Maybe not. But it wasn’t good for you either, being around me while I was like that, so…” Roy spread his hands, then realized he was still holding the keys and he slipped them into his pocket with a sigh. “It was the right thing.” Jason: Jason hadn’t needed the validation, necessarily. He’d remained sure that breaking things off with Roy in both a personal and ‘professional’ sense had been the right call. It had sent him running to Dick, apparently, and Dick was...better suited for it. Taking care of people. His path, Bruce’s path, wasn’t the one for Jason. It never would be. But just because he’d made that decision didn’t mean he’d intended to drag Roy down even further than he’d already been naturally inclined to go. Drugs and drinking were one thing, but killing? Jason’s brand of justice? That was a different ballgame.

“It did something. You’re here,” Jason nodded down the empty hall. “Helping people. I assume.” Roy: Even though Roy wondered about what Jason was doing from time to time, it wasn’t as if either of them led conventional lives. They couldn’t exactly stalk each other on Facebook or get information through mutual friends. Dick was the closest thing to that and Roy knew his relationship with Jason was complicated.

But he also didn’t want to know. Moving out to Star City was an effort to start fresh, a new life, and carve out a path of his own. For now he wasn’t bound to the Justice League even though Dick had already approached the subject once or twice. Roy missed working with a team, but he also didn’t trust himself not to get someone killed. The stakes seemed too high this time.

“Yeah. I try, anyway. Every city needs a place like this.” Whether or not he was successful was another story. “What about you? You’re here, too.” Jason: “Looks like I am. I hadn’t planned on sticking around this long, but I wasn’t planning on Bruce blowing the cover he kept for fucking ever, either.” And for Joker. Of course that’s how it had happened. It made it that much worse.

He swept a hand back through his hair and stood up straight in a restless kind of way. Now that he was there and talking to him, he had no idea what he wanted out of Roy. They couldn’t just slip back into something. He’d wanted to know that he was alright, that he was...what? Moved on? That didn’t seem like it, exactly. “So this is what you’re doing now? Talk therapy?” Roy: Bruce’s identity becoming public was definitely a surprise. It changed the dynamics of the Justice League. Dick’s identity was pretty much public knowledge, along with the rest of the Robins (Jason's included), and it was something to take into account going forward. He had no idea what Bruce had planned and he didn’t think to ask. Ollie hadn’t made an appearance in Star City; Roy had no idea what Ollie was doing or where he was, actually, and he had no real need to reach out. He knew better than to rely on anyone as a support system. Even Dick, supportive as he’d been, couldn’t shoulder that burden for him. He had to rely on himself. It was something he was still learning how to do. Maybe that was part of the whole solo thing.

“Yep. What can I say? I need a day job.” He did his own thing at night. Sometimes he crossed paths with the others, but he mainly kept to himself. It was easier that way. When he didn’t feel like going out he had no obligations to fulfill and no one to disappoint. “Pretty dull, compared to what you’ve got going on. Work. Home. Bed. Patrol, when I feel like it. Does that put you at ease?” Jason: The last part of the answer surprised him. He’d assumed, maybe naively, that Roy had hung up Arsenal with the ban. Jason didn’t know if the Titans were still active, but if they were Dick hadn’t been running with them and he figured Roy hadn’t either. But he also hadn’t asked. “You’re going on patrol?” He didn’t answer Roy’s question. Roy: Roy shrugged. “Here and there.” It felt wrong to do nothing. To watch and to nothing. It was one thing to help at the rehabilitation center, but it was only one side of a much larger problem. “Solo,” he added, as if it were an afterthought. “I’m not with the Titans or the Justice League. I know they’re reforming.” He hadn’t decided how much he wanted to be involved yet, if he wanted this to be his life again, or if it would be better for him to walk away. It was hard to imagine doing the latter now that he was face to face with Jason - knowing that Jason wouldn’t be leaving Star City despite his association (or lack thereof) with his family. Jason: “I guess we’ve not been covering the same ground.” Jason didn’t deal with the same kinds of things he figured Roy did, though. Red Hood was still Red Hood. He had some nights of making life hell for NOVA, but mostly he focused on other things. A trafficking ring had been what brought him to the city, after all. “You must be keeping your hands pretty clean.” Roy: “Guess not. I’ve been discreet.” That is, Roy had been careful. Before they separated, he was heading down a dark path. He didn’t want to think about where it was leading him or what could have happened had he stayed on that trajectory. Going back on patrol with a clear head and with a new set of priorities made him much more levelheaded and logical about how he handled situations. He wasn’t violent unless there there was no other option. He grinned, but there was a humorless quality to it. “You probably won’t even notice I’m there.” He took the keys from his pocket and finally unlocked the door, kicking it open with the side of his sneaker, but he didn’t move out of the way. Jason: Jason wasn’t sure whether he was meant to take that as a time to go or what Roy intended for him to do. But he’d got what he came for, right? He’d seen him. He knew what he was up to, kind of. Roy, in kind, knew he was there in a more tangible way than just hearing Dick say so. He turned his back on the empty hall and walked over toward the door. “I dunno about that.” Roy: “Please. Everyone knows when Red Hood’s in the neighborhood. Can’t go into a bar and not hear about it. You got ‘em all hiding out like you’re their personal executioner.” Roy’s foot was in the door, holding it open a few inches, but he was still standing against it. He smirked faintly and shifted his stance as Jason approached the door, as if he realized he was blocking his way out, but the move allowed only the barest minimum of space possible for him to inch past. “Your head’s gonna get too big for your helmet, Jaybird.” Jason: “Depending on the situation, maybe I am.” Jason didn’t hand out death certificates every single time. Every job he took didn’t end in a pile of bodies. But if somebody deserved to die, if the world would be better off if they weren’t in it anymore, he took care of it. If anyone was stupid enough to really try to stop him, he sent his target off with some company.

Jason started to move past Roy and out the door, but he stopped himself when he was right in front of him. There was an intensity that he always had that, while different, almost matched Bruce’s but sat somewhere else on the spectrum. He had it as he looked at Roy right then. “If I wanted to find you again, is this the place to do it?” Roy: The no killing rule was an unspoken understanding between the Titans and on the Justice League. It never had to be communicated. They were the good guys and good guys didn’t kill. Roy always considered Jason a good guy, even when he broke the rules - but at this point in his life he knew that not even the strongest held beliefs could hold fast in certain circumstances. He didn’t regret what he did despite what followed and the trouble it brought him. It was justice. Maybe that was what kept him from jumping at the chance to be on a team. He wasn’t sure if he could adhere to the strong principles that held them together. There was always the possibility there, at least. He knew what he was capable of.

“Here?” Roy raised his eyebrows, his fingers curling over the doorknob as he forced himself to stay put even when Jason fixed him with that stare of his. It almost made him mad that so much time could pass (supposedly - he’d have to take his word for it), but he could still be transfixed by something so simple, something that everyone in that family seemed to possess in some broody form. “In an open doorway? I doubt it. But hey, maybe you’ll get lucky.” Jason: Roy didn’t owe him a straight answer. Roy didn’t owe him fuck all, actually, and if he’d been the kind of person that Jason was (which he never had been) he would’ve told him to get out as soon as he saw him that night. “You wanna tell me a specific doorway?” Roy: Even though Roy had always been a straight shooter, he had his own reasons for being guarded. Jason already walked away from him once. He didn’t hold it against him and things were different now, but that didn’t mean Jason wanted things to go back to what they were before. “Mine. I’m off Eighth and Park, at the Cascades. Apartment 708. Believe it or not, I don’t like to hang out at work.” Jason: “Still like Thai food?” Whether it was a product of all that time with Bruce or just that his mind had refused to dump the information, Jason still remembered what Roy used to order. Roy: “Yeah.” The mention jarred a memory and Roy frowned, but it wasn’t actually a bad one. There was something comforting about it. Familiar. Not much about his life felt like that when he looked back. “Yeah. That sounds good.” Jason: Jason slipped past him the rest out the door and stood in the fresh air for a second. He seemed to be considering whether or not to say something else, but after a beat he just settled on, “See you around.” Roy: Roy finally let the door close once Jason was outside. He locked it, nodding. “Yeah. See you.” He still had to lock the side door, so he gave a casual over-the-shoulder wave, as if the certainty of their next meeting weren’t even in question.

#c: thatsjasonfkntodd #jason todd #roy harper

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today-only-happens-once · 6 years

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Tight Spaces and Brave Faces

Title: Tight Spaces and Brave Faces

Word Count: 5141

Summary: For as long as they’ve all known him, Patton Foster has had crippling claustrophobia. One night at a cast party brings that all bubbling back to the surface, and Virgil can’t get the door open. College AU. Platonic Moxiety, platonic LAMP/CALM.

Warnings: hurt/comfort, some angst, claustrophobia, being trapped in a small space, descriptions of crowds and tight spaces (specifically closets), alcohol mention, panic attack (mostly off-screen), cursing, spoilers for Heathers the Musical, feelings of guilt, a bit of fluff towards the end, please let me know if I forgot anything.

A/N: Been a while, yeah? Thank you to everyone who was so kind and patient with me during my writing hiatus. The hiatus was… needed and helpful, although I only hope this fic makes up for the lack of writing content the past few weeks. I’ve never written a focus on the Moxiety dynamic for a one-shot before. The rough draft was extra rough and this had to go through some major revisions… I hope this turned out okay. Nervous to post, but when am I not? <3

…

The lobby of the performing arts center is packed as the theater spills out into the tiled space. Excited voices bounce off the marble pillars with words of congratulations and greetings. Virgil Shea stands at the far outskirts of the thickening crowd, pressing against the wall to create as much space from the sea of bodies as he can. His roommate, Patton Foster, is already pressed flat against the wall.

His smile is a bit stiff as his gaze scans the crowd for their roommate, Roman Prince. Their fourth roommate, Logan Sanders, stands with his arms crossed on the other side of Patton. Virgil frowns at the way Patton seems to be trying to melt into the wall, even though he understands. For as long as Virgil has known him, Patton has struggled with debilitating claustrophobia. It was worse when it was small, cramped spaces, but crowds could sometimes be hard for him to handle too.

Virgil spots the spiral staircase, noting that the swarm of people that had been working their way down it after the curtain had mostly thinned out by now. He nudges Patton beside him. “I’m gonna head over there. See if I can’t spot Roman from further up.”

Patton follows his gaze, and a note of relief floods his eyes at the lack of a crowd in that part of the room. “I’ll come too!”

At Logan’s quizzical look, Virgil jerks his head towards the stairs, and the three of them skirt the outside of the crowd and make their way through the lobby. The red carpeting does little to absorb the sound of cast members chatting excitedly with their friends and family that had attended the opening night production of Heathers The Musical!

As the three of them head up the steps—stopping about half-way to lean over the railing and scan the crowd for their roommate—Virgil hears Patton take in a deep breath.

“I may not entirely understand theatre,” Logan says suddenly, “but seeing Roman perform a role so unlike his usual demeanor was certainly interesting.”

Virgil watches the people milling around below them. Some of the girls in the cast are handed flower bouquets. People are exchanging hugs, cast members laugh loudly with eyes bright from the flood of post-show adrenaline. Virgil may have stopped getting involved in theater after high school, but he’s glad that Roman didn’t. Though he’d never tell his roommate, Virgil knows that Roman is talented and works hard at it.

“He was so good!” Patton adds, nodding in agreement. “His whole performance was just… J-D-lightful.” He laughs as Logan groans.

Virgil smirks at the pun. “Always knew Princey had a dark side.”

“Don’t worry,” chimes a new, familiar voice coming up the stairs behind them. “You’re still the Emo Nightmare of the group.”

All three of them turn as Roman jogs up the stairs towards them. The dark clothes and slicked back hair looks suddenly odd on the young actor, if only because the brightness of his smile and revitalized energy in his eyes has turned him back into Roman, not J.D anymore. His stage make-up that had looked edgy and dangerous on him while on stage looks thick and dramatic up close. He’s got a fake blood streak down his temple starting somewhere up in his hairline.

“Roman!” Patton gushes, giving is roommate a hug. “You were amazing! I was actually a little scared of you when you killed Kurt. It felt so real.”

Roman grabs hold of the railing on the stairs to keep his balance as he hugs his roommate back. When they separate, Roman gives a dramatic bow. “You’re too kind, Patton.”

“I don’t know about that, Patton,” Virgil quips. “Roman Prince being straight? Unrealistic.”

Roman holds a hand to his chest. “I’ll admit, ‘Dead Girl Walking’ is always an exercise of my greatest acting ability…” Roman trails off, then smiles with a note of uncertainty. “But really. Did you guys like it?”

Logan inclines his head. “The performance was adequate.” Roman rolls his eyes with a sense of affection.

“Not that you need the ego boost,” Virgil says when Roman looks at him, “but yeah. It was really good, Roman.”

Roman beams.

“Actually,” Logan says, adjusting the frame of his glasses, “I was hoping to ask you about the technical design of—“

“Roman?”

Roman turns at the sound of his name being accompanied by someone ascending the staircase. The girl that Virgil recognizes as having played opposite Roman as Veronica stops a few steps below the four of them. She’s got a soft, warm smile that—not unlike Roman’s transformation—seems somehow to be such a stark contrast to her character they’d just seen on stage. Her dark hair is mussed, her own stage blood streaking her left cheek. She smiles brightly.

She offers Roman a hug, and the young actor accepts it warmly. “Nicole, you were exquisite as always.”

She smiles. “You kidding? You brought the house to its feet when you came out at the end!”

“Funny,” Roman says, “I got a very different reaction when I came out in high school.” Virgil snorts.

Nicole rolls her eyes before her gaze falls on the three of them standing on the stairs behind Roman. “Oh! Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”

“Don’t worry about it, kiddo,” Patton jumps in. “You were amazing!” Nicole seems briefly startled at the enthusiasm, but her smile is sincere and Virgil swears he sees a faint blush underneath her thick layer of makeup.

Roman laughs and sweeps an arm up the staircase in a grand gesture. “Nicole, these are my roommates. Patton, Logan, and Virgil.”

Virgil nods a greeting as Logan chimes, “Salutations.”

“It’s great to meet you guys,” Nicole replies. A second later, her face lights up with an idea. “You all should come to the cast party tonight! Alex is hosting it at the music frat house. It’s supposed to be a ton of fun. I don’t know everyone who will be there, but the more the merrier, right?”

“We’ll be there,” Roman answers immediately for the four of them. Virgil shoots an exasperated look at the back of his head. Did Romano really just sign us up for a party?

“Great! I’ll see you guys there, then!” Nicole waves and hurries back down the spiral staircase.

When Roman turns back around and sees the dry look Virgil is giving him, he waves a hand. “Don’t give me that, Sweeney Toddler. It’ll be fun!”

…

The music frat house is jammed with people.

Virgil shoulders his way through the bodies pressing against one another in the living room as a rap song blares from the big speakers in the corner. Colored lights are projected in changing patterns on the walls and ceiling of the room. The air is hot and thick with the scent of sweat and beer. When the song hits the bass drop, Virgil feels the floor beneath his feet vibrate.

The whole thing sets his nerves on edge. It doesn’t help that he has this weird feeling in his stomach that something is distinctly wrong. A part of him wants to leave, and given how crowded the house is, he wonders if maybe Patton would want to come with him. Their apartment building was only a few blocks away anyway.

Virgil makes his way to the far end of the room, doing his best to avoid the drinks sloshing over the rim of the solo cups as they jumped and danced to the music. He sees Roman sitting on the sofa, chatting with a member of the tech crew. Virgil recognizes them as someone he’d had freshman year history with; Elliot, Virgil thinks the name is. Roman’s face brightens when Virgil breaks through the crowd in front of him.

“Hey, Virge!” he shouts, either still running off the post-show high or simply to be heard over all the noise. The graphic design major isn’t sure which.

“Have you seen Patton?” Virgil asks, unable to ignore the squirming in his gut.

Roman seems to see it in his face, too, because his brows pull together in concern. He straightens up slightly, his gaze scanning the crowd of people. He shakes his head as he looks back at Virgil. “I just saw him like, ten minutes ago. He said something about finding the bathroom.” He looks back at Elliot. “Hang on,” he says to them. “I’ll be right back.”

Roman gracefully jumps up from his perch on the arm of the sofa and starts making his way through the house. He ducks into the small dining room that had—intentionally or not—been turned into an overflow space of dancers. Couples lined the walls, heads ducked towards one another in flirty conversation. Two girls giggle as one kisses the other’s nose. Another couple is kissing sloppily in the corner and Virgil quickly averts his gaze.

He follows Roman through the entryway at the far end of the room, down the tight hallway, to the staircase that led up to the second floor of the house. Logan stands at the foot of it by the railing, chatting idly with some people that Virgil distantly recognized as being part of the pit orchestra and production team.

“Hey. Specs.” Roman claps a hand on Logan’s shoulder as he comes up from behind him. Logan’s cool brown gaze flashes up in annoyance before turning to confusion at seeing Roman and Virgil.

The sense of urgency is ballooning slowly in Virgil’s chest, getting harder for him to ignore even though he can’t exactly pinpoint why. “Have you seen Patton?” he asks before Logan can respond.

Logan meets Virgil’s gaze. “I did see him go upstairs, although that was several minutes ago. A few other students are up there as well.”

Something doesn’t feel right. It’s a vague weight over his head that Virgil can’t shake for the life of him. He brushes past Logan and takes the stairs two at a time. He hears Roman say his name before two sets of footsteps following up the stairs behind him.

The hallway at the top of the stairs is tight and dark and the floor creaks beneath him. All of the doors are closed except for the one just slightly to the right of the staircase. The door is open, the light is on; it’s the bathroom. Patton is nowhere to be found.

There are a few guys further down the hall crowded around a door on the left. It’s a slightly smaller door, probably to a closet of some sort. One of them jiggles the handle before snorting in laughter. He slaps his friend’s shoulder. “Dude, dude, dude,” he says between laughter, “I think he jammed it. Guess he’s not getting out now.”

Roman reaches the top of the stairs as Virgil’s mind starts racing. “Hey, man,” Roman calls out to them, oblivious to their conversation or the way Virgil pales beside him. “You didn’t see my roommate come up here, did you?”

“Who’s your roommate?” one of them asks. “Wait, the weird guy in the blue polo?”

Virgil’s hands twitch into fists at his sides. “Tell me you didn’t…”

The one closest to Virgil rolls his eyes and scoffs. “Learn to take a joke, man—“

“Is he in there?” Virgil demands, his sharp gaze startling the other three into silence. When the one in the middle glances at the door and says nothing, Virgil sees red.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Roman demands, crossing the short length of hallway to stand almost nose-to-nose with the one in the middle. Virgil pushes past all of them to get at the door, trying the handle.

It won’t turn. It’s locked, or jammed or… Virgil knocks softly on the door. “Patton?” He doesn’t hear anything on the other side and he feels his stomach drop. He tries the handle again, but he can’t turn it. Blindly, Virgil shoves his shoulder into the door with a small thud. “Patton? Can you open the door?”

There’s still no answer. It’s hard to tell whether the heavy beat vibrating the floor from the music below or Virgil’s heart is faster. He jiggles the handle again and shakes the door slightly, trying to force it open. It doesn’t budge.

“Maybe he’s enjoying the seven minutes in heaven by himself,” one of them jokes. Virgil doesn’t turn around, but he’s pretty sure he can hear the smirk in his voice.

“I suggest,” Roman says in a low, dangerous voice, “that you either find a way to get that door open or you don’t let the front one hit you on the way out.” His voice reminds Virgil suddenly of when he’d been J.D from earlier that night.

“Whoa, calm down, man,” one of them says. “Look, we didn’t mean to actually jam the door. That was your guy. He like, totally freaked out when we closed the door on him. We were just messing with him.”

“Evidence suggests that you did more than simply close the door on him,” Logan cuts in. His voice is a lethal, savage calm. “If the door is jammed because our roommate pulled on it, then you likely where holding the door closed on him. Otherwise, opening it would have been no problem. Now, there’s a chance I may be mistaken, but I’ve found that I am rarely incorrect.”

Virgil knocks on the door again. He can feel his heart in his throat. “Patton, can you please try to open the door?” He doesn’t hear the rest of the conversation behind him as he grabs the handle and jiggles the door again. He presses his ear against it, listening for a moment. “Pat, we’re trying to get you out, okay?” The music and crowd noise from downstairs make it hard to tell, but Virgil swears he hears a quiet whimper come from the other side of the door.

He hears rapid footsteps behind him that recede down the stairs. When he glances over his shoulder, only Logan and Roman are left in the hallway.

“I can’t get it open,” he says in a tight voice. He backs up from the door, then throws his weight into it with his shoulder. The impact is jarring, but the door doesn’t budge. “Come on,” he growls under his breath. Can he kick in the door? No, he doesn’t know how to do that. And even if he did, it could easily end up hurting Patton.

“Virgil.”

He pulls back from the door and is about to throw his weight into it again—he has to get through that door—but feels a firm hand grab his shoulder.

“Stop,” Logan says softly but firmly from behind him. “You are more likely to dislocate your shoulder doing that than you are to open the door.”

Virgil roughly shrugs out of Logan’s grip. “Then what do you suggest, Logan?” he snaps. “Patton is in there and I can’t get the door open—“

“Keep him calm,” Logan tells him. “I will find a way to get the door open, but right now you and Roman focus on helping Patton stay calm.”

Virgil looks up into Logan’s steady gaze and takes a breath before nodding. “Okay.” The corner of Logan’s mouth quirks slightly before he nods back and hurries down the stairs.

The graphic design major turns back towards the door and leans his head against it softly. “Patton, if you can hear me, I need you to breathe.” The party downstairs is still too loud for him to really hear if he gets a response. He just hopes that Patton can hear him and is listening. “We’re gonna breathe in for four seconds, okay? Here we go. In…” Virgil counts out loud to four. “Hold for seven seconds.” He counts again. “Now let it out for eight seconds.” When he counts to eight, Virgil swallows and pauses. “Good. We’re gonna do it a few more times, okay? Breathe in for four seconds…”

The dark, cramped hallway creaks as Roman takes a step closer. Virgil walks through the exercise once or twice more. He doesn’t know if it’s actually helping, if Patton can actually hear him, and it kills him a little that he doesn’t know. He feels Roman place a hand on his arm as he steps closer.

“Hey, Patton,” Roman says in an unusually soft voice. “Did I ever tell you about the field behind my house back home?”

Virgil’s glances at Roman, confused. What? He mouths. Roman holds up a hand and mouths back, Trust me. He hesitates a moment, then takes a step back to let Roman get closer to the door.

“It was this huge grass field. In the far distance, you could just barely make out the trees silhouetted on the horizon line. Wildflowers in the spring and summer would coat the field in yellows, reds, and blues that matched the sky above. And the sky out there…” Roman has his eyes closed, looking lost in his own world. “It goes on for miles on a clear day. The brightest sky you’ve ever seen. Don’t even get me started on the sunsets out there. The reds and golds and violets would bleed into one another and reflect off the clouds, endless colors filling the vast sky above you. And since we kind of lived in the middle of nowhere, the night sky was just full of stars. I used to think you could see the farthest corners of the universe out there.”

Roman’s voice is smooth and effortless. Virgil can feel the tension in his shoulders easing just a little bit, and he realizes what Roman is doing. He’s painting a picture of wide, open, colorful spaces as a way to combat the tight, dark one Patton is trapped in. There’s a flicker of uncertainty in the actor’s eyes as he opens them and looks at Virgil. He isn’t sure if it’s working. Virgil doesn’t know either.

Roman opens his mouth and takes a breath to continue when the rapid but methodical sound of footsteps coming up the stairs signals Logan’s reappearance. Virgil straightens up and looks at him expectantly.

Logan holds up a butter knife. ��It was the best I could do.” He squeezes past Roman to kneel on the thin carpeting and wedge the knife by the lock in the door. It takes him a couple of seconds before they hear a quiet click, nearly drowned out by the thumping bass from below. Logan tosses the knife to the floor and twists the handle, the door swinging open effortlessly. Virgil squeezes past Roman and through the door into the closet as soon as there’s enough of a crack for his body to slip through.

The walls of the closet are lined with shelves full of cleaning supplies, laundry detergent, and toiletries, and on the floor in the middle of it all is Patton. His knees pulled up to his chest, his face buried in his arms. Trembling.

Virgil unzips his hoodie and shrugs out of it as he kneels in front of him. “Patton,” he says in a soft voice. “Hey.” He knows the trembling isn’t really because Patton is cold but he drapes his sweatshirt around Patton’s shoulders anyway.

Patton’s breath hiccups as he pulls his head out of his arms. Virgil feels his heart constrict at the tear tracks that mark his cheeks. He hears movement behind him and when he glances over his shoulder, he sees that Logan has a hand on Roman’s shoulder as if keeping him from coming into the closet too. He whispers something in the actor’s ear. Roman nods and takes a small step back.

Virgil looks back at Patton. “You’re safe now,” he says. “What do you say we get out of here?”

He offers a hand, but he sees the way Patton’s shoulders tense and he pulls back. He doesn’t take it personally. Patton needs as much space as he can get right now. The vacuum in the corner is tipped over and shoved into a pile of toilet paper under the bottom shelf. Virgil wonders in the back of his mind if that might have been Patton’s doing.

“Patton,” Logan says from the hallway, his voice softer than Virgil can ever remember it being, “Can you stand up?”

There’s a moment of hesitation. Then, so quietly that Virgil almost misses it: “Y-yeah.”

Patton uncurls himself, scrubs a hand against his tear-stained cheeks, and stands on shaky legs. Virgil stands with him, slipping his hands into the back pocket of his jeans and moving out of the way of the door. Instinct is telling Virgil to grab his arm, to steady him, protect him like you failed to do in the first place, but he doesn’t want to overwhelm or overstimulate him. So Virgil hovers in the corner, follows Patton out the door, and pulls the door shut behind him.

Logan offers Patton his hand with a gentle, reassuring look. Patton swallows and glances up at him before slipping his arms through the sleeves of Virgil’s hoodie and quietly placing his hand in Logan’s outstretched one.

“Let’s go home,” Logan says softly.

…

The moment they are out of the house and the door has closed behind them, the world becomes immediately quieter. The brisk autumn air tugs at the strands of hair falling into Virgil’s eyes. Roman rushes down the steps of the porch towards the sidewalk with his arms spread out.

“You wanna know what song I feel like singing tonight, Logan?” Roman announces as he grabs hold of the nearby streetlamp and spins around it.

The chemical engineering student adjusts the frame of his glasses as he follows Roman down the sidewalk, his other hand still entwined with Patton’s. “What would that be, Roman?”

“All we see is sky for forever!” Roman belts out, a show tune that Virgil immediately recognizes from Dear Evan Hansen. The young actor isn’t exactly being subtle. The out-stretched arms, spinning around, walking ahead of them, singing a song not from the beginning of the tune but from that particular line… he’s emphasizing all of the open space around them as much as possible.

The corner of Virgil’s mouth quirks upwards in an almost-smile. He glances at Patton out of the corner of his eye and notices that he seems steadier now as he smiles warmly at Roman’s antics. He seems to be breathing normally.

It’s something, at least.

Virgil can’t quite shake the feeling of guilt gnawing at his stomach even as he crosses his arms over his chest to brace against the cold air, keeping stride a few steps behind the other three. He doesn’t know what to do. Not really, anyway. He’d been useless to get Patton out of the closet. Useless to prevent him getting trapped in it in the first place. He’d always been the one who focused on keeping the others’ safe, but he’d failed. Where did that leave him?

Patton is safe now. That should be all that matters. But the weight sits heavy and uncomfortable in his chest anyway. He wants to ask Patton if he’s okay—just to make sure, to actually hear him confirm it so maybe his gut will stop twisting—but Patton smiles and laughs at something Roman says and the words die in Virgil’s throat. Maybe bringing it up is a mistake. Patton probably just needs a distraction right now.

Virgil could do that.

Patton glances over his shoulder at him, his brow pulling together in sudden concern. “Holy smokes, kiddo,” he says and starts shrugging out of the hoodie, “I wasn’t even thinking. You must be freezing.”

Virgil’s eyes widen and he grabs Patton’s arms to stop him before he twists out of the sweatshirt. No, Patton,” he insists. “Really. It’s fine. Keep it until we get back to the apartment.”

Patton stops, but looks at him doubtfully. “I don’t want you getting sick.”

Virgil dismissively rolls his eyes. “I won’t, dad. Leave the hoodie on, will you?”

Patton purses his lips. “If you’re sure…” He shrugs it back over his shoulders and slips his hands into the pockets. Virgil gives him a small smile. He feels some of the tension loosen in his chest at the warm look in his friend’s eyes. “Thank you,” Patton adds, a weight to his words that Virgil pretends he doesn’t notice.

Instead, he shakes his head teasingly and bumps his shoulder into his roommate’s. “Don’t mention it.”

…

When they get back to the apartment ten minutes later, Roman dramatically stretches and announces that he needs his “beauty rest” before the matinee tomorrow. Virgil doesn’t miss the soft, uncertain look he gives Patton—the brief crack in Roman’s normality checking that Patton is okay—and Patton gives him a sincere smile and tells him to not let the bed bugs bite. Roman says something about “vanquishing such vile creatures in my sleep!” before he heads into his and Patton’s shared room and closes the door.

Logan stifles a yawn. “Patton, if you’re certain that you don’t require assistance or companionship, I think I may retire for the night as well.”

“You’re sweet for offering, Logan, but you don’t need to worry about me!” Patton flashes him a bright smile but there’s something just a little off about it to Virgil.

The exhausted chemical engineering student glances at Virgil as if to assure himself that someone would be staying up with Patton a little while longer. Virgil nods subtly, and Logan inclines his head to Patton, bids them goodnight, and heads into his and Virgil’s shared room.

There’s a quiet moment after the door clicks shut behind him when neither of them says anything. The quiet living room separated from the kitchen by a wall and short hallway feels small and noticeably silent given the party they had just come from. The heating unit kicks on with a quiet rumble. The thin carpet and mismatching furniture feels like home.

He hears Patton take in a deep, slow breath. He’s still wearing Virgil’s hoodie, but Virgil doesn’t mind. He looks like he feels safe, even as the warm light of the lamp in the corner shows just how much the sweatshirt engulfs his frame. It’s a comforting sight that helps the lingering tightness in Virgil’s stomach, the one that twists a little more each time he thinks about Patton crying on the floor of the storage closet…

“You don’t have to stay up,” Patton says softly, breaking the quiet air around them. “It’s pretty late, kiddo.”

“I’d probably just be scrolling through Tumblr for an hour anyway,” Virgil replies with a tone that is lighter than the weight in his gaze. He looks at his friend a moment longer; Patton looks almost normal, really, if it isn’t for the way he won’t meet Virgil’s eyes. “D’ya want some tea, Patton?”

Patton blinks in surprise. “Oh. Uh, sure. That’d be great.”

“Cool. One sec.”

Virgil takes his time in the kitchen, grabbing a mug with a cat pun for Patton and a black and purple one for himself as he heats the water. He doesn’t rush the process. He has a feeling that Patton could use a moment by himself, to be alone and recognize that he is safe. To not feel like he has to put up a front for anyone else.

Patton had been getting better about not hiding his negative emotions—he really had—but old habits die hard. And Virgil knows all too intimately what it is like to feel exposed and need those tried and true defense mechanisms.

After he drops the tea bags into the mugs of steaming water a few minutes later, Virgil heads back to the living room around the corner. Patton is already sitting on the couch, his shoes discarded by the leg of the coffee table in front of him and his feet tucked up underneath him. Virgil hands him the cat mug and sits beside him, setting his own cup on one of the coasters Logan had bought for the apartment.

Patton gives him a faint, appreciative smile and curls his hands around the cup. He inhales the steam and scent of lavender and cinnamon. He relaxes back into the cushions of the couch a bit.

“Thanks, Virge.”

“Any time, Patton.”

Patton shakes his head and looks down at the floating tea bag in his mug. “No,” he insists quietly. “I don’t just mean the tea. I mean… for tonight. For coming to find me and… helping me get out.”

Virgil nudges the lid of his laptop—which had been sitting on the corner of the coffee table from before they’d left for Roman’s performance—up as he glances at Patton over his shoulder. “I know,” he says. “But we’re here for you as much as you’re here for us.”

Patton swallows and nods. His eyes flicker up to meet Virgil’s before averting them again. Virgil busies himself by quickly logging into his laptop. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, his tone light and casual. He doesn’t want Patton to feel like he has to. Virgil figures he’s felt trapped enough tonight; he doesn’t want to add to that.

“Not… not tonight,” Patton admits quietly.

Virgil nods, and pulls up the Netflix tab on his browser. He can’t say the answer surprises him. That’s okay. Patton knows that they’re there for him, and when he wants to talk about it? Virgil and the others will be there.

“Do you want to watch some Parks and Rec instead?”

He doesn’t miss the relieved smile that pulls across his friend’s face. “Sounds perfect, kiddo.”

...

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#sanders sides #sanders sides fanfiction #moxiety #moxiety fanfiction #platonic moxiety #angst #claustrophobia #tight spaces #heathers spoilers #yeets this onto tumblr and then runs far away because idk how i feel about this fic #aaaaa why is posting scary every time #also sorry mobile users its a longer fic this time #long post #just in case

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spookyspaghettisundae · 5 years

Text

Thirteen-One, part 2

Heavy clouds painted the horizon in a dull, bleak gray. Although still morning, the day was quickly fading.

Amy walked down the street. Her keys jingled in her leather jacket’s pocket, reminding her with each step that she needed to have someone check her car. She had not been able to start it this morning. Just another damned thing for her to deal with after the big move to this town.

From the corners of her eyes, she saw a shadow dart past. Her heart raced and she swiveled to spot her assailant. But nothing and nobody was there. Perhaps a mere trick her eyes were playing on her. Amy stood alone on this narrow road, amidst houses both old and new, some from the old colonial era and some just representing those artsy, newer architectural styles that she hated. Right now, she had no eyes for the environment itself, though. She was on the lookout for other people, specifically any creeping up on her.

Not a single soul here beside her.

Continuing on, a person took a left turn and joined her on the road, walking in the opposite direction and towards her. Some unknown man in his late twenties, dressed completely in black.

He just stared at her and a pit formed in Amy’s stomach. She tried to size him up but kept averting her eyes, both out of nervousness and just to see if eye contact could make him do the same. The real estate agent had sworn up and down that the area was all quiet and safe—"zero crime"—but Amy was new in town and the agent might have been full of shit.

The stranger’s course of walking was not in straight line towards her, after all. They moved along opposite sides of the small suburban road. He never stopped staring at her, however. He never turned his head. He creepily glared at her from the corners of his eyes until they had passed each other.

She could feel his gaze burning holes into the back of her head as she continued on. The pit in her stomach was still there, and she felt like all blood must have visibly drained from her face. Amy refused to turn around, refused to show any sign of fear—and listened intently to the sounds of his shuffling sneakers as they both walked on while the distance between them grew.

At the end of the road, Amy finally dared to look back. The creep was not staring back at her. Her gaze burned holes into the back of his head. Not looking where she was walking.

So she bumped into someone else.

Some man said, “Excuse you?” The voice tugged at some memory strings in Amy’s brain.

Under any other circumstances, Amy would have quipped with something snippy. But the day continued to be strange and unsettling all around, so she just looked up at the person she had crashed into. After a few seconds and incredulous blinking, she recognized a familiar face: her old high school friend and former band mate, Chris.

His furrowed brow made way to a face beaming with pleasant surprise. He asked, “Hey. Amy?”

Amy sighed and could not help but smile. With all the weirdness she had witnessed since getting up, followed by that weirdo gawking at her just before—seeing a friendly face turned out to be a true palate cleanser.

“Long time no see, fuck-face,” she said.

Chris chuckled.

“Uh, look. I’d actually like to catch up, but I need to be somewhere,” Amy said. She pulled her phone from her jacket, more demonstratively than anything, and added, “You still got the same number?”

Chris nodded and confirmed with a curt answer, then gestured to the sidewalk behind him.

“It’s cool, let’s walk together. I’m in no rush. I was just takin’ a walk to clear my head.”

Amy dug her hands into her jeans’ pockets and nodded. Chris plodded along by her side as she continued on with her way.

“I never thought you’d come back to this dumpy little town,” he said. “Especially not with the success you’ve been having in the big city. So—what brought you back?”

Amy shrugged. “Outside of the lame-ass answer you’d expect to hear about it never being quiet out there, I wouldn’t know where to start. Hey, so, uh—something else.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“You and the others still all in the same band?”

Chris’ face went blank and he stared at the sidewalk in front of them as they walked.

“Not all of us, no. Seth and Kevin left shortly before you skipped town. Don’t you remember?”

“Sorry. My memory’s kinda gone shoddy in recent years.” Amy took a deep breath, mentally crossing out the old haunt as a place she could find Seth to confront him about the disturbing video she had watched this morning. Then she asked, “So, is the band doing good?”

“I’d say so, yeah. Neil recently said he was gonna hook us up with some bigwig who could get us more serious gigs.”

“Without Kev, who’s doing the drums now?”

“Someone new—Beverly.”

“Hmm.”

“Wait, ‘hmm’, what? She’s really good!”

“No, I meant, ‘hmm’ in the sense that—well, I don’t know her. Like, neither as a person nor as a drummer.”

Neither Amy nor Chris looked at each other. The silence that persisted between them turned awkward.

“How’s Scott doing? He move back here with you?”

Amy stopped in her tracks.

“Scott?”

Chris followed suit and looked back at her.

“Well, yeah. Scott. Your boyfriend?” Burying his own hands in his pockets, he then asked, “Or your—your ex?”

“Y-yeah. He is—he has long moved to France. Neither of us thought the long distance would work. And here I thought I was the one who had memory issues. Do you?”

A short bellow escaped Chris’ throat. A bit too clipped, a bit too forced. Artificial.

They continued walking. Amy blurted out, “No, look, I’ve been seeing someone else. A real cutie, Steve. Steve Parker. You know him?”

“Nope.”

“Not surprised, he’s not from around here. Also staying in the city for now. Work.”

Chris grinned. There was almost something impish about it. Something devilish.

Where their road forked, he pointed up one way, leading uphill. Amy knew her path lied the other way. Chris nodded to her and said his goodbye. She called out after him, prompting him to turn around and proceed a few steps while walking backwards.

“Where are you actually headed to?”

“To this forest hut where we jam. You know—our band.”

Amy blanked out. And the memories of that morning returned to her in a flash, suffocating any positive feelings. The pit in her stomach returned, worse than when it had visited her before. She saw that single light bulb hanging from the ceiling.

She saw her darker self, talking into the camera. Talking about needing to dispose of a dead body.

And the she remembered the dark, clawed hand, reaching out from the darkness inside that pentagram. The nails digging into her flesh, drawing blood.

“You okay?”

Chris’ question grounded Amy again, ripped her right back out of the strange imagery bombarding her mind and inner eye.

“All good,” she said.

She had lied.

They went separate ways. She quickly forgot about the encounter with Chris even though something about their conversation felt utterly wrong, as if she had heard either of them say something she did not like to hear. But Amy did not dwell on that.

Instead, she pondered the strange video she had seen that morning. She did not want to, but the images kept invading her consciousness. And she could not shake that horrible feeling. She still wondered if she should call the cops.

But she did not.

The idea of being implicated in a murder and not remembering any of it—if it had even happened at all—was both deeply disturbing and crippling her from seeking out help from authorities.

She finally arrived in front of a big apartment building. The formerly bright white of its facade had turned into muddied colors with the paint chipping off, weathered away over the years. Loud, aggressive heavy metal music blared out from one of the open windows on the first floor.

Amy approached the entrance and tried pushing through the building’s front door. But the door would not budge—it was locked up tight. She scanned the doorbells and rang one of them. Seth’s doorbell.

Nobody responded. The door did not open. She pressed the button to ring the bell again and leaned over and looked to the window out of which loud music continued to thunder. As there still had yet to be anybody to react to her ringing of the doorbell, she wandered back out of the roofed entrance area, looked around the bushed and picked up a rock.

She thought on it for a second, and then tossed the rock up through the open window. Someone must have gotten hit by it, because that faceless someone shouted, “Ow!”

A topless, tattooed man wearing only jeans, with greasy long dark hair tied back into a ponytail, looked out of the window to see who had thrown the rock and hit him. He glared. Then his gaze softened upon seeing and recognizing Amy.

Another old, familiar face from back in the day: Adam. Good ol’ party boy. Bit of an idiot, but soft core.

And decidedly not Seth.

She had come here to find Seth. This was where he lived after all. She had not expected to meet Adam here, but Amy was somewhat happy to find Adam here instead of Seth.

The more she thought about it now, the more unsettling Seth had always been.

“Come the fuck on in,” Adam shouted down to her with a wide, toothy smile.

Amy shook her head and shouted back, “I’d love to. But fucking how?”

“What?”

“Your music is too fucking loud, jackass!”

“Calm your tits, I’ll be right there.”

Adam disappeared from the window. The music stopped in the middle of a stanza, making way for an uncomfortable silence. Soon after, the front door to the apartment block swung open, and the young man stood there, dressed still only in jeans and wearing unlaced black boots that were more scuff marks than leather.

“Since when did anybody start locking that door?”

Adam cocked his head back, causing the skin underneath his chin to bunch up, giving him the look of a turtle for a brief moment of contemplation.

“Folks are paranoid these days, I guess. Bunch o’ crackheads even in this small town, nowadays. You either keep some guns or you lock your doors, I guess.”

He thumbed behind him.

“You wanna come inside or talk right here? Got beer, got smokes, and I’m willing to share with an old stranger like yourself.”

They went inside. The place was a vision of pure chaos. The apartment looked like what you would expect from a tornado hitting the inside of a tour bus. Piles of empty pizza boxes, crumpled up beer cans, and an overturned ashtray with its contents spilled all over the carpet in a dark gray stain, on top of soiled newspapers on top of a cluttered coffee table harboring all manner of drugs and paraphernalia.

Adam plopped down onto the couch with a sigh and Amy thought twice about sitting down anywhere. The whole place reeked of stale cigarette smoke, cheap booze, and dried cum.

“Damn,” Amy said, the word slipping out more than anything.

She always hated it when fellow musicians were walking cliches. She hated it when they smashed guitars on stage, screwed around nonstop with roadies, or steeped themselves in substance abuse.

With narrowed eyes, Adam used a naked hand to shovel through the mess on the coffee table. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from the bottom of the junk and lit up a smoke with incredible speed and routine that only chain smokers possessed. Then tossed the pack back onto the table.

“Oh, you think this place looks bad?” Adam chuckled and choked a bit on the smoke as it came back up. “Yeah, it’s pretty bad. Shoulda been a quiet little evening, but somehow—somehow, way more people showed up, and it got out of hand.” He shrugged and took another long, greedy drag from his cancer stick.

Adam leaned back and started puffing out smoke rings.

“Can I bum one from you?”

“Dude. That’s a personal insult, coming from you. You think you need to ask me if you can have one of my smokes?” Scott guffawed. “Seriously. They’re not even mine. Pretty sure someone else forgot them here last night. So knock yourself out.”

He picked up the pack and held it open for her to take a smoke. When she reached out to grab one, he cringed when he saw that her hand was wrapped in bandages that had bled through so badly that a deep crimson spot had formed under the palm.

“You’ve got blood on your hands?”

Amy froze and stared at her own hand.

“Fuck off. Do you always need to frame things with such dramatic phrases?”

Through a faint smile and underneath a furrowed brow, Adam asked, “You got anything you wanna tell me?”

Amy took the cigarette and lit it up with a lighter from the table. Instantly regretting both the sticky texture upon what should have been a smooth plastic lighter, as well as the biting flavor of the cigarette, burning in her lungs like fire.

She flinched and shot him a glance that translated into a silent “Shut the fuck up.”

She asked, “What was that music just now?”

“It's—okay, Amy,” Adam paused and inhaled deeply from his cigarette, burning it down quickly and brightly. When he spoke again, his voice sounded tortured and the smoke billowed out of his mouth at the same time, “No small-talk, okay? What’s actually up?”

Amy let her own cigarette burn down between her fingers. She let her head hang before answering with a different question.

“Where’s Seth? This is his apartment, after all.”

“I don’t know. Woke up here all hungover after the party. I always thought he was more of a friend of yours than mine, y'know?”

Amy placed her cigarette onto the edge of an overflowing ashtray where it continued to smolder and gradually transform into a stick of hot ashes among the cemetery of fellow cancer sticks.

“Never really liked him, if I’m gonna be quite honest. Anything I can help you with, seeing he’s not home?”

Amy shook her head and asked, “Dunno. Does the number combination thirteen-one have any meaning to you?”

With a lopsided grin, Adam replied, “Well, since we’re speakin’ of Seth right here, I’d wager that’s the date when he sacrificed his neighbor’s cat.”

He burst out into laughter, holding his sides. He sputtered and his laughter ceased when he accidentally dropped his cigarette, causing a small explosion of tiny embers and provoking him to scramble and scoop it back up before putting the butt out in the ashtray.

“Big help,” Amy muttered. Though she knew he was right. Seth might as well have been a satanist.

“Sorry, but I really got no clue what I should do with that, but, uh, why—”

A smug grin overtook Adam’s face.

Amy whined, “You’re not taking me seriously, asshole.”

“No, not true. You know I take everything you say very seriously, but I sometimes just can’t help but fuck with you.”

Amy leaned back in the chair she had sat down on after assuring herself that it wasn’t as sticky as the rest of the dingy apartment’s furnishings. She stared out the window into the gloomy, overcast sky outside.

“I dunno. I dreamed something weird. Everything’s weird. Also, I saw Chris on the way over. Has any-fucking-body gotten out of this garbage town except for me?”

“If you’re back now, were you ever really gone, city-girl?”

“Fuck you.”

“Okay, so, you look a bit under the weather. I mean, I know what I did last night, and I’m still feeling kinda wasted—but what’s your excuse?”

Amy had no answer to that. Adam picked up a beer bottle from the table, sniffed it, and then took a swig of whatever lukewarm swill had been leftover in it.

“You know what I think? You should go see that new boy-toy of yours in the city—”

He shushed her with a hand gesture the moment she even opened her mouth to speak.

“Have a nice day, have a nice evening, get dinner, get stoned, stay out of town for the night.”

Amy leaned over, snatched the smoldering cigarette she had left on the ashtray, and stamped it out on the ashtray’s edge.

If Adam had taken part in any shenanigans involving a corpse, or a prank with the video she had anonymously received, then he deserved an Oscar for acting oblivious about it. More likely, he was badly hungover and had nothing to with any of this.

She gave him a feeble smile, said goodbye, gave him the middle finger after he made a rude joke, and left Seth’s apartment.

On the way out, she slung out her phone and tapped on Steve’s face from her contact list. The call rang, and rang, and rang. Steve did not pick up.

She paused outside the block. The loud heavy metal music started out of nowhere, continuing exactly where it had been paused and causing her to jump an inch of the ground in fright. Her heart pounded and she turned to yell some obscenities up at Adam.

Looking out the window was a figure clad all in black—not Adam. A deep unfathomable abyss yawned behind the darkness of the figure’s hood. Those living shadows stared back at her and Amy sensed a cold, seething rage. A malevolence so powerful that it felt like an invisible force wanted to rush at her and rip her heart out.

Frozen and unable to move, the honking of a car’s horn pulled her back into reality. Or at least, back into paying attention to her surroundings.

She stared into the angry face of a driver, waving at her to get out of the middle of the road. She had stood there for long enough to annoy some unknown man in a car. She got out of the way and when she looked back at Seth’s apartment, nobody stood in the window. Especially no shadow-person under a black hoodie’s hood.

The heavy metal music continued to blare.

The call to Steve went to voicemail. Amy hung up and did not leave a message.

She walked back home, furiously typing out a text message to Steve, asking him to get back to her as soon as possible. She feared that he was busy and would not soon find time to respond.

And she would be right.

Once Amy stood at her own front door, cramming her fists into her pockets to find her keys and unlock the entrance, she felt watched. She saw something move within the darkness of her home, though the reflections of overcast skies in her windows and her tired mind could have been playing tricks on her.

Fear gripped her heart. Someone was inside her house.

Finally, Amy called the cops. She would not tell them the whole story—only suggesting that someone might have broken into her home—and they would find nothing. The police officers left come evening. To her chagrin, they also declined her request to leave someone there to keep an eye out.

But evil was lurking inside her home. It had been there all along.

Amy had not noticed it.

Yet.

—Submitted by Wratts

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