High Enough | Haitani R.

Dog with No Teeth // Simon “Ghost” Riley x Female Reader

Like deer meat picked off by carrion birds, you are plucked up during a scavenging raid by tactical-clad men all in black. There is no possibility of returning to your old life. You’re forced to assimilate, to conform to the remaining dredges of society. With that comes a choice: select someone to marry or the government will do it for you. You make the rash choice, selecting the skull-faced stranger that snatched you in the first place.

Overall Warnings: Post-Apocalyptic AU, dubcon, forced marriage, forced proximity, eventual lovers, breeding, pregnancy, canon-typical violence

Chapters: Ongoing

One // Two // Three // Four // Five // Six // Seven // Eight // Nine // Ten // Eleven // Twelve // Thirteen // Fourteen // Fifteen // Sixteen // Seventeen // Eighteen // Nineteen // Twenty // Twenty-One // Twenty-Two // Twenty-Three // Twenty-Four // Twenty-Five // Twenty-Six // Twenty-Seven // Twenty-Eight // Twenty-Nine // Thirty

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ao3 // main masterlist

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Taglist for Brothers Conflict

Reblog this post if you would like to be added to the taglist for this story.

◈ Summary: Your father marrying, and you suddenly having to live under the same roof with seven step brothers was a royal mess or so you had thought, Because them falling in love with you was so much worse. Or was it?

◈ Genre: Romance, Fluff, Humour, Smut and maybe a little angst. (PG-18) (step brother AU) (They are all adopted, I do NOT support incest, this work is inspired by the popular anime/manga Brothers Conflict)

◈ Pairings: OT7 x Reader (final pairing: will be decided by readers, could also be ot7)

chapter one

masterlist (all chapters can be found linked there)

Short-winded

yandere!Class 1A x fem!reader

[3K]

Summary: You are being forced out of your shell by your classmates, but now it seems more for their on benefit than that of your own.

Warning: anxiety, stalking

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ミmy daddy didn't love me so i guess i've moved onto you

🍓 pairing: captain john price x fem reader

🍓 tags: nsfw, daddy kink, undefined age gap, oral sex, unprotected vaginal sex, rough(?) sex, both reader and price have a daddy kink that they indulge in with very little discussion, allusions to reader having a bad relationship with her father (but nothing concrete), price uses a lot of pet names for reader and also calls himself daddy several times

title is inspired by the song peter bogdanovich by my queen CMAT

masterlist

reblogs are always enormously appreciated!

If there’s one thing you know, it’s that you’re damn good at your job.

You have to be in order to survive in this ridiculous goddamn base. There are protocols to be followed, risk assessments to carry out, weapons and equipment requisition requests to send off, and you have to handle almost all of it for Task Force 141. That’s one thing about working with the military – they’re all about action, and rarely have the patience to fill in their paperwork, and then when they do it’s never done properly.

You’re patient when you need to be, willing to push when you have to, and you make sure shit gets done. It’s not an easy job; you work your ass off, and it’s often thankless. Most of your job is done behind the scenes, whether that’s requisitioning on-the-fly tactical or strategic airlifts, liaising with other units, or trying desperately to smooth over any little problems that might crop up with the higher-ups. 

It’s challenging and exhausting, and you love it, but damn, it can be fucking infuriating. Working in a male-dominated environment is a little bit soul-destroying, with every condescending comment and lascivious gaze that lingers over your body. But none of that matters, because you don’t need male approval to excel at your job. You don’t need male approval for anything.

You repeat it to yourself on the daily, which is something that you’ve never had to do before. But before, you weren’t working with Captain John Price.

He’s not… rude, per se. If anything, he’s always coolly polite. But it’s obvious, so obvious, that he just barely tolerates you. He’s gruff, short, to-the-point, and never speaks to you outside of brusque orders. It takes weeks for him to start trusting you with even the most basic of files, and even then chunks of information are often redacted. And it shouldn’t matter; you’ve worked for men like him before, you know how it goes, and if anything he’s one of the better ones.

In the beginning, when you had first been assigned to the task force, Price had not been happy about it. It had been a tough transition; your assignment had been approved by Laswell in order to take some of the strain of liaising off both her and Price, but the Captain hadn’t been too pleased about it. He had seen you as a sort of interloper, a silly little pencil-pusher sent in by the brass to do the grunt work of administration that no one else wants to do.

But you work hard, you always have done. And maybe… maybe, part of the reason that you end up busting your balls so hard is because you want– no. Maybe you need his approval. You’d prefer not to think about it; it’s easier to throw yourself into your work, and pretend that you’re doing it for you.

You’re not even sure how it started, but at some point, Price starts looking at you differently. Maybe he realises that you’re competent at your job, or maybe he just needs to get used to you. Maybe, you hope, he’s finally starting to realise that you’re good at what you do; that you can be an asset to the team, so long as they actually work with you. 

Whatever it is, he eases off. Stops being such a hard-ass, starts giving you space to do your thing. Eventually, he starts delegating too — stops hoarding the work like a miser, and finally starts treating you like you’re capable of something more than just photocopying.

He’s not a bad boss, not by a long shot. He’s kind, determined, patient when it matters, with a wry sense of humour. He’s also fiercely protective over his team, and that includes you now. 

But he’s also older, by at least fifteen years, and he’s not always the most diligent with paperwork. Typical man of action, you’ve seen it a hundred times before. There’s always something more important to do, and while he’s always so cognisant of your workload and careful not to add to it, he is also all too happy to let you take the reins when it comes to bureaucracy. You like to think that you’ve proved yourself to him, but maybe he just respects competency.

That should be it.

But you’re so ashamed to admit that even when Price stops treating you like you’re a hostile target, you can’t stop hoping for his attention. Your mental chants of I don’t need male approval for anything, I don’t need male approval for anything become a daily thing, and sometimes a several-times-a-day thing.

Because the thing is, Price can be a difficult man to please. He’s always so busy that he doesn’t have time to give you the approval that you’re straining for, but when he does it gives you the most shameful warm glow in your belly. 

A brief nod or a low grunted ‘Thanks, sweetheart’ is enough to fuel you for days now. Even better is when you’re walking along beside him, briefing him on the latest update from the higher-ups, and he leans his head in towards you as he listens intensely, sometimes even laying his large palm against the small of your back. Ostensibly, it’s to lead the way and guide you out of the path of the running cadets, but it just toes the line of professionalism and you flounder under the touch.

It’s stupid. You’re stupid. He’s just a coworker, and you need to keep your issues to yourself.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ

You’re perfectly self-aware enough to admit when you’re in a bad mood.

You start the day tired, and when you check your reflection in the mirror first thing that morning you’re greeted with the sight of a big, fuck-off pimple on your chin. It’s big, it’s throbbing, it practically has its own fucking heartbeat. You barely restrain the urge to pick at it, though you can feel it even when you’re not looking at it.

Your mood doesn’t improve when you get to the small kitchenette by your office and find that someone has used the last of the fancy French Vanilla flavoured coffee that you’ve stocked for yourself. As if that’s not bad enough, your little stash of chocolate digestives you keep for yourself for emergency bad days have disappeared too.

You clench your jaw and continue about your business. Whatever. You can survive without your coffee and chocolate.

Your resolve falters when you see the pile of paperwork on your desk, but whatever. It’s all part of the job. A little chocolate biscuit to nibble on would definitely make your job easier, but you’re a big girl and you’re just going to have to go without.

Then you get the phone call. One that makes you want to bang your head against your desk hard enough to knock yourself unconscious so that you don’t have to deal with this.

It’s time to update the TF141 personnel files. Orders from above, since there’s been significant changes to medical and surgical history in the last couple of months from injuries on missions.

 Normally, that’s not such a big deal. It just involves updating their medical and technical files, making sure that nothing major has changed with regards their addresses or other personal information, even though a big portion of it ends up redacted anyway. 

And, naturally, updating their photographs for their files.

You start easy. 

Gaz is happy to come to your office when you text him, and he stands obediently for you as you take his picture. He’s gotten a metal plate fitted in his kneecap from the last time his file has been updated, and he sits and chats easily with you as you go through his information. He’s a sweet guy, and so easy to talk to, and you sigh with the knowledge that no one is going to make your job as simple and leisurely as Gaz just has.

After he leaves, you target Soap. He comes to your office as easily as Gaz, but he’s significantly more difficult to photograph.

He just keeps smiling, no matter how many times you tell him to quit it. 

“It’s a personnel file photograph, not a photo for your Instagram.” You sigh, irritated. “I need you to have a blank, neutral expression. It’s like a passport photo, Sergeant. It’s for a government document.”

“Can’t help it, lass.” Soap says easily, that stupid grin not even dimming. “I see a camera, I smile. It’s muscle memory.”

You think that your irritation is only encouraging him, which only worsens your mood. In the end, you don’t get a single usable photograph of him for his file. You have to give up on him, swearing that you’ll come get him to try again later. He leaves your office still chuckling, like he thinks your frustration is cute.

You have tougher targets to tackle.

The difficult part isn’t even taking Ghost’s photo — the difficult part is catching him in the first place.

You spend almost three hours trying to track him down (because he won’t read your texts and your phone calls go unanswered), wobbling all over base in your stupid high heels and somehow missing him by mere moments every time. You arrive in the gym, the mess, the firing range, even the barracks, only to see the man’s enormous broad back disappearing out of the other door as soon as you get there.

You can only assume that Soap had given Ghost the heads up that you were on the prowl with a mission and a camera, because the lieutenant is avoiding you like the goddamn plague.

So yeah. You’re in a real bad fucking mood. But you can’t help it — some days your job is entirely thankless, and your mood drops so low that you feel like going home and crying. But you can’t, and you don’t want to show weakness in front of these military idiots, so all you can do is lock your jaw and go about your business the best you can.

You go back to your office, jaw and fists clenched tight, and collapse at your desk with your head in your hands. You have to take a few deep, slow breaths to try and calm yourself, but then you make the mistake of checking your reflection and your mood sinks lower again when you see that the stupid pimple on your chin has worsened.

God, this is just not your day. You have to get these stupid files updated, or it’ll fall on your head. 

Eventually, you reluctantly stand up. There’s no point moping; you have a job to do, whether you like it or not, and your next victim is Captain Price.

You walk to Price’s office swiftly, your feet aching in your stupid heels. You wish you had worn something more sensible, but… well. Even subconsciously, you want to impress.

When you reach his office, you throw the door open and march inside without even bothering to knock. 

Price is sitting behind his desk, and his head snaps up as soon as you walk in. His expression is set in a hard scowl, though it softens when he sees who it is. You guess you don’t exactly pose much of a threat, so he sees no use in posturing.

“I need you for a moment.” You bite out, allowing the door to slam shut behind you.

You hear Price sigh, before he leans back and settles into his chair, making himself comfortable. He’s wearing the same dark compression shirt that he usually wears for training exercises or to the gym, and he’s recently groomed his beard down too. He looks good, though it takes a colossal amount of effort for you to not notice, because you have other things you need to focus on right now.

“Hello to you too, love.” He grunts, wiping a hand over his eyes. “What’s the problem?”

You struggle not to react to that, his low voice both soothing and igniting something in your blood. You take a breath, try to calm down. You’re a professional, and you’re not here to embarrass yourself in front of the captain.

“I’m updating personnel files,” You say, and this time it comes out calm and steady, “I need to take a picture of you.”

Price’s gaze lingers on you, his stern brow softening a little. For a moment, you think that maybe this is actually going to be easy. That he’ll just stand up and take the fucking picture, so that the two of you can go back to your jobs and relax for the rest of the day.

But then–

“Jesus, kid.” He sighs, already shaking his head. “I’m up to my eyes right now. Leave it ‘till tomorrow.”

For a moment, you don’t react at all. You just stare at him, letting those dismissive words settle over you. He’s already looking back at his paperwork, mission briefings and maps littering the desk, and you feel so effectively dismissed. You feel small, so silly and stupid standing in front of him in a way that you haven’t felt since you first started working with the task force. You had thought that you were past this, that you had earned some meagre sort of respect from him.

“I need it done today.” You say, and your voice comes out a little hollow to your own ears.

You don’t need male validation. You don’t. But damn, you’ve had a rough day and the fact that your captain isn’t even bothering to look at you makes you want to cry.

Price sighs, and rubs at the crease between his eyes. He looks just as tired as you feel.

“Yeah, well. I don’t have time. Tomorrow.”

You swallow, pursing your lips. He’s so effortlessly dominant, which means that his careless dismissal stings all the more.

“I have to get the whole team done,” You say, struggling to keep your voice firm. “Soap wouldn’t stop smiling for the camera, I couldn’t find Farah anywhere, and Ghost–”

Price gives a sharp, derisive snort. “Forget Ghost.”

You scowl. “I need to do the whole squad.”

“Not Ghost.” Price repeats, this time slower and with more emphasis. “Simon doesn’t do photos.”

You take a deep breath, trying to stay calm. You’ve been working alongside the task force for a while now, and you’re familiar with Lieutenant Riley’s penchant for covering his face. It’s not something you have a problem with – usually.

“There’s no reason for him to be the exception to personnel photos, Captain.” You say through gritted teeth. “Everyone else is being photographed. The task force might be covert, but Lieutenant Riley is no more–”

“Christ, enough.” Price snaps, his voice a deep boom that has your mouth closing with a click. “The One Four One is my squad, in case you’ve forgotten. I know these lads, and I’m telling you to leave it out.”

You stare, a little taken aback by the harshness in his voice. He hasn’t been this sharp with you in months, not since you had started to prove yourself competent, useful. Now, you can see the warning signs of his bad mood; the circles under his eyes are pronounced, his skin dull in the ugly fluorescent lights of his office. He looks exhausted, his skin lined and dry like he hasn’t been drinking enough water.

You realise, a little too late, that you might have been pushing your luck by insisting on something as silly as personnel file photos. TF 141 had only returned from deployment at the beginning of the week, and Price has no doubt been drowning in reports since.

“This is why I told Laswell you weren’t necessary,” His snarl is entirely unlike him, and he rubs his face furiously, his palms rasping through his beard. “I don’t need someone coming in here and making demands of my squad for– for fucking photographs.”

You inhale shakily through your nose; to your utter horror, you can feel your eyes burn with hot wet tears. It’s stupid – you’ve dealt with far crueller words from far harsher men. The nature of your job often puts you in the firing line for frustration, and when it bubbles over it’s frequently directed at you. 

But this… this feels different, for some reason. You’ve been working your ass off to try and earn some recognition from Price, to show him that you’re a valuable asset to the team, and so his sharp, frustrated dismissal of you cuts deeper than it should.

You hate that your eyes are burning like this. You don’t want Price to think of you as useless, or as the silly little girl who was put on the team by the brass who can’t even do her job right. He was just starting to think of you as competent, and it hurts your ego to have to go to him for help with something that you should be more than capable of handling yourself in the first place.

“Right,” You say, and even you’re startled by the sharpness in your tone. “Fine. Forget the file updates, then.”

You step forward, jaw clenched hard, and toss the files you’ve been carrying around all day onto his desk. They hit the surface with a smack that feels uncomfortably loud in the tense silence that’s fallen over the room.

“I’ll tell the higher-ups that you’re handling it.” You continue, your voice coming out brattier than you’d like. “Since obviously I have no idea what I’m doing–”

“Oh, don’t do that.” Price sighs, as though you’re the one being unreasonable. “What I’m saying is, if you’re going to work with the team, you have to understand the team–”

That, you think, might just push you over the edge.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” You snap out, and Price’s mouth closes. “D’you think I’m– that I’m some kind of idiot?”

Price blinks. It seems like you’ve managed to take him by surprise, as though your bad mood rivals his just enough to pull him out of his own grumpy form entirely. He opens his mouth again, but you’re not ready to hear him speak again just yet.

“I’m here because Laswell put in a request for me to work with you and your squad, Captain. I’m considered an asset to the teams that I work with,” You’re scowling thunderously, all the tension and frustration that’s been mounting all day spilling over. “And I don’t have to put up with being dismissed and unappreciated when I know that I would be respected in other squads for the work that I do.”

Price raises his hands, a frown creasing his brow. “Kid, that’s not–”

Usually, being called ‘kid’ by Price has a warm glow settling in your stomach that you’re absolutely not interested in examining, but this time it only lights an infuriated fire in your belly. 

“Don’t!” You snap, your breath juddering unsteadily. “God, you think I enjoy being treated like an idiot? You think I haven’t had to deal with this from men my whole career? My whole life? Even my father–”

To your abject horror, a lump forms in your throat and you can’t finish that sentence. Your eyes are hot with unshed tears, and you’re pretty sure your lip is trembling. 

Price stands, his stern expression slackening into something like uncomfortable surprise as he moves to step around the desk.

“Hey,” He soothes, lifting his hands. “I’m not your father.”

“I know that!” You snap, irate. You’re frustrated with yourself, embarrassed at what you’ve unintentionally given away. “I wouldn’t want you to be!”

Price’s expression flickers, as though he can’t decide quite how to react to you. You’re more than aware that you’re being childish, but you find yourself unable to temper your overreactions. In the face of your tears and your frustrated anger, Price looks like he’s at a loss.

“All I’ve done is work hard, and tried to take the burden off you to make your job a little easier.” You continue before he can interrupt again. “And all I get in return is stress, and my chocolate biscuits eaten, and breakouts, and– and–”

“Kid–”

“The only person who wasn’t an absolute dickhead to me today was Garrick,” You rage, on a roll now. “Everyone else has just been so– and look how bad my skin has gotten from the stress of having to deal with men who want to act like children–”

Price watches you with an expression that is plainly bewildered as you gesture at the stupid pimple that’s been throbbing on your chin all day. You don’t even think you’re making sense, too lost in your frustration and humiliation to be properly aware of what you’re saying. 

“Your… skin.” He repeats, a little disbelieving. 

You whirl away, agitated. You’re not getting your point across well, and Price must think you’re simply demented. 

“Hey,” He says slowly, approaching from around the side of his desk. “I didn’t mean to suggest that you weren’t doing a decent job–”

“Whatever.” You mutter, running your hands over your skirt in an attempt to straighten out the creases. “Whatever.”

It’s too little, too late. He’s always been a bit of a hardass, and you’ve always tried so hard to please him, to impress him. But you can’t bear to make a fool of yourself like this any longer.

“I’ll leave the paperwork to you. Update it, or don’t. It doesn’t matter.” You say shortly, turning on your heel and marching towards the door.

“Wait,” Price calls out. His voice is firm, echoing with the grim certainty of a man who is used to being obeyed.

But you’re not one of his soldiers, and his command falls on deaf ears. Your skin is still prickling with humiliation; you don’t think you’ve ever been so desperate to get away from the Captain before.

“Sweetheart, just wait a minute,” Price says, and this time you can hear the exasperation in his voice. “I understand that you’re stressed, that’s normal. Everyone gets stressed in this line of work. But you can’t just go and get your knickers in a twist because some of the lads are bein’ difficult–”

“My knickers are none of your business!” You yell. Truthfully, it’s more of a shriek, high-pitched and unsteady enough to have Price’s eyes widening and darting towards the door as though worried about someone overhearing from the corridor.

“Whoa, okay,” Price says with the air of trying to soothe a spooked horse. “You're right. Your... knickers... ain't my concern. But helping keep this squad running smoothly is, and that can't happen if my admin is on edge."

“Oh, give me a break!” You’re beyond on-edge now, sailing right into fury. “You ignore me most of the time when you're not on deployment, you dismiss me when I’m just trying to do my job, but now you’re telling me you need me to not be on edge?”

You’ve reached the door now, your hand clenched tight around the doorhandle as you take one last moment to turn and look at him. He’s stepping towards you, no doubt with the intent to stop you before you can leave, but you don’t plan on giving him the chance.

“Kid, just hang on a damn minute–”

“Sort the files yourself, or do whatever you want.” You bite out, yanking the door open but pausing in the doorway. “I don’t even care anymore. It’s your squad, you do it.”

Price takes a breath, visibly fighting for patience. Truthfully, you don’t know how he hasn’t lost his head with you already. He was already exhausted and in an obviously bad mood when you had stormed in here, and it couldn’t be more obvious that you’ve just made it worse with all of your frenzied anger and borderline hysteria. 

The fact that Price is staying calm and level even in the face of your stress-induced meltdown only makes you feel all the more ridiculous. You wish he would get angry, that he would snap at you like he had when you had first walked in – at least that way you could pretend that you don’t notice the way his stressed scowl had melted into a look of concern as soon as he had seen the tears welling up in your stinging eyes.

“And you don’t have to wear that stupid hat, we’re indoors!” You yell, your voice teetering on the edge of hysteria.

You just have enough time to see his hand reach up to touch the brim of his boonie hat before you hurriedly bolt out of the room, escaping into the corridor before he can stop you.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ

“— just thinking that maybe I’d be better suited with another team, that’s all. I heard Kortac’s liaison is approaching maternity leave—”

“That position is going to be filled internally,” Laswell’s voice is calm over the secure phoneline, a stark contrast to the shaky undertone of stress in your own. “Besides, organising a transfer like that is more trouble than it’s worth.” There’s a pause, then a sigh crackles over the phone. “You still haven’t explained what happened. As far as I can see, you were doing good work there.”

Yeah, you think sourly, because all you see is the paperwork end of it.

“... Internal conflict.” You mutter, playing with the fraying edge of your sweater sleeve. 

There’s a long pause, protracted enough that it makes you squirm. You know what she’s thinking – in your line of work, it’s impossible to avoid clashing with some of the big dominant personalities who are used to getting away with whatever they want. But you’ve always been able to handle it, well-versed enough in diplomacy to know when to stand your ground and when to bow out to avoid unnecessary strife. 

“Internal conflict.” Laswell repeats, her voice as bland as you’ve ever heard it. “Meaning?”

God, it feels like you’re disappointing your mom or something. You scrub a hand over your face, pacing in the living room of your small apartment.

“I know how it sounds,” You say, “But– they don’t want to work with me. There’s only so much I can do if I’m being met with resistance at every corner–”

“You’ve worked with resistant squads before,” Laswell interrupts. “It’s part of the job.”

“Yes, but…” You start, before trailing off. 

She has a point, of course. It is part of the job. There’s no way to professionally explain to your superior that the reason this assignment is so difficult is because you have a mortifying crush on the Captain of the Task Force. It’s making you stupid, making all the stupid bullshit that you’re usually able to look past feel so much worse, especially because all you’ve ever wanted was Price’s approval.

Another sigh. This one, at least, sounds a little more sympathetic.

“Look,” Laswell says, and this time her voice is a little gentler. “I’ve never given you an assignment that I didn’t think you could handle. Whatever is going on, you need to sort it. You’re a capable girl, and the One Four One is far from the most difficult team you’ve had to deal with. There might be some big personalities there, but nothing that you shouldn’t be able to tackle.”

“Mhm.” You grunt noncommittally.

“Sort out whatever’s going on with you.” Laswell’s tone leaves no room for argument, her suggestion falling just short of a command. “If whatever issues you’re experiencing continue, I’ll talk to John–”

“No!” You blurt.

God, you can’t think of anything worse. You’ve already made a show of yourself in front of him, the last thing you need is for him to learn that you’ve gone crying to Laswell about the whole thing. You don’t want him to think of you as any more of a useless little girl than he doubtlessly already does.

“No,” You repeat, calmer this time as you clear your throat. “I’ll… sort it. Sorry to bother you with this, ma’am.”

Laswell hums, and you can imagine her eyes narrowing. Judging by the wind whistling in the background of the call, she’s not anywhere near her cushy office. You’ve interrupted her on whatever assignment she’s on, and she’s been kind enough to listen to your silly little complaints for at least fifteen minutes of her valuable time. You feel more ridiculous than ever, and you pinch at the bridge of your nose.

“... Right.” She says. “Fine. Keep me updated on the situation. I want a sitrep by the end of the week, understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.” 

You understand what’s not being said. Laswell expects you to work your own shit out, but you can hear the concern in her voice when she demands an update. All you can do is agree. Laswell has been by your side throughout your whole career, always having a hand in your assignments and your progression, and she’s always been an advocate for you and what you’re capable of. Now, after this conversation, you feel silly for getting so overwhelmed in the face of what is a relatively minor obstacle.

“Good. I’ll speak to you then.”

You hum, wish her goodbye and good luck, and hang up the phone.

For a long moment afterwards, you sit in silence in your living room. God, how did all of this spiral into such a mess?

For the last few days, you’ve been avoiding the base entirely. You have a few PTO days built up, and you’ve taken the opportunity to just chill out. It’s the first chance you’ve had to relax properly in months, since you had started working with the task force. The space is good, and it’s needed.

You get out of the headspace of work, and reports, and files and requisitions and debriefs, and instead treat yourself with full body self-care. You exfoliate, you moisturise, you use a hair mask, you take bubble baths. You even catch up on the trashy Netflix romance series that you had put on hold for ages, just waiting for some free time to indulge.

And you almost, almost, forget about why you’re hiding away in your little flat in the first place.

But your third day off creeps around, and you can’t help but feel as though your little bubble of isolation is about to pop. There’s only so much time away from the office that you’re able to swing, and the longer away the more you feel that your position on the team is untenable. No matter how you currently feel about the task force and your place with them, you’re not willing to let your hard work go down the drain just because you’re too cowardly to face them again after your little meltdown.

So, you go back to work after your little break away.

You manage to slink into your office mostly unseen, other than polite hello’s from other admin staff as you slip through the halls. Your office is far from prime real estate when it comes to office space on base – it’s well out of the way, down several corridors that no one ever goes down, and once you get past the main thoroughfares you don’t come across anyone. Even still, it feels a little like you’re doing a walk of shame, but you walk with your head held high before you finally get your office door closed behind you. 

To your surprise, your desk is clear. Typically, any slight break away from your desk results in work piling up on it, just waiting for your attention once you get back. You don’t know what to make of the absence of work; you can’t help but wonder, somewhat uncomfortably, if Price had taken your words to heart and dealt with all of the paperwork himself.

You check the drawers of your desk too, just in case, and come up empty yet again. 

Well. Okay, then. 

You sign into your desktop, waiting for the encryption program to load before accessing your emails. There’s a lot to catch up on, so you spend the next hour or so organising your to-do list in order of urgency.

You get lost in making your little lists, allowing yourself to relax into finding order in your schedule. You barely even look up until there’s a soft knock on your office door, and by the time you’ve raised your head the door has opened and Farah has slipped inside.

“Oh,” You straighten up in surprise. “Commander. What can I do for you?”

It’s a surprise to see her, especially since you hadn’t received any email correspondence. Your office is tucked away down a remote corridor, and soldier’s usually prefer to just email you their requests rather than make the trek down.

Farah offers a polite smile, approaching your desk. “I hear you are taking photographs.”

Your smile slips a little. “Oh. No, actually, I wasn’t–”

“Captain Price said I was to be photographed,” She says, pulling the chair out opposite you and watching you expectantly. “I tried to find you yesterday, and the day before, but I believe you weren't on base.”

You shift, feeling abruptly rather awkward. “Right. I was– Price said that to you?”

“Mhm.” Farah leans back in the chair, her dark eyes alert as they track over your face. “He said that you have been stressed.”

You feel your face heat, mortified. Oh, god. How embarrassing. Has Price given the team a goddamn debrief on your little meltdown? Farah tilts her head as though she knows what you’re thinking, and a tiny smile quirks at the corner of her lips.

“That’s all he said,” She says. “That, and that we should try to make your job a little easier.”

“Oh.” You shift, embarrassed and awkward. “I– Listen, I had a… rough day at work a few days ago, that’s all. I’m not– things are fine.”

Farah just nods as though that’s perfectly convincing, and you find yourself wildly appreciative of her for a moment.

“So, then,” She says, and raises her eyebrows. “The picture?”

You can’t find a way to explain that you had thrown that particular responsibility right back at Price in a fit of pique, but it turns out you don’t have to. Farah produces a slim folder that you hadn’t noticed her holding, and you realise with another flush of embarrassment that it’s her personnel file.

“There wasn’t much to update, just a recent blood work test.” She says as she lays it on your desk. 

“That’s… thanks.” You say weakly, taking the file in hand. You flick through it briefly, feeling something in your stomach squirm at the sight of Farah’s details all filled in – Price’s handwriting is unmistakable, the small neat blocky letters standing out amongst the messy scrawl of Farah’s medical report.

You dig out your camera, still a little flustered, and direct Farah to stand against your plain white-painted wall. She’s an easy subject to photograph; she stands perfectly still, unsmiling, and you get the perfect picture after only a couple of attempts.

“Lovely,” You murmur, flicking through the pictures. “Thank you.”

Farah hums. You’re expecting her to dismiss herself, and it takes a moment for you to realise that she’s still lingering. You glance up, blinking, only to find that she’s standing with her lips pursed, obviously considering something.

“The Captain is worried about you.” She says, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Is everything alright?”

You gape at her like a moron, camera still hanging loosely from your hands. You feel uncomfortably seen; there’s no way that Farah could know what happened, but she’s looking at you with an awful lot of sympathy right now.

“What?” You squeak.

“You fought?” Farah speaks slowly, obviously conscious of overstepping her boundaries. “I don’t mean to pry, it’s just…”

“No, that’s okay.” You say hastily. “We didn’t– there was no fighting, exactly.”

She just nods, as if you’re making perfect sense, then smiles politely. She gathers herself up and steps towards the door, and you feel your head spinning as she turns to go. 

“You look tired,” Farah murmurs, low enough that you almost miss it. “When Price wants to fix things, let him.”

“Mhm.” You nod quickly without really hearing her. You’re pretty sure you’d agree to anything right now just to escape the knowing intensity of Farah’s gaze. “Yeah, of course.”

After Farah leaves, you feel like you need another day off. It’s all you can do to just sit in your comfortably padded office chair and groan like a moron, because Jesus Christ you’ve made such a mess of things. 

It was bad enough when you were pining like an idiot from afar; you’ve had crushes before, and you know that you would have outgrown it eventually. But then you had your stupid little meltdown in front of Price, and revealed more than you intended, and all of a sudden you’ve made yourself into a fool in front of the squad you’ve tried so hard to impress these last few months.

You have to try hard not to spiral. In fact, it’s a challenge not to cave and grab your phone to call Laswell all over again to demand a reassignment right this second. You have a pretty good idea of what she’d say to you in response, but still, the impulse remains.

All you can do is put it from your mind. You potter about, printing Farah’s photograph so you can tuck it neatly into her file with a paperclip, and then decide to start replying to the many emails that have built up in your absence.

The emails vary in tone, from polite enquiries to not-so-polite demands for you to solve some administrative issues, and you sigh quietly as you respond to some of the more snotty messages from upper management. And if you’re a little bit passive aggressive, then you don’t think anyone can blame you.

Your mind has finally quietened, focusing on your work as the buzz of your thoughts settle down, when another knock sounds out from your door. This one is firmer than Farah’s soft knock from earlier, and a little louder, though this time you don’t look up from your screen.

“Come in.” You call, chewing at your lip as you struggle to keep the wording of your email civil.

You’re half-expecting it to be Soap this time around, or maybe one of the recruits hoping to get you to sign off on their leave. So when you finally glance up only to catch sight of the broad, thick-shouldered figure of Captain Price stepping into your office, you think you might go into cardiac arrest.

Email abandoned, you half jolt to your feet before changing your mind mid-movement and attempting to sit back down. It ends up being a humiliating sort of jerky motion, and you pray that he somehow missed it entirely.

“Captain.” You wheeze, your voice coming out a little weak.

Price’s cool blue eyes dart over your face and then down the length of your body, and you become suddenly, mortifyingly aware of the state you’re in. You might not want to admit it, but your wardrobe definitely changes when the Captain isn’t on deployment. Instead of professional trousers, you wear your tight knee-length pencil skirts and fitted shirts, and totter around in your heels. And it’s silly, but… well, you can’t help but notice the way Price’s eyes follow you when you dress like that, and you like his attention on you.

Except today, you hadn’t been planning on running into Price. You hadn’t planned on seeing anyone, so you had dressed for comfort — you’re wearing a pair of frumpy grey wool trousers and a super over-sized soft purple sweater that practically swallows you whole. You haven’t even done your hair nicely, and you curse yourself. This has to be the least sexy you’ve looked in months.

“D’you’ve a moment, love?” 

His voice seems loud in the quiet of your office, even though realistically you know he’s only speaking in a murmur. In the quiet days you’ve spent alone in your apartment, you’d almost forgotten how lovely and low and gruff his voice is, and you feel your toes curl in your shoes at the sound of it.

It’s not as though you can refuse him, though you’re already embarrassingly aware of the way in which you had stormed off the last time you had seen him.

“Yeah.” You swallow thickly in an attempt to strengthen your voice, but it still comes out high and thready. “Sure.”

As if he had just been waiting for permission, Price steps into the room properly and closes the door behind him. All of a sudden, the room feels a little claustrophobic. Price is a big man, broad-shouldered and thickly built with a soft layer of fat cushioning those hard muscles, and you can’t help but feel as though his presence is sucking all of the air out of the room.

But still, he approaches slowly, like you’re some kind of feral cat. Those sharp eyes of his are still tracking over you; he never misses a beat, and you know that he’s taking stock of you in the same way he would for an enemy out on the field. You feel raw, uncomfortably vulnerable. You find yourself wishing wildly and ridiculously that you had worn your usual fitted shirt and pencil skirt, or at least put on a bit of makeup.

“You look rested.” He notes, coming to a slow stop just in front of your desk.

You suddenly curse your last minute choice to stay seated, because now Price’s big body is towering over you in a way that’s honestly making your head swim a little.

“Yeah.” Your voice is a little hoarse. “I guess.”

Price nods, inhales through his nose. A moment passes before he clears his throat and reaches out to place a handful of files on your desk. Despite the plain manila envelopes, you recognise them for what they are almost immediately; the personnel files for 141.

“Finished ‘em off for you while you were gone.” He says gruffly, as though it were no big deal. “Nearly had to nail Soap down to a chair for that damn photo.”

You stare at the files for a long moment, making no move to open them. You find yourself totally, utterly lost for words. 

“This is–” You start to say, and truthfully you’re not sure where you’re going with that. You think you’re about to thank him, but he doesn’t really give you the chance to.

“Why don’t we talk?” He says, and motions to the dinky little couch in the corner of the room as if he owns it.

You hesitate a moment, a little peeved about the effortless way he takes command in your own office, but relent and push yourself up from the desk. You don’t make eye contact with Price as you step around him, walking to the corner, but you can feel his eyes on you all the same.

 The couch had come with the office, and you don’t even really want to think about how old it is, but you sink down awkwardly onto it anyway. The cushions are worn and threadbare and the springs creak gratingly when you settle your weight onto it, but it’s fine. It does the job.

You’re half-expecting Price to drag the spare chair at your desk over so he can sit opposite you – you’re not expecting him to step right up next to you before he drops down next to you, sighing as his thick thighs spread wide.

You barely bite back a squeak, a little bewildered. You’re not surprised that he’s asked to talk to you. Your behaviour had been wildly inappropriate, and you couldn’t exactly protest if he’s decided to caution you or something.

But you had expected it to be a more formal affair; sitting together on the pathetic, dingy little couch in your office feels entirely too casual for the dressing down you’re sure you’re about to receive.

“Think we’re due a discussion about the other day.” He says, gentler than you had been expecting.

You avoid his eyes, though you can feel his stare boring into the side of your face. Ugh. Time to eat humble pie, you think miserably. 

“I’m sorry, sir.” You keep your voice as dispassionate and prim as possible. “My behaviour was unprofessional and entirely unacceptable, and I have no excuse. It won’t happen again, I assure you.”

It’s as professional an apology as you can manage, and you chance a quick side glance at him to see his reaction. Your stomach sinks when you see that his brow is creased in a frown, and you panic a little at the realisation that your apology hasn’t helped matters at all.

“Well,” His voice is gruff enough to elicit a little shiver from you. “I wasn’t–” He clears his throat. “I wasn’t looking for an apology.”

That finally makes you turn properly, your eyes darting nervously over his face. He’s already watching you, his blue eyes searing under the brim of his stupid hat. He’s trimmed his beard since the last time you saw him; the salt and pepper bristles of his moustache and chops are neat and shortened. He looks good, though you try not to notice. He doesn’t look as dehydrated or drained as he did a few days ago either, though he still leans into the couch with an air of quiet exhaustion.

“Paperwork has never been my favourite thing in the world,” He confesses with an air of chagrin that’s painfully endearing to you. “Always found it a pain, to be honest. Puts me right out of sorts. I was… short with you, the other day.”

You frown, making yourself small on the couch. “You said I wasn’t necessary.”

Price winces, then reaches up and pulls his boonie hat off his head so that he can drag a hand over his short-cropped hair. Though you had insulted it only the other day, it strikes you as odd to see him with a bare head.

“Shouldn’t have said that.” He mumbles, resting his elbows on his knees and letting his hat hang from his hands. “You’ve been great these last few months. Don’t know what I’d have done without you, sometimes.”

You’re stupid. It’s the only reason you can think of to explain the way blood rushes to your head and turns your face hot, your whole body going hot and prickly in response to his low praise. You fidget, glance away, and pray he doesn’t notice. 

“You know I’m no good at deskwork,” He says, and leans in a little closer like he thinks you’re not listening properly. “Don’t have the head for it. I think you’re the reason the team runs so smoothly in the first place, love.”

The flattery is being laid on a little too thick, but it works. You fall for it entirely, a warm glow settling over you like a blanket, wrapping around you tight and soothing the jagged edges of your anger and anxiety. You hate that you’re so easy to appease, a couple of sweet compliments and assurances falling from your Captain’s lips assuaging all that upset that you’ve been carrying around with you for days now.

But still, part of you isn’t quite willing to let go of the sting, the hurt that his words and his harsh tone had caused. 

“Is this you apologising, then?” You ask, watching him from the corner of your eye.

He smiles, close-mouthed. “Yeah. It is. Not doin’ too good, am I?”

“You’re doing okay.” You murmur, before deciding to try to be a bit cheeky. “But you can keep going, if you’d like.”

Price laughs, rich and warm and low. You don’t think you’ve ever actually heard him laugh in all the months you’ve been working with the task force, and the sound of it rumbles right into your bones, settling something inside of you and finally allowing you to relax. No longer tense with stress, you melt a little into the corner of the couch.

“Shouldn’t have snapped at you,” He says slowly. “You do good work. Great work. You shouldn’t feel like you’re not a valued member of the team.”

You swallow thickly. You feel too warm, your head swimming a little. His attention feels too heavy, heating your blood and going straight to your head.

“I overreacted,” You mumble reluctantly. “I shouldn’t… your hat isn’t stupid.”

That gets another bark of laughter out of Price, and he slaps a hand down onto your knee. The contact makes you jolt, eyes widening, but Price’s hand doesn’t shift. His palm is so large, spread across your thigh as his fingers curl over your knee. The touch feels almost scorching even through the thick fabric of your trousers.

All of a sudden, your tongue feels very thick in your mouth. The hand on your knee is not in any way suggestive; it’s chaste, innocent, just resting there like a reminder that he wants your attention on him (as if it could be anywhere else). But your nerves are jangling all of a sudden, every one of your senses straining towards him as you hold your breath.

“The hat isn’t the problem,” Price mutters, though you barely hear him. “I wanted to ask you about something else you said, love. Something you said about your father.”

That has some of the heat in your veins cooling, your eyes blowing wide. “I– what?”

To your bewilderment, Price’s cheeks have reddened beneath the whiskers of his beard and moustache. Despite his clear chagrin, he doesn’t break eye contact with you, his thick fingers squeezing cautiously around your knee. 

“Don’t mean to overstep,” He assures you quietly. “And– and don’t mind me if I’m talkin’ nonsense. But I know that you’ve been working so hard, and you’ve got a tough job. Can’t be easy. And I just wanted to say that if you'd like some… guidance – someone to steer you on the right path, that is– well, that I’m here if you ever want to talk."

Oh god. You feel your mouth go dry. 

It’s funny, because even though Price isn’t even yet forty, he’s always seemed so much older. Maybe it’s the weight of the responsibility that he carries on his shoulders, or the battle-hardened icy blue eyes, or the paternal sense of protectiveness that he shows over his team. He’s always been like an almost father figure for the squad, regardless of age; you’ve seen the way he’s so protective over Ghost, the way he claps Soap on the back or shoulders in praise to boost him up, the way he beams with pride when Farah excels, the way he always makes time to guide or give advice to Gaz.

It’s sweet. He’s always been sweet, so aware of the personalities on his team, even when he’s acting like that typical military authority figure. 

"Sounds like you want to be my daddy." You mean to say it in a derogatory fashion, laughing as though it's ridiculous, though when it comes out you can hear that it’s missing some of the sarcasm you had intended.

Price reacts instantly. He reels back, eyes widening, the pink in his cheeks flares into a deep red flush, and you see his chest heave as his breath catches. You hadn’t been expecting a reaction like this; Price looks as though the words have hit him like a physical slap.

“Jesus. That’s not–” He says, and the gravelly hoarseness in his voice is a shock. “That’s not what I meant.”

There’s a moment of charged silence. Fuck, what have you done? Why would you say that? Why would you say that, to the captain of your task force? Hadn’t you embarrassed yourself enough in front of him the day you had had your silly little meltdown? It’s like you just can’t keep your damn mouth shut around him, like your brain turns to mush the second he looks at you and you just lose the run of yourself.

“I’m sorry.” You blurt. “I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know what– I didn’t mean it.”

The next silence is even worse than the last, tension humming between you like a live wire. He’s so close to you that his scent fills your nose – a blend of sweet cigar smoke, sharp gunpowder, and a heady masculine musk. You feel so fucking stupid, and more than a little panicked. You don’t think you could survive the humiliation of having to call Laswell and beg for a reassignment twice in one day just because you’ve completely humiliated yourself in front of the Captain again.

Price swallows, the sound painfully loud in the silence.

“Right.” He says slowly, before coughing roughly to clear his throat. “Mm. ‘Course. I didn’t mean to– perhaps I overstepped. Since you mentioned your father–”

“I don’t want to talk about my father.” You say swiftly.

God, you feel like your issues are out on display with a big damn spotlight. You feel so pathetic, so damn pitiful, as though your desperate need for approval and affection from an older male authority figure is written across your forehead.

But if your issues are on display, then so are Price’s, because you can’t help but notice that the vibrant red flush on his cheeks hasn’t faded. If anything, that deep flush has spread down his throat and over his chest; you can see how the skin that’s stretched over his pectoral muscles is glowing crimson beneath his shirt.

A niggling boldness begins to creep in, and you find yourself straightening on the couch. You turn, bring one of your legs up on the couch so that you can turn your whole body towards him, one of your elbows resting on the back cushion of the couch. 

Price’s eyes sharpen when your body turns towards him, and his body draws tense. Those cool blue eyes dart over you, and you’re surprised to see heat in them despite your oversized purple jumper and unflattering wool trousers. The whisper of his fatigues brushing against the fabric of your own trousers is both a distraction and an invitation, your thighs sliding surreptitiously against each other.

“What if I did mean it?” You blurt out before your courage can flee you.

Price goes so still it looks preternatural, even the breaths in his chest slowing. 

“Kid.” He says, and it sounds like a warning.

You don’t heed it, adjusting yourself so that you’re shuffling closer yet again. You don’t think you’ve ever been so close to him, his scent and his body and his heated gaze filling up your consciousness until he’s all that you’re aware of.

“What if I meant it?” You ask again, the whisper coming out low but charged. 

Price takes a breath that sounds like a groan, and it surprises you. You hadn’t expected that reaction; it sends a trickle of heated desire running down your spine, and you’re startled by how much you want him in this moment.

“D’you know what you’re asking for?” He asks, the gravel in his voice flooding wet heat between your legs. 

His carefully laced words linger in the space between you, daring you to accept, to shred the formal boundary that looms between the two of you. You get the sense that you’re walking a fine line here, that you’re getting close to the point of no return. 

“Yes.” You breathe, although you’re not entirely sure that you do know what you’re asking for. All you know is that he’s so close, and he’s staring at you with an expression of such hunger that it’s making you feel weak.

Price moves fast for such a big man, and all you can do is let out a soft sound of surprise when one of his big hands wraps around the back of your neck to pull you in. A deep, guttural sound escapes him when his lips crash into yours, his mouth demanding and greedy.

It feels like you go both lax and rigid simultaneously, before you positively light up. The hand that Price has wrapped around the back of your neck keeps you grounded, and before you can stop yourself you’re burrowing closer. It feels like the tension, your childish argument, the sexual friction – everything has culminated to this electrifying moment, where Price’s full lips are consuming yours, the hair of his beard rubbing over your cheeks and chin and keeping your nerves straining towards him.

The kiss doesn’t start out slow; it skips straight to hungry, fast and dirty, with Price’s big hands on your hip and the back of your neck, holding and guiding you. Overwhelming. 

Price’s big fucking body is leaning in, caging you against the couch. The wide shoulders and barrel-chested mass of him pressing you into the cushions is just short of breath-taking, but it’s not enough. You want to be right up against him, under his skin.

You swing your leg over Price’s, and climb up into his lap. His thighs are thick beneath you, wide and muscled, but you’re still hesitant to fully settle your weight against him. You just want to be closer, to feel the heat of him pressed against you, but the second you start moving Price grabs at your hips and pulls you down properly, uncaring of your weight.

“I’ve been–” You manage to say in between kisses, your words muffled and a little wet. “I’ve been working my ass off, for the squad, for you, and you never say or do anything–”

Price grunts, grappling with his sudden lapful of you. His eyes meet yours, and in them, you think you might see the spark of admiration, for your brave stupidity if nothing else. 

“Sh, I know,” He says as he grips at your hips under your oversized jumper, encouraging you to settle down your full weight on his thighs. “I know, love, you’ve been working so hard. What would I do without you, huh?”

And the thing is, you’re a very capable woman. You’ve had to be, in order to survive in your line of work. You know that you’re capable, you know that you do good work, you know that you help keep the wheels greased and everything moving behind the scenes for the 141, but even still, Price’s praise sinks into you like warm honey.

“Watching you walk around in those tight little skirts, Christ.” He hums, and his big palms land on your ass and squeeze there suggestively. “And those heels– completely impractical for a military base like this.”

You wheeze a laugh, clutching at his shoulders. It feels completely surreal that you’re currently perched in your Captain’s lap, with his big shovel-like hands groping your bum as he nips at your lips and confesses that he’s been watching you. It goes straight to your head, makes you dizzy, makes you wish wildly that you had worn one of those skirts for him today.

Oh, you could get used to this. Realistically you know the size difference between you two isn’t that immense, but Price is built like a man whose reality is all war, and when he shifts beneath you his muscles roll, unwittingly showing off his physique. You think you could stay here forever, feeling safe in a big man’s lap, cushioned by his body as he tells you that you’re valuable, and important.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Price groans, nipping at your lower lip before capturing your mouth wholly again. “You’re a handful.”

You’d love to argue that – you like to think that you’re perfectly measured and sensible, after all – but you’re already squirming in his lap, your legs spread wide over his thighs. Arousal pools in your stomach, makes you slick your knickers, and you can’t stop the slow grind your hips trace against his thigh.

Price’s breath shudders out of his chest, and his hands clench tight around your hips. “Hang on a sec,” He breathes, “Hold on. I’m still– I’m still your Captain–”

You think that it’s meant to be a warning, or at least a word of caution about the precarious situation you’re in regarding professionalism and inappropriate workplace relationships. What you’re doing right now is ridiculous, after all. You’re still on base, you’re in your office, and if the two of you get caught you don’t even want to think about the consequences. The fraternisation rule shouldn’t apply here, since you’re only considered part of the team by a mere technicality, but even in your lust-hazed mind you can still recognise that sitting on his lap and kissing like this at your workplace is wildly inappropriate.

But if it is a warning, it doesn’t work. The reminder of his authority only inflames you further, and a quiet whimper is torn from your throat when you rock against his lap.

He swears, and beneath you his cock stirs in his fatigues. You can feel the way it fills out where it’s pressed against the seam of your trousers, right between your legs. You reflexively squish your thighs together, tightening them around his hips.

“Christ,” He grits out like a curse. “Alright, then.”

He moves quickly, his hands secure on your back as he lunges forward, flipping you over so that you’re laying on your back on the shoddy, worn-down couch. You go so easily – 

you’re soft now, pliable and eager to please, and he could direct you anywhere he wanted.

He’s too large to be climbing on top of you on a couch like this, but somehow it doesn’t even matter. Now that he’s above you, holding himself up with those strong arms on either side of your head, he looks down on you with an expression that you don’t know what to make of. His eyes are still intense, but the lines around them are softened as he stares down, his gaze tracing your face. 

“You think I haven’t been looking?” He asks, and his voice isn’t as harsh or gritty as you’d been expecting. It’s softer now, fond, almost. “How could I fuckin’ miss you? Always so pretty, always workin’ so hard. ‘Course I noticed.”

When his fingers creep beneath your big purple jumper, you launch into helping him remove it, eagerly stripping it off so you’re laying in your bra. It’s one of your simple utilitarian ones, and you curse yourself for not wearing a sexier one.

But Price groans at the sight of your simple white cotton as though it’s premium lace. His palms are rough as they trace up your sides, the callouses on his fingers coarse against the soft squishy flesh of your belly. He leans forward and nuzzles at your ear, kissing behind your lobe before scraping his teeth along your jaw until he’s kissing messily at your mouth all over again.

“So gorgeous.” He says, his voice a low rumble that has your nerves buzzing. “I was too mean to you before, wasn’t I? Too harsh, when all you were trying to do was help.”

“Yes.” You whisper, though you feel a little bit petulant for it.

“Let me make up for it, darling,” He whispers back, and it sounds like a plea. “Hm? I’ll show you how good you’ve been.”

You’re nodding before he even finishes, desperate. God, yes. You’re not even sure what it is that he’s offering, but you know that you’ll take anything that he has to give you.

He’s looming over you, so large, as his hands fall to the closure on your work trousers. His fingers are so thick that he fumbles with the delicate button and little zip, and it takes him a couple of tries to pull it open and down. When he’s got it, he shucks your trousers off easily and tosses them aside, then stares down at you in your ugly shapeless underwear as though you’re wearing something else entirely.

Even though you’re laying unclothed and vulnerable, squirming and wanting, Price is so slow to get moving. He doesn’t grab at you, or grope greedily, or take impatiently. He acts as though he’s got all the time in the world, leisurely looking you over as though he’s committing you to memory.

“Need you to say it,” He says, strained like he’s trying to hold himself back. “Need you to say it out loud.”

“Want you to show me how good I’ve been.” You say immediately, your desire leaving no room for shame. “Want you to look after me.”

The request comes out a little bit plaintive, and Price sighs out before ducking his head and kissing you again. He’s so much more affectionate than you had ever imagined, and you feel as though you’re drowning in it. His attention is like a warm blanket, settling every craving you’ve ever had.

“I will,” He breathes like it’s a promise. “Oh, I will.”

His palms are rough and hot as they drag over your skin, deceptively gentle as he reaches your tits and pushes your bra up so that he can knead at the soft flesh there. He doesn’t even bother to unclasp it, impatient enough that shoving the cups up so to free your breasts is enough for him. 

He bends his head down, and licks a stripe over your nipple. His tongue feels scorching against you, like you’re hypersensitive to his touch, and he groans against your skin as though he’s tasting something incredible.

You writhe, hips arching up in search of some kind of friction, but Price doesn’t give it to you. He’s too distracted, peppering dozens of kisses over your tits as though they’re something precious even as his hands coast down your back to grope at your ass again where your plain cotton underwear is riding up.

“So pretty, ain’tcha?” He groans against your chest. “Fuck, even when you were walkin’ around with a face on you like a slapped arse, I thought you were the sweetest fuckin’ thing I’d ever seen.”

“Charming.” You snap, but there’s no anger in your tone anymore. In fact, you don’t think there’s a lick of anger anywhere in your whole body anymore, like Price’s hands and mouth on you have washed it all away.

All the brattiness, and the prickliness of your bad mood, is entirely forgotten now that you’re laid out and squirming beneath him. You can hardly even remember what you had been so stressed and angry with him for.

He finally reaches around to unclasp your bra, then tosses it to the side to let it slump sadly to the floor. His next target is your underwear, pulled from you roughly enough that you think the fabric might tear even as his hands cradle the plush flesh of your ass like it’s a treasure.

“Mm, so gorgeous, princess,” It seems like the name just slips out of his mouth, and you feel your whole body draw tense and hot. “So lovely, and I bet you taste even better than you look… like sugar, my sweet girl.”

Jesus Christ. You think your whole fucking body throbs, blood pounding and nerves straining as you wish so desperately for him to touch you. You can’t handle him talking to you like that, so fondly, as if you haven’t just acted like the biggest brat in the world for several days straight.

You can hardly even reconcile this man with the usual stern, gruff man that acts as your Captain, and you let out a choked whine of bewilderment as he slides down your body.

Your thighs are clamped together, shy under his gaze despite how desperately eager you are. You want this, you want him, but you can’t help but feel so mortified by the vulnerability of being nude beneath him on the couch while his big formidable body is still entirely clothed.

Price’s fingers stroke against your hip, his tone low and rich as his lips find your throat again. You can feel his tongue darting out against your skin, his hunger so palpable now that it’s infectious.

“Let daddy see you,” He croaks against the hollow of your throat. “Spread your legs, sweetheart.”

It’s not like you could ever say no to that. The request sends liquid heat shooting straight to your cunt, making you hot and sticky. You spread your thighs, and feel embarrassment flare when there’s a squelch as your cunt unsticks. And– Jesus, Price’s eyes fucking light up, and you realise that he’s clocked your reaction to his honeyed words, the way he calls himself daddy.

The kiss he gives you is claiming and hungry, consuming your lips with a fervour that leaves no room for doubt about his intentions. It’s a taste of both command and reverence — in equal measure. When he pulls away from your mouth you’re breathless, still gasping softly even as he pushes himself down the length of your body.

In the blink of an eye, he’s there — between your welcoming thighs, his hands resting securely on your soft hips, as much a lifeline as a promise of what’s to come. Your pussy is already sloppy, slick and wet in anticipation of him. He shoves his head between your thighs, using his thumbs to spread apart your folds and just look at you.

Your back arches at even the suggestion of his touch, feeling his breath ghost over the heated slick flesh of your cunt. Despite your obvious willingness, and his apparent eagerness, he doesn’t immediately touch you.

You crane your neck to see that he’s staring at your pussy as though the sight of it is earth-shattering. His gaze drinks you in, heated blue eyes taking in the sight of your swollen sticky folds, no doubt throbbing invitingly under his attention. You’ve never seen a man look so hungry, like he’s about to risk anything for it. A dark, groaned "fuck" escapes him as he kneels between your spread legs, head bowed as if in reverence.

"Daddy needs a taste, sweet girl," His deep voice a heavy rumble, vibrating against your soft inner thighs. 

It takes a beat for you to realise that he’s holding himself back, that he’s essentially asking for permission to lay his mouth on you, but then you gasp, “Yes, fuck, yes, please–”

Price takes it as the enthusiastic invitation that it is and bursts into movement immediately, reaching out and guiding your legs wider so that he can muscle in between them properly, before leaning in and finally getting his mouth on you.

You choke, hips aching as you try to spread your legs even further. Price drags the flat of his tongue along the seam of your cunt, groaning as though he’s savouring the taste of you, before wrapping his arms around your thighs to keep you all spread open for him as his tongue rasps over your sensitive flesh.

You want to call out for him, but his name stalls on your tongue. What would you call him – Price? John? Captain? Daddy? You think you would die if you said it out loud.

Then his tongue finds your clit, and your thoughts scatter. He flicks the tip of his tongue over you, back and forth, then flattens it to grind eagerly. You had thought, given the way he had taken that moment just to look at you before he’d pressed his mouth to you, that he would start slow. But instead, he gives you everything he has.

You cry out as he devours your cunt, his bushy eyebrows pulling up in delight as you give him your first moan. While your legs had spread wide in the beginning, eager to let him in, you now close them tight around his head to keep him in place. You have a brief, hazy thought that maybe this is an asshole move of you, a little like if a man were to hold your head down while you were sucking cock, but Price doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, judging by the snarl he lets out when your thighs close around his ears, he likes it.

You toss your head back against the worn couch cushions as jolts of white-hot heat spread from where his mouth is working at you, playing with you, tongue painting long, broad strokes up and down your pussy. 

Your cunt is syrupy hot, throbbing as his tongue rubs relentlessly at your clit. You’re so fucking wet, and you can’t help yourself from rolling your hips more assertively into his mouth. You’re leaking on his mouth, his tongue, your slick drenching his cheeks and his beard.

Seized by a sudden urge to watch, you clumsily raise your head so you can look down. It feels entirely illicit, watching Price’s head between your legs as he buries his face so enthusiastically into your folds. His eyes flash as he glances up, the bottom half of his face hidden entirely in your pussy as his jaw works, the soft hair of his beard tickling your sensitive inner thighs.

With a jolt, you realise that one of his hands has fallen to his lap, his trousers hastily pushed open. He’s fisting at his dripping cock, red and angry and still begging for release against the thick dark hair of his stomach. Sticky pre-cum leaks from his flushed head, pooling into his skin and clothes as his cock bobs and twitches at the sounds of your moans.

The sudden realisation that Price is getting off on this, on the taste of you and the smell of you and the way you’re whining, sets you aflame. He grunts, one of his big hand’s wrapping around his throbbing skin to pump his length to the rhythm of his tongue inside of you.

“Oh, oh fuck,” You press your lips together, stomach pulling tight as his tongue thrusts up inside of you, “Fuck, fuck, fuck that’s so good, oh god, Captain–”

“Yeah,” Price grunts, his words all wetly muffled, his arms wrapped tight around your thighs to keep you in place as he feasts on you, sucking on your clit like it’s a sweet. “I know, baby, I know.”

He’s so accommodating, so nice to you. You tilt your hips up and grind your cunt into his mouth, sighing in satisfaction as his tongue drags along your clit before dipping to lick inside of you. He barely even shifts when you hump your pussy into his face; he only opens his mouth wider, licks at you more enthusiastically as though your desperation is contagious. 

Your belly goes hot and tight, and a high-pitched whimper is torn from your throat. It feels as though you’ve been strung high and taut for months now, and your breath catches at your imminent orgasm. You’ve just been so stressed, and having Price hunched over you on the couch like this with your legs thrown up around his shoulders as he licks and sucks at you so eagerly that it has your eyes rolling in your head feels like it’s curing you.

You think, somewhat madly, that an orgasm like this, with Price’s mouth sealed over your cunt, will solve every damn problem you have right now.

“Wanna come, wanna come, Jesus fucking Christ, please please–” Your chest heaves as you scramble, one of your hands reaching down to cup Price’s head to keep him in place, face buried in your cunt. “Oh god, please make me come–”

Maybe it’s not fair to be so demanding of him, but to his credit Price responds with restless enthusiasm. You double over in pleasure as he heeds your broken little pleas, your nails scraping into the couch as you cling on for dear life. His tongue swirls over your clit quickly and with fervour, tight circles to make your vision go blurry.

You’re lost in the sensation of his hot, wet mouth in your cunt, the way he licks into you like a starving man tasting his first meal. It feels like a sensation overload, as though you’re just completely lost to your own desire, but you just want more of what he is offering. 

You grab his hair again and pull him closer, greedy with need, and he hums in affirmation as he allows you to guide his mouth to exactly where you need it. Arching your hips up, you grind into his mouth, chasing your orgasm. You groan, eyelids fluttering as you wrap your other leg around Price’s shoulders, up around his neck, and his hand snakes around your thigh to anchor you there.

Price’s fingers are gripping at your hips, surely hard enough to leave bruises there. You smile, almost deliriously; you could live with some souvenirs from tonight.

Your feeble gasps start to spiral into whimpers as that hot coil begins to tighten in your belly, and your toes start to curl. When your climax finally hits, it does so with a sense of relief that almost knocks you flat. Your body winds tight then releases, and you convulse in a wave of shudders that has you sobbing out loud.

Your chest heaves as you sob, squirming as Price licks at your clit insistently. It feels like your breath has caught in your chest, your toes curling so hard that your feet cramp. You’re panting like a damn dog as your orgasm rocks through you, until the waves of it subside and you can finally get a full breath again.

From one second to the next your nerves turn red-hot and oversensitive, and you clamp your thighs shut around Price’s ears and whimper-whine pathetically. Mercifully, he gets your unspoken message easily, and finally pulls back, chuckling breathlessly to himself as he pushes your legs apart in order to retreat.

“Fuck,” He says, and his voice comes out as harsh and gravelly as you’ve ever heard it. “Jesus Christ. Knew you’d taste sweet, knew that you’d come so pretty.”

The praise practically slams into you, ripping through you like a forest fire. It feels like you’ve lost your breath all over again, and ridiculously you suddenly feel shy. 

“I–That–” You start to say, but you still feel a little fuzzy-headed from your orgasm and your thoughts fizz away like TV static. 

“Mhm, I know, sweet girl.” He murmurs hoarsely as though you had said something coherent. 

When Price finally sits up, you blink hazily. He had been all hunched over you, crammed into the corner of the couch in order to squeeze himself between your thighs like that, but now that he’s straightening back up again you’re reminded with a tired jolt just how big and broad and strong he is.

A small, self-conscious part of your brain screams at you to close your legs. Your thighs are still spread wide, your cunt on display; you’re still all sloppy and wet, spit-slick and dripping, all puffy from the attention Price had lavished on you with his mouth.

But instead of closing your legs, you let your thighs fall open a little wider and shift restlessly under his intense gaze. Your desire makes you stupid – how could you ever experience anything as mundane as self-consciousness when he’s staring at you like that? He’s looking at you like he wants to fall atop you all over again, and you feel yourself throb – you feel so empty, your body craving something to fill you.

And Price notices the way you keep yourself all spread for him, the way you don’t make any move to cover yourself. Beneath his beard, his face splits into a wide smile, the apples of his cheeks practically glowing with pride.

“Oh, my girl, you're so pretty. Just the loveliest girl in the world with your beautiful face and your hair all wild like that.” He leans in then, and presses a hungry  kiss to your mouth. He tastes salty-sweet, the iron tang of yourself lingering on his lips. His beard is wet too, practically soaked through.

You gasp when he pulls back, overwhelmed by the kiss and the praise and the electric aftershocks of your orgasm. “Your beard is wet.” You observe dumbly.

He chuckles, as though you’ve said something terribly endearing. “Of course it is, sweetheart. That’s all you.”

You mumble a little incoherently, mostly because you’ve just spotted the way his trousers are still unbuttoned and his hard, swollen cock is jutting out from the band of his boxers. It’s angry looking, the head of it so red it looks a little painful, and you feel a sudden urge to return the favour seize you.

But when you reach out, Price is quick to grab your wrist. He transfers his grip to your hand swiftly so you don’t feel as though you’re being held down, his wide palm and thick fingers winding around yours.

“Don’t have to do that, love.” He grunts, shifting. He’s looming over you, hips tilted towards you and his wide shoulders blocking out your view of the office. “D’you think you could take me?”

It takes you a moment for your slow, stupid brain to catch up and process what he’s asking you. Then you nod swiftly, eyes widening. You're wet and sticky and so so empty, and you have no doubt your body is so ready to take him inside. 

You’re still a little limp and drained from the satisfaction of your orgasm, but you keep your thighs spread and wait eagerly for him to touch you again. He doesn’t keep you waiting long; he coos softly at you as he adjusts himself, kissing your tummy then up your sternum and back to your throat. The soft, sweet kisses distract you as he presses his hips between your thighs.

You gasp softly, your clit sensitive enough that when his cock rubs against it, you jolt. Despite the overload of sensation, you find yourself grinding back against him, so desperate for something. As if he can sense what you need, he presses a kiss to your jaw and dips a hand between your thighs. Two thick, calloused fingers circle your clit for a moment and make you whimper, only to dip lower and press inside you.

His fingers are larger than yours, but they still slip into you so damn easily that it’s embarrassing. You barely even feel a stretch, your body so eager for him that your cunt practically sucks his fingers up.

The worst part is the way Price laughs, all soft and breathy as he rubs his callous-roughened fingers into the spongey walls of your cunt. 

“Oh, fuck,” He murmurs, his lips dragging over your overheated skin. “Yeah, you’ll take me just fine.”

You burn with embarrassment, but you still don’t close your legs. It’s silly, but there’s still an element of pride as his fingers rub against the soft inside of your pussy; you want him to see how much you want him, how well you’ll take him. It’s obvious how wet you are, and you hope he’s imagining how good you’ll feel on the inside.

“Need you to turn over for me, love.” He murmurs, gripping at your hips and easing you over so that you’re on your belly beneath him. “That’s it, arse up. My knees aren’t what they used to be. Make it easy for me.”

You usually would make a joke about that, some sort of jab about being old before his time, but you simply don’t have the mental capacity for it. You’re too busy dropping to rest your weight on your elbows as you stick your ass up towards him, arching your back and hoping you look pretty.

He doesn’t waste any more time, much to your relief. Your mouth drops open with a sigh as you feel the blunt head of his cock glide between your slick folds, tapping once against your clit just to watch the way your legs jerk, then finally lining up with your entrance and pressing lightly in. His cock notches, catches, then slides in so slowly that it makes you want to scream.

“Gotta let me in, petal.” He says, using his grip on your hips to pull you back onto his cock in increments. “Relax, relax.”

You had wanted this, you’re more eager than you think you’ve ever been for anyone in your life, and yet Price is a big man and the stretch makes your breath stall in your lungs. Your cunt is sucking his cock in further with a hunger that’s almost embarrassing, even as you wince a little at the feeling of being stretched out to your limits. Though you’re wet and eager and ready, two of Price’s fingers briefly testing inside weren’t quite enough to prepare you for how fat his cock is. 

Your head is spinning. You’ve never taken a cock this big with so little stretching, but neither you nor Price are patient enough to wait. But the stretch feels good, and you find yourself wheezing like a moron as he presses inside inch by inch.

“Fuck… you alright, love?” Price breathes, adjusting his knees on the couch behind you and wrapping his hands around your hips. The motion only succeeds in shifting him far enough away to make you aware of the feeling of him sliding into you again. You both groan, and you feel Price twitch, deep inside you.

“Fuck,” You moan, breath gasping out of you. “You’re fucking huge.”

It feels like you’re learning for the very first time what it really means to be full. For a few seconds, it feels like you can’t even breathe. It feels like his cock is lodged somewhere in your belly, forcing the breath from your lungs as he nestles his way deeper into the eager clutch of your body.

“Am I– s’it too much, honey?” He asks, his voice rough and low as his hands squeeze at the flesh at your hips. “Need me to take it out?”

“No!” You blurt, and your body clenches up hard as though you’re trying to lock him in and keep him from escaping. “Don’t you dare!”

His cock still feels so big, and when you tighten up as hard as you do it almost feels as though he’s fucking impaling you. Price groans as though he’s been shot, and his head lowers so that he’s burying his face into the space between your shoulderblades. His body lowers too until his chest is pressed to your back, joined at the hips as he rocks inside of you. 

“Okay,” He grunts, and you can feel his chest expand as he takes a breath. “Okay, love, but you need to relax. You’re going to squeeze my cock right off.”

“Sorry.” You try to do as he asks, taking a deep breath and allowing your body to go limp and pliant. He grunts in appreciation, and you feel his whiskery beard rasp against your throat as he presses a kiss to your neck as if to reward you.

Your spine is still taut from the pressure of being all stretched out around his cock, and you reach back clumsily to grasp at his belly, the soft fabric of his shirt rucking up between your fingers. Price reaches back and grabs at the neck of his own shirt, tearing it over his head then tossing it aside. Your eyes are all hazy and a little blurred from your overwhelmed tears, but you look back over your shoulder and blink frantically in an attempt to get a proper look at him. 

God, he’s so big and strong, his chest furred with a layer of brown hair curling in whorls over his nipples and down over his belly. You feel yourself pulse in response, your mouth dropping open in a thoughtless gasp of desire. He’s exactly the kind of man you think of when you think of masculinity, and your belly tightens in anticipation when he presses all up against you, heavy and hot.

When he begins to pull out and press back in, the noise you make is utterly pathetic. It feels like he cleaving you in two, carving out a space for his cock every time he fucks back into you. He’s cautious at first, conscious of hurting you, but when your thighs close around his hips he grunts and begins to pick his pace up.

“Christ, you’re tight,” Price says, his voice all rough and muffled against your shoulder. “And you're all mine, love, my own sweet girl, ain’t that right? And daddy's gonna love you so good, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” You gasp stupidly, pressing your face into the couch cushions.

Typically, you find that doggy style can be a position that’s a little detached – usually, you like seeing the face of the person you’re fucking. But right now, with Price plastering his whole hairy body against your back as he ruts into you and the sweet filthy words he’s murmuring to you, this position feels so far from detached that it has your head spinning. It feels like he’s blanketing you, the heat from his skin igniting what feels like an inferno between the two of you. Sweat beads at your forehead, and you moan softly as Price begins to fuck you properly.

You’re bouncing against the couch, clutching at the cushions as your body moves under the weight of Price’s powerful thrusts. The sound of it is sloppy and wet, your bodies smacking together quick and hard. And fuck, it feels good. His cock is hitting that perfect spot deep inside of you, and your entire body jolts with pleasure every time he pounds back in. 

It’s enough to make you squeal, your nails scrabbling desperately for purchase on the threadbare couch cushions in an attempt to stabilise yourself. Your nipples are sensitive from Price’s licking at sucking at them, and your toes curl as your tits are pressed into the rough-textured cushions, electrifying your nerves to the point of almost too-much. 

The noises you make are entirely undignified, and you struggle to muffle them into the couch. Little burbling ah ah ah’s are being torn from your throat every time Price fucks into you, the sensation of his furred balls slapping against you with every thrust has your eyes rolling.

Your body is all loose and pliant from your earlier orgasm, and you whimper as though you’re being fucked absolutely stupid. It’s not that he’s fucking you all that hard, but he’s filling you up so deliciously and knowing that it’s him, your Captain, the man that you’ve worked so damn hard to impress and to please, makes you feel like you’re going to explode. Even through the haze of desire and pleasure, a little part of you is still so aware of making him happy. You keep your back arched, practically waving your ass up in the air as he fucks into you.

“Tell me how you like it, sweetheart. Tell me how it feels.” Price says in a low, rough purr. His chest is still pressed to your back even as the two of you pant and sweat as you rock together. “Tell daddy how good he's making you feel.”

Jesus Christ, Price feels like a fucking furnace against you. It feels almost as though you’ve been glued together, your skin sweat slick as he ruts into you like an animal. Your lungs are burning, and your mind is completely scattered. Getting fucked like this feels feels primal, an exchange of power through pleasure; you’re aware that he’s asked you a question, but you can hardly string two thoughts together. All you can do is squirm and whimper in below him as his weight pins you in place.

“Good,” You groan, vaguely aware that tears are leaking from your eyes and soaking the couch beneath you. Your vision is blurred, and you can’t even see straight. “I just– it’s so much–”

“I know,” He rumbles. “But you can take it, can’t you? You’ve been so good, sweetheart.”

The praise does exactly what he’s hoping for; you practically melt into a puddle beneath him. Your thoughts are slow and sluggish, and your jaw hangs open as you fucking drool. Even still, you manage to nod your head clumsily. You can take him – it feels like a point of pride to prove it now, to show off how good you can be.

Price’s rhythm is practically machine-like, and you make a quiet sound of pure appreciation when his cock slams into that gummy spot inside of you that makes you lose your breath. It’s as though he takes note of it, because from that point on he stays absolutely jackhammering into that little spot, making you see stars and have to bite your lip to stifle your moans. His balls would slam against your clit in a repeated motion that made your underbelly tighten like a coil so close to snapping.

He groans every time he sinks into you, his growls rumbling into your back and ratcheting up the intensity another notch. You feel lost in a sea of sensation, moored only by the places of contact between you and Price. Your hips are humping back against Price’s cock unconsciously, unable to help yourself and unable to get enough of him.

“I wanna come again,” You say, and it comes out in a demanding sort of whine. It’s a little humbling to hear yourself and realise that you sound so honest to god bratty, but you can’t bring yourself to care when Price is apparently in such a giving mood today. 

“You’re gonna come, love.” He promises. His voice has that tone to it, the one you’ve always tried to ignore during work because it makes you so horny. The authoritative one, when it drops just a bit in pitch, when it sounds just a little like a threat.

But despite his promise, he doesn’t change his steady pace. You’re just this side of overwhelmed, but you still need more to push you over the edge into the second orgasm that’s simmering in your lower stomach. 

“Please, daddy,” You let the name pass your lips on a whimper, finally giving in and calling him by the title he’s so clearly craving. He’s fucked all the shame out of your body at this point, leaving you with nothing but white hot desperation. “Please, please make me come again–”

“Fuckin’ Christ–”

Price’s arm reaches around your front, and you’re startled when his big palm wraps around your throat. You think for a moment that you’re about to get choked, but no pressure follows. He just grips you there, gentle and secure, before using his hold on you to pull you back against him so that he’s rutting up into you at a speed that’s overwhelming in the best way. His other arm reaches around your belly so that he can rub at your clit as he rails you into the couch. His soft grip on your throat ensures that no matter how much you try to squirm your way back into meeting his thrusts, you’re forced into stillness. 

It’s exactly what you wanted, and it has you wheezing and hiccuping out moans on every stroke. It’s better than you ever could have hoped for, and you’re nearly sobbing from the sheer sensation of it all. You feel your abdomen drawing tight, heat beginning to build rapidly in the bottom of your belly as he strokes at your clit hard and fast at a pace that matches his fucking.

You know that you’re already starting to shake, trembling from head to toe. You can’t even keep your back arched anymore, though you don’t think Price gives a shit because he just nuzzles at the base of your shoulder as he fucks into you. Between his cock and his fingers, everything just feels too much but your body is strung taut as you proverbially climb higher and higher.

“Oh god, I’m– yes, yes, yes–” You chant, your voice high and reedy and so damn needy.

Then the world falls out from under you. With one last whimpering moan, your body convulses beneath the heavy weight of your captain’s big body. Your vision practically wipes out, and you squeeze down around Price’s dick and pulse. Your whole body rocks with the flood of pleasure, the warm fuzzy feeling that makes you feel as though you’re losing your mind. You know that your hips are twitching madly, simultaneously trying to get more and less as you get overwhelmed by the feeling of him fucking you through it all.

You’re still coming down from the sweet release of your orgasm when Price practically tears himself away from you, leaving you cruelly empty and clenching around nothing. You let out a sharp sound of loss, startled that he’s pulled away so suddenly, and you find yourself slumping bonelessly against the couch now that his hands are no longer supporting you.

The wet shlurping sounds from behind you prompt you to glance lazily over your shoulder from where your face is smushed against the cushions, and you’re blessed with the sight of Price tugging his cock furiously behind you. His cheeks are bright red as he stares at the mess he’s made of you, his jaw soft and his mouth open as he pants.

He sees you looking, and whatever expression is on your face seems to be his undoing. He takes in your tear-clumped eyelashes and your dazed expression, and you can practically see the moment he hurtles over the edge. He practically snarls, his nose scrunching in a way that’s unexpectedly adorable right as his cock gives one fat pump of thick white come, then several smaller sputterings that collect in a creamy puddle right at the base of your spine, just over the swell of your ass.

You sigh, your eyelids fluttering lazily shut as you relish the feeling of his hot come hitting your skin. You still can’t manage to pull yourself together, feeling loose and floaty like you’re on another fucking planet entirely. You’re only distantly aware of his big palm rubbing gentle circles on the small of his back; you think for a second that he’s just trying to soothe you, until your fucked out brain catches up and you realise that he’s rubbing his come into you like it’s goddamn lotion. Your cunt gives a tired throb at the realisation, fluttering as though it’s sad that he didn’t come inside.

“Fuck…” You hear him rumble from behind you, then a hot heavy weight settling over you yet again. This time, he pulls you back into his arms to hold you tight against his chest. 

You go perfectly limp, curling into him and nuzzling into his sweaty hairy chest. Despite yourself, you’re reminded of cuddling with a massive teddy bear. All you can do is hum, basking in the affection and hardly able to think at this point after he’s turned your brain into a slurry of feelings without thoughts.

“You okay, love?” Price asks. You can feel his nose nuzzling against your temple, though you can’t quite summon the energy to open your eyes again. “Did I go too hard on you?”

Your legs are still shaky, your hamstrings aching and your back throbbing a little from the pounding you’ve just taken. But Price is being so lovely and soft, so gentle with you right now. His hands coast over your hips, your back, your waist, squeezing a little bit just because he seems to like the way you feel in his hands.

“Shhh,” You drawl shakily. “Don’t make me think right now.”

A low chuckle, and you feel his broad chest rumble with it where your head is laying atop him. His fingers run up the length of your spine, the touch making you shiver. He touches you like you’re delicate, a stark contrast to the way he’d just fucked you into your sad little office couch. It makes something in your belly squirm.

“Alright. My girl just needed to switch off for a while, hm?” He murmurs, and you can hear the clear undertone of amusement in his voice. “How are you going to finish out work today if you’re all sleepy like this, huh?”

That wakes you up a little, and you finally blink your eyes open again in order to look up at him. An edge of panic is beginning to creep in as awareness comes back to you, and you take a deep breath as your hands curl against his chest.

“Oh my god.” You blurt, eyes growing wide. “I– we’re at work!”

“Sharp as ever, darling.”

Not even Price’s lazy wryness can distract you now. You try to wiggle off the couch, already craning your head around in search of your clothes, but Price’s thick arm locks tight around your middle and keeps you pressed to him.

“We have to– oh my god, we have to get dressed, what if someone walks in–”

“Shh, shhh, I locked the door when I came in,” Price grumbles. He doesn’t appear too impressed with the way you’re attempting to wiggle away, but it doesn’t matter so much; even with one arm he’s perfectly capable of keeping you pinned in place against his chest. “Lie back down, love.”

Slowly, you let yourself relax back into him. It’s hard to hold onto your panic when he’s so obviously unbothered, so you end up hesitantly snuggling back up against his chest as his arms come up to close around you. Despite his encouragement, you’re unsure whether or not you’re allowed to be touching him like this. But his hands don’t stray from you, not even once, and gradually you return to your previous state of being a puddle of limbs and pliant muscle.

“That’s it, relax.” He coaxes, clearly pleased now that you’re melting back into him. 

“I have so much work to catch up on.” You grumble, though you have no intention of actually going anywhere now that he’s given you the greenlight to stay like this.

His chest vibrates beneath your cheek, and you realise he’s chuckling again. It feels good, and you sigh softly as your fingers stroke lightly over the defined shape of his soft pecs.

“You think I wasn’t capable of keeping the ship afloat for the couple of days you were gone?” He asks, one hand stroking over your flank then dipping lower to flatten his palm over your left asscheek. “I finished out those little files you were stressin’ over. No picture of Ghost for his, but like I said, that’s standard.”

You had known that he had finished updating the files for you when you had seen Farah’s, but hearing it straight from his mouth is something else entirely. You purse your lips and lower your eyes, still embarrassed about your little freak out despite his apologies. 

“Thank you.” You mumble. 

You try to hide your face in his chest again, but a large hand on your jaw stops you by tilting your head back and forcing you to look at him. A thumb strokes over your cheek, and then he’s leaning in and pressing a sweet kiss to your mouth. You respond tiredly but eagerly, still hardly able to believe that your boss that you’ve been mooning after for months is being so affectionate and intimate with you.

Price pulls back slightly so that your lips are just barely touching, breathing each other’s air for a moment.

“Ask for help when you need it, sweetheart.” He murmurs, his lips dragging over yours. “That’s what I’m here for. We help each other with the workload, alright?”

“Yeah,” You breathe, leaning in eagerly in the hopes of getting another kiss. “Alright.”

Price smiles, his cheeks going all full and round as his eyes crinkle, and you feel your heart throb so violently it feels as though it jumps right up into your throat. He leans in and kisses you again, soft and sweet as his beard rasps against your chin.

You want to stay like this forever, wrapped up so warm and cosy and safe in his arms. He makes you feel so safe, like you’re valued and appreciated, and you can’t even feel bad about being lazy because he so clearly doesn’t want to move either.

“Let me come home with you tonight,” He says suddenly, and you feel his bicep contract as he squeezes you closer. “You have an apartment off base, don’t you? I’ll… why don’t I cook you dinner, hm? Want to show you how much I appreciate all the work you do.”

There’s a pause, then he adds cautiously, “If I’m not being presumptuous, that is.”

You can’t stop the shy smile from overtaking your face. He’s so sweet, and being on the receiving end of this kind of attention from him is more than you ever could have expected. Ridiculously, he seems a little nervous as well, and you come to the slow realisation that he had been vulnerable with you as well when it came to his interests when he had fucked you.

“I thought this was you appreciating the work I do.” You say coyly, glancing pointedly at all of your bare skin pressed up against his.

“Mm. You do a lot of work, and I’m very appreciative.” Price murmurs, squeezing teasingly at your ass.

You giggle despite yourself, relishing the light-hearted air between the two of you. At the sound of your laugh, Price’s expression brightens further; it’s strange, seeing your usually stern, stressed captain being so sweet with you. You’re so used to seeing him with that flinty determined look in his eyes, or barking orders, or with his eyes sagging with exhaustion after a long deployment only to return to a pile of mission reports. Seeing him like this, with those soft eyes and a fond smile, makes your heart feel as though it’s beating out of rhythm.

“I said I’d look after you, sweetheart.” He murmurs, and this time his voice is missing that teasing undertone from before. He sounds so earnest now, almost painfully so. “You just need to let me.”

Yeah, you think to yourself as you let yourself succumb to the drowsy haze that’s been tugging at you, allowing your eyes to slide shut as you nuzzle into Price’s bare chest. You think letting John Price look after you might just be the easiest thing you’ve ever done.

Genuinely the best thing i have ever read!!!!

yandere!nagi x reader, kunigami x reader

summary: when your boyfriend moves to argentina, your leftover life is more bleak than you'd imagined. Nagi's willing to spice it up for you, but he's not about to let your opinion of him get in the way of his own pleasure.

a/n - extremely dub bordering on n0ncon, but nagi is genuinely into you. nagi has a super super strong dacry philia k/ink, like SO strong. he doms but lazily. both nagi and kunigami are genuinely into reader. post blue lock at least a few years. choking, vio lence, threats. manipulation. reader's parents were alcoholics and she's shy and timid, a bit of a pushover if you dont like that then skip it. part one probably. angst, hurt comfort, smut, reader has a panic attack and nagi comforts her so sweet. this is dark content, have an age in your bio to interact minors dni

Nagi remembers the moment he realized you didn’t like him. It’s not the kind of detail he normally notices, and it’s even rarer for something like that to bother him, and while it’s true that it takes the first three months of your contract with his pro team for him to pick up on it, once it’s there the truth is undeniable. Glaring. 

It annoys him, honestly, to watch you stammer your way through an earnest conversation with a fucking benchwarmer like Raichi, and then give Nagi short answers that ensure the conversation doesn’t last longer than it needs to. With him, you’re professional, that’s it. But Barou gets to hear about your weekend, hears you sigh about the plant you just bought, and you’ll even argue with him about the merits of scented cleaning products. It grates on him when it feels compulsory that you scurry over to him during the scrimmage break. 

“Is your ankle okay?” You ask quietly, not drawing the attention of any of the assistant coaches or other players. Maybe this is why it bothered him, you were good, good at your job, good at whatever bullshit ology made you good at reading body movements, predicting mood and injury. You also know that any theatrics about a possible injury could get him benched, that he’d spent the last year jockeying with Barou for the top spot on the team, and a single missed game would be devastating to that goal. 

“Hurts a little.” He says, not bothering to look at you. “Not enough though.” You understand immediately. “Can I find you, after?” You look up at him, surprised. He didn’t seek you out often, and you had plenty of needy visitors, inquiring about gameplay, old injuries, and new ones. You nod noncomittally, confirming his little insecurity, going back to stand behind Barou and one of the defenders. The dark-haired forward turns around and says something to you that makes you laugh nervously. Nagi steams. 

He stares out across the pitch for a moment, ignoring the conversation you’re pulled between, one of the defenders snarls at a midfielder, you try to sidestep but immediately you’re called in as a subject matter expert on the play, on their movements, and he’s not looking or caring as you shrink from the huge men. One of the coaches steps in, practically knocking you out of the line of fire, telling them both to fucking walk it off and play better. 

Your hands tremble, so you shove them in your pockets. It’s not too cold on the indoor pitch, but you hate it, hate being yelled at, hate how they’re so eager to touch you, grabbing your arm and dragging you into the argument. You hate how you feel like you’re the only woman for a square mile, even though in your heart you know there’s someone at the reception desk. Even the other experts the team had hired were men, doctors, and professors of game theory. Your contract was up in two months, you reminded yourself, of course, this would be different without him. 

___

“This is your dream,”  you’d told him, hand still swallows in his. He hums softly, nodding. “I won’t um, if you’re gonna say you shouldn’t go because of me, I’ll tell you off.” Kunigami Rensuke raises a single eyebrow. 

“You, you’re gonna tell me off?” He grins. “I don’t think so.” 

“I will.” You say firmly, rocking up onto your tiptoes. He sighs. The two of you are standing on a little bridge in a suburb of Tokyo, the sun setting brilliantly in front of you, painting everything gold. 

“No I’m uh,” he swallows. “I’m going. For sure. To Argentina.” The lump rises in your throat. “And I know you can’t come with me, so don’t bother. You just started your career here. You literally only moved to Japan a year ago.” You nod, pressing your lips together, and he lets go of your hand, slipping an arm around your waist, and tugging you into his body. 

“When do you leave?” You whisper, with all the breath you can muster. 

“Two weeks.” He confirms, and the tears in your eyes spill over. “C’mere.” He grunts, as if you’re not already inhumanely close, he wraps his arms around you. “A girl like you, I’m sure you’ll have another pro-athlete boyfriend in a matter of hours.” His attempt at humor falls flat, betrayed by the pain in his own voice, the idea of you with anyone else tears at him. You don’t laugh at the joke. 

“Don’t you remember I broke my rule for you?” You say, and he looks down at you as the memory surfaces. 

“Ah, yeah,” he surreptitiously wipes his own eye. “Yeah.” He manages a smile with enormous effort. “Not sure I wanna see you with any of those assholes anyway.” He shakes his head. “Who the fuck am I kidding, I’m gonna have to fight the urge to throttle anyone who touches you.” That does pull a laugh from your lips. “They better behave, on the new team, when they rotate you. If they don’t you can call me.” 

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.” You wrap your arms around him, settling against his chest. “Let’s just think about right now.” 

“Okay.” He breathes. “Okay.” 

____

For the thousandth time this week, you miss Kunigami. You hadn’t realized how much his hovering presence forced his teammates to behave, to be polite, to not yell back in your face when you gently suggested a change in form. Your hands shake a little harder and you feel your heart race in your chest, barely managing to stave off the panic until the scrimmage ends, and the men thunder to back to their locker room. You were already dying for this contract to end, refusing to quit but lining jobs that would place you squarely back in academia. 

It felt like a failure. It felt like an admission of failure, that everything everyone had ever told you was true. Your legs carry you off the field, and down the hallway, but you don’t make it to your office before you start to cry, pressing yourself against the painted cinderblock wall, pressing your hand over your mouth to quiet the sobs. 

Nagi takes a couple of extra minutes to stretch, trying to reason with himself. What did it matter if you didn’t like him? Why was he even thinking about it, why was it interesting to him what you did, what you thought? He pushes to his feet and stalks off towards the door, wanting to refill his water bottle rather than heading straight to the locker room. He’s standing at the end of the hallway when he hears it, a soft, choked sob. He’s immediately hit with a wave of annoyance, followed by something else. 

He’d reasoned with it. Rationalized it. Even considered bringing it up to the expensive sports therapist that the blue lock participants had been given upon their release from the competitive program a few years ago. All the blood starts to rush below his waist. Some people had weirder things, he reminds himself, and it’s not that his dacryphilia bothered him, it’s that it was inconvenient. Hard to find in porn, even harder to find in a partner, but there was something about the softness and vulnerability of that moment, the way a woman’s lower lip would tremble, the way her face would swell slightly, and the big round tears that would fall from her eyes. Even better if she’d melt into him, let him touch her. He groans, barely keeping the sound inaudible. Everyone had their things. This was just annoying. Inconvenient. He wanted to shower, his body still sweat-slicked from the practice game, his muscles aching, but he’s got a problem now. And the problem is that you’re crying quietly down the hallway and even the sound of it is driving him to insanity. He could try, so what if you didn’t like him, he could try, women loved to be comforted-

“-Oh god,” you breathe, the air hitching in your lungs. “Oh my god, fuck.” You sob for real, the tears flowing freely. You cover your face with your hands, the abject sorrow breaking over you like an ocean wave. Your phone burns in your pocket. You could call him. He’d said you could call him. 

But he hadn’t called. Not since you dropped him off at the airport. Just a text that he’d landed okay, and he hopes you have a good day. Nothing. Complete radio silence. But you could-

Nagi steps around the corner and clears his throat. 

“Oh fuck,” you swear, flattening yourself against the wall. “Please don’t-” He takes a step towards you, no concern readable on his face. 

“What?” He asks, gesturing to all of you. You sniff loudly, wiping your face, sure you won’t be able to hide this from him but trying anyway. 

“Nothing, nothing it’s fine.” You start down the hallway and Nagi closes the distance between you with superhuman speed, taking your arm in one of his massive hands, and stopping you. 

“You’re crying.” He says, “It’s not nothing.” He watches you force an inhale, your lower lip trembling. 

“I just um, it’s hard,” you swallow, “I don’t like to be yelled at.” He nods slowly. “And um,” you wipe your face, “Sorry I just, just break up stuff it’s really not your problem.” He hasn’t released your arm, and he can feel your pulse racing under your skin. 

“Don’t be stupid.” He says, yanking you into his chest, knowing he’s sweaty and gross from practice and not caring. He wraps his arms around you anyway and feels you relax against him. He wonders if you can feel how hard he is and decides he doesn’t care as another little hiccuping sob bubbles out of your mouth, he can feel the vibrations in his chest. “Shhhh,” he breathes, comforting you like you’re an agitated animal. “You really don’t like it when they yell, huh?” You nod. He sighs. “They’re not gonna stop.” 

“I know.” You pull away from him and he almost doesn’t let you do it, he’s so strong, so much stronger than  you, he could- “My rotation’s over in a few months and I’ll do something else.” He balks at that. 

“Why would you do that?” He demands. “You’re good at this.” 

“I’m um,” the lump in your throat goes painful and new tears start to burn in your eyes. “I’m miserable Nagi, I’m so fucking miserable. All you all do is yell at each other, you and Barou spend every game at each other's throats, and all the other players snap at me even when I’m being helpful,” you take a shaky breath, “And, and I’m heartbroken and pathetic all the time, when I get home I’m so tired the only thing I have the energy to do is lie down.” You hide your face again. “You’re all so fucking entitled I don’t, I don’t wanna work with any of you ever again.” You shake your head and he realizes, that the last sentence isn’t a generalization. It’s about him. 

“You don’t like me because you think I’m entitled.” He repeats. 

“You are,” you wipe your face again and try to step away from him, but he immediately closes the distance between you. Your back hits the wall of the hallway. “You’re a trust fund private school kid who was born with a natural athletic gift that took you to the upper echelon of the sport without great effort, someone else had to drag you kicking and screaming into it. If you’re not fucking entertained by the team you’re playing you can only give it half your effort, you seem physically incapable of giving a shit about something.” You shake your head. “I,” you look up at him, and his eyes are dark and cold as he considers. “It’s fine, I’ll finish my rotation and leave.” You take another breath and wipe your face, trying to leave for a third time, and for a third time, he stops you, this time taking you roughly by the arm and pulling you back towards him, then pushing you back against the wall. 

“I seem,” he repeats, “I seem physically incapable of giving a shit, huh?” 

“Nagi,” he hears the fear creeping into your voice. “Come on, just let me-” He shakes his head, noting that the gesture alone is enough to stop you midsentence. He thinks about it for a moment and shakes his head again. 

“Lazy,” he mutters, “Entitled, shit,” he laughs but there’s no joy to the sound. “Yeah, I could see how you’d feel that way. But you’re not crying because you don’t like us.” Your eyes widen a little. “You’re upset because you don’t like it when big men raise their voice to you, huh,” he says, and he takes a half step forward, he’s uncomfortably in your space now. “Don’t like it when we snap back when we yell, betcha it doesn’t even matter if it’s not directed atcha?” You swallow. “That’s what I thought.” His eyes darken. “How many times have you cried on the bus home, on the train, because of us?” You look away. He reaches for you with the hand that isn’t pinning you to the wall, and you flinch when it touches your face. He ignores it, cupping your cheek and wiping at a tear. You swallow again, heart pounding. 

“Nagi, come on I have to go.” You glance down the hallway but know no one is coming, that no one can hear you, and that your office is the only one in this part of the building. He withdraws his hand and brings his fingers to his lips, sucking it gently for a second, and then he cocks his head. 

“No.” He says. “I don’t think you do.” You tug at the arm he’s holding in earnest, and he barely registers it. 

“I am not working right now,” you yank hard to no avail, “I’m sorry I’m not one of your fucking fangirls,” the fear in your blood makes you brave, singing a quiet steady song, “Let me go-” 

“Shut the fuck up,” he snarls, in a tone of voice you’ve never heard before, and his hand flies to your throat so fast you’re not sure you even see it move. He tightens his grip, holding you against the wall. “You think I give a shit about any of them,” he leans in close to you, as you start to gasp for breath, pulling at his hand and gurgling. “You’re the first woman I’ve ever met who could be fucking useful,” he spits the words, “And so it doesn’t matter if you don’t like me right now.” He relaxes his grip just enough for you to draw breath as more tears spill over your cheeks. He can’t stop himself, leaning in and kissing them off of you, groaning lightly. “I’ll make you a deal,” he breathes in your ear, causing blood to pool in your cheeks. “You be a good girl for me, and I’ll make them stop. I can make them behave.” You freeze and stop fighting. He relaxes his grip even more, letting you fall to the ground, watching you sputter and gasp, hands flying to your neck, rubbing the raw skin. He watches you, curled at his feet for a beat before squatting down, and patting your head affectionately. 

“You wanna try again, wanna try liking me again?” He asks, softly, knowing the answer. You nod, crying in earnest now. “You don’t wanna go home to your empty apartment.” He says, and it’s not a question. “Come home with me.” You sniff loudly. “You know which car is mine?” You shake your head. “It’s the silver Aston Martin.” He stands. “I’ll unlock it remotely. You get your shit, sit in the front seat and wait for me. Can you handle that?” You nod. He reaches a hand down to you and pulls you to your feet. “Did I scare you?” He says quietly, and you nod again. “Aw,” he cradles you against his chest, he smells like sweat and musk. “M’sorry. It’s hard to piss me off, you oughta be proud of yourself.” 

“I don’t wanna be alone tonight.” You whisper, and he rubs your back. “But don’t do that again, okay?” He shrugs but verbally contradicts the gesture. 

“Yeah, alright.” He hugs you tightly, pressing his face into your neck. “Bring something to wrap my ankle with.” He leaves then, jogging off down the hallway to the showers. You stand there for a few minutes, throat aching, shell-shocked. You float back to your office, taking your back and making your way to the garage with the cars. You find the silver one and at your touch, it unlocks, you sit heavily in the front seat, attempting to take a deep breath. You do something without thinking about it. 

You: hi sorry

You close your eyes, what time was it even in Argentina, would he even look at it? How much would it hurt if he never-

Kunigami: hey what’s with the apology You: I don’t know 

Kunigami: everything okay? I’m on my way to practice, it’s 5AM here. I can call? You: no it’s okay I dont wanna take up too much of your time

You: just wanted to see how you were doing 

Kunigami: yeah alright honestly Kunigami: miss japan, miss you, but the food here kicks ass you’d love it. Kunigami: dream job helps though. I think it’ll be an amazing season. 

You: oh wow!! That’s great to hear Kunigami: what about you, they treating you okay? 

You: ahhhhh

You: it’s probably a lot to text 

Kunigami: so let’s call this weekend and catch up. Plus I think I fucked up my shoulder, you can bill me for the time spent on the phone. Kunigami: stupid question but it’s gonna kill me if I don’t ask Kunigami: have you been dating You: oh god no 

You: I don’t care if that’s embarrassing. Kunigami: thank fucking god it’s been killing me Kunigami: picturing you with anyone else makes me want to put a fist through the wall

You sigh, hands shaking now with relief. 

You: same except it’s throwing myself in the ocean 

Kunigami: this is so fucking hard 

You: yeah

You: Dream job helps though, right? 

Kunigami: sure 

Kunigami: your job still dreamy? 

You: not without you, no. 

Kunigami: listen I’m almost at work, let’s talk this weekend. I missed the fuck out of you. 

You: okay <3 

You steel yourself, taking a deep breath and closing your eyes, leaning against the back of the seat in Nagi’s car. He’s another 15 minutes, sliding into the seat with practice, barely reacting to your presence. He presses a button and the engine hums to life, his hair is half-dried, and little tendrils of white cling to his forehead and clump together in his waves. He glances at your phone. 

“Miss your ex?” He says, and you scramble to lock the phone and hide the conversation. He laughs. “Did he used to keep the assholes in line for you?” He asks and you sniff loudly, closing your eyes and leaning against the car seat. 

“I can’t believe you choked me like that.” You mumble, and he shrugs, skillfully backing out of his parking spot and pulling through the garage. 

“You needed it.” 

“I didn’t!” You protest. “I didn’t and you scared me.” That makes him break into a soft smile, as he leaves the private garage it starts to rain. He reaches over and rests a hand on your thigh, rubbing a soft circle in your skin through your tights. 

“Better do everything I say so that I don’t have to scare you again, then, yeah?” He says, and you press your lips together. “Plus,” He shrugs, squeezing your thigh. “You know what’ll happen if you don’t.” You look at him sharply. “Oh,” He says, surprised, “You don’t?” He puts his hand back on the wheel. “I’ll make it worse so that you have to come crying to me.” He shrugs off your shock.  “What?” 

“Really?” You say, turning to him, and the sincerity in your voice knocks the air from his lungs. He’s able to recover in time. 

“Nah, I mean, I could but you’re not gonna make me, right?” He glances to the left and right before carefully making his turn. He puts his hand back on your thigh. “Come on,” he complains, “I’m a good guy, I’m gonna make you feel good, and save you the trouble of drinking alone in your apartment missing a guy who probably isn’t thinking about you.” Your chest aches and you scoot away from him. “Don’t be like that,” he complains, tightening his grip on your thigh, “Come here, like,” he pulls up to a light, and while you wait he arranges you carefully so that you’re leaning against his arm. “Like that.” He says. “See?”

“Mm.” You say softly, so tired from crying, your throat aching, the endless string of bad days has worn you down. You take his huge hand, and he softens. 

“I’m sorry it’s been so hard.” He says quietly. “Did something happen to you, like when you were a kid, dad raise his voice to you too much?” 

“My parents were alcoholics.” You whisper, pressing your face against his warm muscle. “Big tempers on both of them.” He hums softly. 

“You didn’t deserve that.” He rubs the softness of your thigh, delighting in the way you’ve crumbled in front of him. “By the way, I’m uh,” you detect the first traces of vulnerability in his tone. “A little worried about my ankle.” 

“Is that why you lost your temper with me?” You ask, voice barely above the hum of his air conditioner. Summer in Japan is disgusting, humid, and wet, and the rain picks up, hitting his windshield heavily. He shakes his head. 

“I just didn’t want you to go.” 

“And you’re used to getting what you want.” You finish the sentence. He shrugs the apparent insult washing off his back like soap in the shower. 

“I’m gonna make you say you like me,” He turns to you, a smile on his face that you recognize from the soccer pitch. “I’m gonna make you say you respect me,” that makes you laugh, “And I’m gonna make you say you think I’m hardworking,” you giggle, and the sound catches him off guard, “Plus I could tell you’re used to being handled roughly. You dated Kunigami, that guys got some anger issues for sure.” You shake your head. 

“I’m not discussing him with you.” You scoot a bit away from him. 

“Yeah,” Nagi artfully makes a left turn across a multiple-lane street with one hand, watching you watching him. “You think the way I drive is sexy.” 

“I don’t-” 

“You do,” He shrugs, “It’s okay to not like me but still think I’m hot.” He squeezes your thigh. “You’re gonna like me really soon, anyway so it’s not super relevant.” He frowns. “Go back to holding my arm, I like that shit.” You reluctantly cuddle up to him again. “Ankle first though.” He says. “Then I’m gonna make you say all that shit. And you’re staying over.”

“Am I?” You say, and he nods without looking at you. 

“Not like if I decide you’re staying you can leave.” He says, like it’s the most ludicrous 

thing he’s ever heard.   “What are you gonna do?” He rolls his eyes. “Outrun me?” Your hands shake a little and he reaches for them, taking both of them in his hand, releasing your thigh. “Don’t freak out, I’m a good guy. I’ll take good care of you. Betcha Kunigami would like that.” You shudder. 

“He wasn’t big on sharing.” 

“Mm, I’m not either.” He says evenly. “But I’ll earn that, don’t worry. When I’m through

with you, you won’t wanna fuck anyone else. That ginger asshole included.” He pulls up in front of an apartment building and catches the pained look on your face. “Aw, baby’s really heartbroken, huh? Sit tight.” He gets up and walks around the car, opening your door and helping you to your feet. “You look pretty.” He says, opening the door to his apartment building for you. He means it, something about the way you were just a little undone, just a little on edge, endeared you all the more to him. He whisks you up an elevator, watching you avoid eye contact with your reflection in the walls of mirrors. “Whatcha thinking?” He says lowly. 

“I’m trying to decide if you gave me a choice in coming home with you.” You look up at him, and the conflict on your face is genuine. 

“If you’d resisted I guess I would have had to find a way to make you,” he yawns, “But I don’t think it would have been unpleasant for you,” he shrugs, “You don’t date a guy like Kunigami because you’re uncomfortable being roughed around a little” 

“Does it bother you?” You blurt, realizing this is the third time he’s brought up your ex boyfriend. “That I dated him, and I don’t,” you catch yourself, “Didn’t like you.” He snorts at your obvious attempt to cover up the sentiment. 

“First of all, you do like me, you like me a lot, you’re gonna fix up my ankle and then I’m gonna hear you tell me how much you like me over, and over,” the elevator dings and he takes your hand, leading you into a hallway with only two doors, one on each side of it. He takes you down to the one labeled Penthouse A, and it’s hard to contain your reaction when he swings the door open. It’s beautiful, huge, and open concept with a wall of windows, a gigantic slab of marble that makes up the table, and the cabinets are black and gleaming. He grins at your reaction, slipping out of his shoes, and patting your head. “This is why you date first string, dummy.” He hits you lightly on the back of the head before collapsing on the plush leather couch, putting his foot up on his dark wood coffee table. It’s a huge tree stump covered in the varnish that only serves to highlight its natural imperfections in it. It’s a little uneven, and the stack of books on it looks purely decorative and untouched. “Get to work.” He says, and you nod, striding over and kneeling next to him, an action that makes him sit up just a little straighter. You take his foot in two hands, peeling his sock off. 

“It hurt while you were running?” You ask, and he nods. 

“Like a bruise. Soft pain rather than sharp. I can’t believe you noticed I was favoring it.” You nod, giving him a little smile as you press gently, looking for the tendon that was the usual culprit of these kinds of pains. “I was trying to hide it.” 

“I’m an excellent study of movement as well as character,” you straighten your shoulders. “I didn’t see you favor it, I saw you lead with it, which is not really your modus Operandi.” He rolls his eyes. 

“I took Latin, ya know.” 

“Ah yes I’m sure your fancy private school had Latin,” you press softly on his foot, grateful it doesn’t smell like the locker room, “French, Italian-” 

“And English.” He says, a smug smile on his face. “I’ve read Shakespeare.” He leans back. “Some poetry.” 

“Oh,” you look up, “Some poetry huh?” He grins even wider. “Bet that makes the girls swoon.” 

“It does.” He confirms, “What’s up with the ankle though?” 

“You have to rest it, it’s a repetitive stress injury.” You say, and he groans loudly. “If,” you hold up a finger, “If you rest it this weekend you can go to practice on Monday like nothing happened.” He breathes out a sigh of relief. 

“Wrap it for me.” He demands. “Then get up here.” You take your time, ensuring that the bandage isn’t too tight, and he sighs when you tuck it in. You climb up onto the couch next to him, and he wraps a huge arm around you, pulling you against his chest. He hums softly. “Actually,” he lifts you by the waist and settles you in his lap, so that you’re straddling him and facing him. He reaches for a throw blanket and tucks it around the two of you, then frowns. 

“What?” You ask. 

“You’re wearing too much.” He yawns. “We’re gonna nap, so go get one of my t-shirts.” He points down the hallway. You hesitate, and his eyes darken. “I don’t wanna have to make you,” he complains, shoving you off of him and standing. “Now you’ve gotta wear one of my jerseys.” 

“Nagi,” you start, and he waves away your words, lumbering down the hallway and returning a few minutes later with one of his extra game jerseys. 

“Is your skin gonna burn,” he says, shoving it at you good-naturedly. If you hadn’t essentially been kidnapped it would almost be cute. “Go change in the bathroom, I’ll see you naked soon enough, I know you’re not ready and I,” he yawns again, “Don’t feel like arguing.” You nod and disappear into his bathroom. It’s just as enormous as the rest of the apartment, even though it’s a guest bath, there’s a full tub and a beautiful sink with lots of counter space. You open his cabinets, generally snooping, finding some generic stale-dated antibiotics and an uncomplex skincare routine. You change quickly, swimming in his jersey when you step back out into the living room. He flicks his chin, some of his hair flopping out his face to look at you. “C’mere,” he grunts, and you obey, letting him fold his huge warm body around yours, “This is my favorite thing.” He sighs, locking his arms around your body, trapping one of your thighs between his. He spoons you, but only after ensuring you’re both covered by the blanket. 

“Hey,” He says quietly. “You’re still shaking a little.” He feels you nod, your face resting on his arm, your back pressed right against his chest. “Not cause you’re cold?” You shake your head. “You hate it when we yell that much?” 

“You don’t yell.” You say quietly. 

“And you still didn’t like me.” He tightens his grip on your waist. “You gotta know I could kick any of their asses.” He grumbles. “And that you’re safe here, right now.” You hesitate but in mind only, nodding outwardly. He kisses the top of your head. “Relax then.” He says, and you close your eyes, nuzzling into him. You’re not sure when you fall asleep, a few minutes before him, but when you wake your face is pressed to his chest, and he’s got one hand in your hair and the other around your waist. You’re warm, and deeply at peace, feeling loved and held for the first time since Kunigami left. He hums needily when you move, holding you in place. “You’re so soft.” He mumbles, and you see a slight flush on his cheeks from how you’re sleeping. He turns you away from him again, reaching under your shirt and palming your chest through your bra. You let out a soft sigh and he presses his cock against your ass with a groan. 

“Nagi,” you breathe, fuck it, fuck it, this was stupid, he was a dick, but he was here, and if he was here you didn’t have to think about work, about Kunigami, about- he cuts off your train of thought by reaching under your bra and pressing a burning kiss to your neck. 

“Like that,” he mumbles, lips moving up the column of your throat, “Sound so desperate when you say my name.” He reaches between your legs, into your panties, “Say it again.” He parts your folds and easily finds your clit, rubbing at it softly. 

“Nagi,” You breathe again, his free hand coming to rest on your throat. “Nagi, I-” He tightens his grip, cutting off your breath completely. You squirm, eyes watering at the pressure, and the mounting pleasure in your body. 

“Desperate,” he grunts, “How bad do you fucking want it?” You gasp, he doesn’t let you have enough air to breathe to respond. “So stupid already,” he tightens his grip and then you feel him push two fingers inside you, “Soaked. Thought you hated me?” You make some kind of noncommittal gurgle and he gives you a break, letting you suck in a sharp quick breath before the pressure returns. He fucks you with his fingers first, scissoring them and watching you gasp and squirm, but when tears prick at your eyes he groans, yanking you roughly underneath him. He tosses his shirt off and pulls his cock from his grey sweatpants. It’s long and thick, matching his sculpted frame, and the tip is a soft pink, leaking a little as he pumps it, running his thumb sover the tip. 

He lets out a short huffy breath as he eases inside you, cupping your teary face with one hand, bracing his weight with the other. Your legs are tossed over his shoulder, and when he leans down to kiss you with surprising tenderness. He watches your eyes shoot open at the stretch, your lips part as he starts to fuck you, leaving you so empty when he withdraws, that you dig your nails into his muscles back. 

He moves slowly, rolling his hips against yours, fucking you lazily, teasing your clit with his hand, bending down to suck and bite at your nipples, delighting in your glassy faraway expression, and he’s almost surprised when you cum, when you clench down on him, walls fluttering. 

“Next time,” he says, growling into your ear. “Ask me. I’ll tell you if you’ve earned that shit.” You whimper in response, you’re soaking, and he can feel it, can feel how badly you need it, can feel the way your nails are digging into his back, can feel you kiss him back when he leans down. “Tell me you like me,” he murmurs, and you squirm. “Tell me how much you like me.” 

__

He leans down and kisses you, blissfully exhausted, draping his body over yours. His hands move to tangle in your hair and his arms lock around you. You sense that he’s about to drift off to sleep, so you start to squirm. 

“What?” He mutters. “Stay still.” 

“I have to pee.” You whisper, and he groans, reluctantly letting you stand on trembling legs and walk to his bathroom. You splash some cold water on your face after washing your hands. You look at your reflection, disheveled, eyes wild, hands shaking. You run your fingers through your hair, the entire experience had been deeply disorienting, did Nagi expect you to come back and cuddle with him? After that, after choking you like that? Your mind flies again to your ex-boyfriend, and then you swallow, feeling the dull pain in your throat. Nagi would let you leave, you decided. As long as he let you leave, that means you had a choice, that means you could think of this as a mistake, as a weak moment. You swallow, taking a deep breath and closing your eyes, pressing your palms to the counter, it’s cool and grounding. You straighten your shoulders and step back out into his luxe apartment, sighing with relief when you hear Nagi’s soft snores, see his huge frame draped over the couch. 

You tiptoe past him, stepping back into your clothes gingerly, feeling more and more like this is something you could rationalize. You’re halfway dressed when he opens half an eye, frowning. 

“What are you doing?” He says, glancing at the coffee table where you’ve folded his jersey. 

“Ah, just heading out.” You say, heart rate picking up a little. He raises his eyebrows, standing and stepping back into his boxers. 

“Nah,” He towers over you, it’s impossible not to note the difference in your size, even when he’s a few feet away. “Stay,” He reaches for you, pulling you back into him by the waist. “I’ll order us takeout.” You pull gently but he doesn’t let you go. 

“Nagi,” you say softly, coming back to honesty. “I feel a little weird, about this.” He cocks his head. “Like, weird about us hooking up.” 

“Oh,” He says, as he understands immediately, “Oh,” he runs his fingers through his hair, “Oh of course, of course, you do.” You blink a few times, stunned at his sudden burst of self-awareness. He gives you a soft, genuine smile, “I didn’t mean to like, make you feel used or weird,” he leans down, cupping your face with his hand, stroking your cheek, and your heart drops to your stomach. “It’s not just a hookup to me, don’t worry.” He presses his lips to your forehead. “I get it, you’re a relationship person. I’ll take you to dinner, just nowhere too loud because-” 

“N-nagi,” You stammer his name, genuinely pulling away from him, and he lets you go, confusion flooding his features again. “It’s not that I feel used,” you say, embarrassed as you lose your cool, your voice rising in pitch. “It’s, it’s that you pinned me to the wall by my throat and then, then told me to get in your car and I did, and then we had sex, and I don’t,” you start to get dizzy, the panic pulling you from reality. “Nagi, I, I don’t feel good.” You draw in a shaky breath, suddenly you’re freezing and burning at the same time, face hot body cold, and then they switch. 

“You’re having a panic attack,” you hear him say, but it sounds like his voice is miles above the surface of your mind. You try to swallow, and try to breathe, and find neither is a reflex you have control over, tears burning in your eyes. You barely feel him pick you up, laying you on the couch and lifting your legs in the air, rubbing a soft circle in your calf. “I’m here,” He says, and there’s a raw desperation in his voice as he feels his cock twitch in his pants, but there’s more too it. He feels it, that clawing ache, he wants you to reach for him, to be comforted by him, “I’m here,” he wants to be enough for you, to restore your breath, even though he’s the one with the power to take it away. “I’m here, and I’m real, I’m here for you.”

His voice carries in your panicked state, and your brain struggles to interpret the sentiment behind that information, a statement of a fact, or threat, or reassurance. It takes a few minutes of gasping, but your body, something physical latches onto his presence because when you sit up you reach for him. Something brittle inside Nagi breaks as your little hands fly out and reach for his, as he pulls you into his lap, kissing at your tears. 

“Tough day,” he murmurs, “Lots of yelling, right?” You nod, and he squeezes you. “I’m here, you’re mine now, I’ll take care of ya.” You shiver at his words. 

“I don’t,” you look up at him, “I’m not ready to date really.” Your teeth are chattering, you’re still visibly trembling. He rolls his eyes at you. “I’m s-serious, you have to let me leave.” 

“I mean,” Nagi shrugs. “No I don’t actually, I don’t have to let you leave, and actually,” his grip on you tightens. “You like me, remember?” 

“No-,” you squirm, still half crying. “No I don’t.” 

“Shhhhh,” he rocks you back and forth, “You’re so cute, but you have to breathe okay, just focus on breathing for a little and don’t think so much,” he kisses your head, “Shhhh.” You sniff and focus on breathing. “That’s my girl.” He tips your head up so that you can meet his grey gaze. “So we’re gonna clean you up, I’m gonna order us food from somewhere nice, I’ll take ya out tomorrow, we can go anywhere you want.” He senses your hesitation and leans down, kissing you tenderly on your trembling lips. “C’mon,” you hear him say, speaking right into your mouth, “Kiss me back.” At the moment, you obey, and he hums softly, feeling you move your mouth against his, concocting some kind of pseudo rhythm that your body keeps to much better than your mind does. “I’m here,” he murmurs, kissing down your neck, “I’ll keep ya safe,” he starts to tug your blouse off, and feels you stiffen. “You wanna stop?” He pulls away from you, and you shake your head a little, getting whiplash from the way he suddenly respects your consent. He holds you again. “Okay,” he breathes, “Just breathe for me, I’ll uh,” he laughs, “You did already make me cum, but fuck, seeing you like this, I could go again. You wrap your arms around his neck, making a decision. 

It was nice, nice to be held, and if he would make things easier for you at work, you could figure this out. You could ride whatever this was out until the end of your rotation and then bury yourself in another job. He cradles you to him until your heart rate calms. 

“Jeez,” He laughs lightly, standing while still carrying you in your state of half-dress, walking into the kitchen. He sets you on the counter. “Guess I gotta be careful with you, yeah?” He squeezes your waist before pulling back and wetting a paper towel under warm water. “You want a safe place to land,” he says softly, “That’s okay,” he starts to wipe your face with the warm towel. “We’ll use a safeword, alright?” You swallow. “You just say yellow, if you want me to slow down,” he takes his time wiping your smudged mascara. “You say red if you want me to stop, alright, and I’ll stop,” he pulls away, setting the paper towel on the counter. “And if you really wanna go, you can go, I guess.” 

“You guess?” You whisper. He shrugs. 

“You’re not gonna be the first woman who doesn’t want it from me,” He makes a face, “Not when I can tell how bad you want it.” 

“I didn’t-” 

“I don’t care.” He informs you. “I like you.  You admitted you like me.” You swallow. “Come on,” he mumbles, kissing you softly, and then pulling away, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’ve liked you forever. I’ll be nice, I will be.” You nod and he hugs you tightly. “You okay?” He asks and you shiver. 

“No.” You whisper. He nods. 

“Will sitting on the couch with me holding you help, maybe?” He asks, and your chest aches, your heart aches, your throat aches, you’re hurt, and your tired. You nod dumbly. You could do this. Could take advantage of this. Just till your rotation with his team was over. You could make the best of this. He plucks you off the counter and carries you to the couch, letting you cry softly on his chest until you fall asleep. He tangles his fingers in your hair. 

“All mine,” he hums. “All mine.” Your jaw tightens, and you think of the real owner of your heart, at this hour he'd he hard at work at the gym, stretching carefully, talking to his teammates. "Shh," Nagi breathes as he feels you tense up, "Shhhhhh. Relax."

Do you know anything i can donate to for palestine that's not the gofundmes because the idea of having to choose who needs my money more is just. scary to me they all need it 3: maybe there's a thing that splits/distributes money evenly???? idk but help would be appreciated

Gazafunds actually deals with this anxiety and makes a decision for you if you want. Their home page has a spotlighted fundraiser and the code consider things like how close the gfm is to finishing, when the most recent donation is, etc. So it's randomized to help as many people as possible.

There's also @helpgazachildren which if you donate, you can help multiple people at once since it's a whole mutual aid fund, or at least close to it. Hussam distributes money to people who need it when he's asked.

One of my all time favourite stories!!!

LITTLE DARK AGE

haitani ran x fem!reader x haitani rindou

summary: eight years later, you finally return to tokyo and find yourself caught in the middle of a violent gang war between the two most ruthless criminal organizations of tokyo’s underworld, forced to choose between blood and love.

genre: bonten timeskip, angst, forbidden romance, childhood friends -> strangers -> lovers, 18+ MDNI

warnings: fem!reader, gang violence, drug abuse, alcohol abuse, explicit smut, polyamory, profanity, MCD, unedited, MTBA

previous chapter -> masterlist -> next chapter

CHAPTER ⅩⅡ. WHATEVER I'VE DONE, I DID IT FOR LOVE

TWELVE YEARS EARLIER. 

It had been a very long time since you’d felt like this. You felt as if your stomach was eating itself as you sat alone in the penthouse, fingers shaking as you stared at the phone resting on the table in front of you, waiting for a call from your uncle, or Miss Sara, or Mister Mado, or one of your uncle’s colleagues, or anyone who would tell you what was going on. 

One week. Seven full days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours. Too many minutes for you to try to calculate. 

It had been too long since the Kanto Incident--or so the news was calling the disastrous fight between the Tokyo Manji Gang and Tenjiku--considering you had yet to find anything out about what had happened that day. Your uncle was away on business and wasn’t picking up his phone, Miss Yua and Mister Ayato were taking some well deserved, and much needed, time off in Fiji and you didn’t want to bother either of them, you had tried to go to the police station to get information but nobody gave you answers, you had even tried going to Izanagi Headquarters to try to talk to some of your uncle’s colleagues but only one had spared you some time and even then, he had only given you a half-assed, ‘I’ll look into it,’ before rushing off to his next meeting. You couldn’t blame him--Izanagi was dealing with some heavy lawsuits from another tech company--it was shitty timing all around and it was making you sick to your stomach.

Three dead. Five arrested. 

You didn’t know who died. You didn’t know who was arrested. You couldn’t get answers no matter how hard you tried and it made you want to cry. You were fucking useless without your uncle’s support. 

Rindou and Ran hadn’t come home since the incident, neither had any of the rest of their friends--your friends. And you could only pray that they had been the ones arrested because you knew damn well that they would have come to you afterward if they had been able to. 

(Deep, deep down you knew that was impossible. Three dead, five arrested. There were six of them.)

The thought spinning around the back of your head froze the blood flowing through your body, fear clawed at your chest. Three dead, five arrested. Six of them. Anxiety built faster than you could push it away, your heartbeat raced erratically, your body shuddered as an unnatural chill ran up your spine. 

One of them is dead. 

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. 

No. That is not necessarily true. Maybe they just hadn’t had the chance to come talk to you yet.

It was a waiting game, and you were quite certain now that waiting games might be the worst possible games in existence. All you could do was wander around your penthouse trying to keep yourself distracted as you waited for news. You had only felt this helpless once before in your entire fucking life--the night of the accident when you were waiting for news about your family--and you hated it. Every passing second had your heart leaping to your throat, your knees weak, tears building in your eyes that you could only barely catch before they fell.

You were scared. You had lost your entire family in one blow once before and it had nearly destroyed you. You were terrified that it was about to happen again and you weren’t sure you’d be able to recover from it a second time.

You pressed your face into your palms, pulling your knees to your chest as you rocked yourself back and forth, trying to keep yourself calm. 

Everything would be okay, you tried to convince yourself. Everything would be okay. 

Ran and Rindou. Izana and Shion. Mochi and Mucho. They were fine--probably caught up in juvie again and without your uncle’s influence, it was just a little harder to figure out what was going on so you could try to get them out. That was all. 

That was all. 

Everything would be okay.

As soon as you got word of what detention center they were being held at, you would haul your ass to them and give them the scolding of a lifetime. All of them. Ran and Rindou. Izana and Shion. Mochi and Mucho. None of them would be able to get out of it.

Especially Izana. 

Fury stirred in you at the thought of your white-haired friend. You had warned him so many times--a countless amount of times--to not let his resentment get the best of him, to not let it make him lose sight of his goals. 

And he did. 

He fucking let it.

You wanted to scream and shake him, rattle his brain in his head and demand answers--what the fuck was so important to him that he let it risk his goals, your goals? Every time you tried to ask him what exactly the ‘detour’ was, he would withdraw like a damned turtle, give you the silent treatment and force you to drop it. 

You should have known that it would come to this. 

You supposed you blamed yourself as much as you did Izana. You should have pushed more. You should have asked more questions even if it did piss him off. Maybe things would have gone differently. 

You exhaled deeply, standing up to pace around the main room of the penthouse. The news station was playing in the background, muted and unintelligible to your ears. Your legs were unsteady but you forced yourself to keep moving. If you stopped, you would drown. 

You couldn’t let that happen, not yet. You needed answers. 

You needed to know they were okay. 

Your phone buzzed back at the kitchen counter. Your head snapped to the side, eyes wide.

At once, the fear began crawling back.

Your phone had not buzzed since before the Kanto Incident.

Your feet dragged against the ground as you made your way back to the kitchen--slower, less excited than you should have been at the prospect of possibly finally getting news. 

One of them is dead.

The thought rang around your head--screaming, whispering, you couldn’t push it away this time. 

One of them is dead.

They would have come to you if they had been able to. They would have come to tell you what happened. So five of them are jailed. One of them is dead.

Best case scenario.

Worst case scenario, three of them are jailed, three of them are dead.

Your stomach twisted and turned, you couldn’t bring yourself to look at whatever message had just come through. Three jailed, three dead. You couldn’t breathe, you forced yourself to walk away from the counter your phone was resting on, moving over to the sink to pour yourself a glass of water.

You downed the liquid immediately, nearly choking over it before slamming the glass back down. You braced your hands against the counter, leaning over it, breathing heavy as you tried to control yourself. 

Breathe in, breathe out. 

Everything would be okay. 

All you had to do was figure out where they were and get to them. 

You pushed yourself up, smoothing out your shirt and forcing your lips flat. 

First, you had to read the message. There was no reason to stress about anything else until you did.

Letting out one more heavy breath, you moved back over to the other counter, ignoring how your fingers trembled as you picked up your phone. Inhaling softly, you unlocked your phone, taking note of the unknown number who you figured must be Amon, one of your uncle’s colleagues who had promised to get back to you if he figured something out.

Your heart dropped once the message registered.

16:43 UNKNOWN: A Haitani Rindou was admitted to the Kawagoe Juvenile Prison infirmary in critical condition two days ago.

---

You had never moved so fast in your entire life. You were out the front door of the building in less than five minutes and you were grateful that your driver for the week had been in the area because he was already waiting for you underneath the awning outside of the building, car running and ready to go. 

You all but leapt into the passenger seat when you got to the car, telling him to drive as fast as he could. 

It was an hour’s drive to Kawagoe Juvenile Prison without traffic. And it was a Friday night, on the verge of rush hour. Every second you spent in that car you swore was taking time off from the end of your life. It was frustrating, anxiety-inducing. 

‘It would be faster running there,’ you tried to tell Mister Mado but he only clicked his tongue at you and told you that if you stepped out of the car in the middle of rush hour traffic, he would drag you right back into the car and drive you back to the penthouse. And you did not doubt his capability--Mister Mado was ex-special forces, like Mister Ayato. They had trained together, and Mister Ayato was the one that introduced Mister Mado to your uncle a few years back.

If you had tried to make a break for it, he would have caught up to you easily. And then you wouldn’t be able to see Rindou, or Ran, or any of the others at all. 

Assuming they were all there. 

Critical condition, the words rang through your head as Mister Mado pulled into the juvenile prison. Critical condition, two days ago.

Three dead, five arrested. Rindou, Ran, Izana. Shion, Mochi, Mucho. 

Six. 

Schrodinger’s cat. You would not know who was dead or alive until you entered that building, thus, until you enter it, the six of them, in a sense, are both dead and alive. 

Once you entered that building… at least one of them would be dead and nothing would ever be the same after.

Your nails dug into the cloth of your slacks, trying to calm yourself down as Mister Mado talked to the man at the front gate. You couldn’t pay attention to what he was saying, too focused on the large building ahead of you. 

Three dead, five arrested. 

Please be okay. 

You rested your head on the cool window, letting your eyes slide shut.

It was too hot for a February day. Muggy. Suffocating. Ugly. 

You hated the humidity nearly as much as you hated the rain. You could feel the heavy air weighing down on you through the rolled-down window Mister Mado was leaning out of to talk to the man at the front gate. You swore you felt like you were going to pass out.

It took an outrageous amount of time for the guard to let the two of you through the gates. Or well, you were being dramatic--it only took about five minutes, but those five minutes felt like five hours. Every moment you were separated from them was hellish, every moment of uncertainty, every time you questioned whether or not all of your worst fears might come true.

You just wanted to be with them again, your throat was tight at the admission--you wanted to be hanging out in their room annoying Ran with Rindou, you wanted to force Ran to sit down so you could brush his hair, you wanted to fight with Rindou over what movie you two were going to watch, you wanted to complain that the two of them were being too clingy when Rindou draped himself on top of you and Ran was forcing his head on your lap when he came back into the main room of the penthouse--having woken up to you shrieking at a jumpscare--dragging one of the soft blankets that Miss Yua had given him for his birthday behind him as he joined the two of you for the last half of the movie you were watching,

You felt your eyes well with tears, you forced them away.

Now was not the time. 

Finally, the car was moving again and your heart was stuttering in your chest as Mister Mado pulled up to the front of the detention center.

“The guards will guide you to the infirmary,” Mister Mado told you, “stay with them. I’ll meet you there.”

You nodded once, slipping out of the car and into the humidity. The heels of your boots clicked against the dark gray pavement as you approached the building, keeping your chin up and your gaze forward. 

One of the guards pressed his access card against the scanner, a loud ring and the front doors swung open. They waited for you to move inside. 

You hesitated. 

Schrodinger’s cat. As long as you did not enter the building, all six were both dead and alive. A state of unknown that might just be better than whatever reality you would face walking into that building. 

“An alarm will go off if you don’t go in,” one of the guards said, voice brusque. You bristled in annoyance, shooting him a sharp look before letting out a sigh of defeat, stepping into the building. 

Two guards were waiting for you in the long hallway, the doors shut behind you with an ominous bang. 

“Come, l/n-san,” one of them said, “We’ll take you to the infirmary.”

You nodded, following after them silently. You had half a mind to ask who all was arrested--their names were on the tip of your tongue. Haitani Ran. Kurokawa Izana. Madarame Shion. Muto Yasuhiro. Mochizuki Kanji. You swallowed their names, continuing down the long, dreary hall of the juvenile prison. 

You knew Rindou was alive at least, and the thought put you at ease, if only momentarily. 

Alive but his last known condition was critical.

You felt sick. 

Right, left, left, right. 

You bit down on your bottom lip. The prison was cool and damp compared to the humidity from outside but it was just as suffocating. A part of you wanted to run before you learned the truth. 

Three dead, five arrested. Six of them. 

You were scared. It was a sort of low, creeping fear that was eating at your mind and soul. One that was building and building and had been building since the news first came out about the casualties of the Kanto Incident. It was becoming too much for your body and mind to handle.

You were going to break.

“Here,” the guard said firmly, stopping in front of a grey door, “We’ll wait outside unless you call for us.”

You couldn’t break. Not yet. 

Hold yourself together. Now is not the time.

Chin up, back straight. Push all of your emotions to the back of your head. You can only fall apart in the privacy of your own home. Your uncle’s words rang on repeat through your head.

You took in a deep breath, you straightened your back, you raised your chin.

“Thank you,” you said. Your voice was steadier than you expected as you stepped forward, pushing open the door.

You entered the room, heart tight in your chest. It was a shitty little infirmary--not equipped to handle any serious wounds. You felt anxious as your gaze drifted around before it tunneled to a figure laying on one of the beds on the opposite side of the room.

“Rindou,” you breathed out, rushing forward toward him. And you nearly broke there and then—eyes blurry with tears when you noticed how badly his face was bruised up and the way his arm was in a sling. You stood at his bedside, half kneeling on the bed next to him. You brought your hands to his face, cupping his cheeks gently and your fingers trembled against his skin as he peeked up at you through swollen eyes, split lips pulling up into a small smile, “What happened?”

“Got the shit kicked out of me,” his voice was rough, scratchy, and he winced as if his throat hurt when he spoke, “Real bad.”

“No shit,” you laughed, but your voice cracked as the tears spilled over your cheeks. Your uncle would be disappointed if he found out. You couldn’t bring yourself to care. 

You shifted the thin sheets off of him, one hand leaving his face to trace gently down his chest and abdomen across all of the deep purple bruises marring his skin all the way down to beneath the waistband of his pants. 

You pulled away when his abdomen spasmed beneath your touch, sliding the sheets back over him as he shivered. You looked back up at him as he leaned his face into your touch, bringing your other hand up to brush a lock of blonde hair from his face.

“Who did this?” you asked quietly.

Rindou shook his head, “Doesn’t matter,” he murmured, “How’d you get in here anyway? They said they don’t allow visitors.”

You scoffed lightly but there was no heat behind it as you gazed down at Rindou, biting down on the inside of your cheek as you took in just how hurt he was, “Do you even know who I am?” you said light-heartedly, fingers ghosting along his cheekbone, “I can do whatever I want.”

“Ah yes, I forgot, Miss My-Uncle-Owns-Half-Of-Japan,” Rindou teased, but there was an odd tone in his voice, one that you couldn’t quite place and it had you on edge because you could always, usually pretty easily, tell what Rindou was feeling. “Why’d it take you so long anyway? Figure you’d be here as soon as news got out about what happened in Yokohama.”

Your small smile faltered at the reminder of your own lack of capability, your inability to get anything done without your uncle’s help. How the fuck were you supposed to start up your own business, much less make it successful, when you can’t even do basic shit on your own? When you can’t even find out if your friends are dead or alive without going to a dozen and a half people for help. 

Well, you supposed you wouldn’t be alone, you remembered. You and Izana had planned it all out over the few months you spent in the music room together. He would be at your side, and you were quite certain that you and Kurokawa Izana would be an unstoppable force once you got the momentum going. 

You didn’t have to answer his question. Instead, a new familiar voice spoke up, “What am I? Chopped liver?” a petulant voice asked and you all but leapt off of the bed, eyes wide and desperate as your gaze swiveled around the room, eyes falling upon Ran lounging back on a nearby bed, studying you carefully.

“Ran,” you gasped, leaping off Rindou’s bed and toward Ran. 

Ran spread open his arms for you and you buried yourself right into them. He huffed in amusement as he wrapped his arms snug around you and you couldn’t help the way your eyes fluttered shut, you couldn’t help the warm feeling that swam throughout you at the feeling of his arms holding you tight. 

“You’re okay,” your voice was choked as you pulled back, hands going right to cup his face just as you had to Rindou, eyes tracing over his skin, and then down his body. He wasn’t as fucked up as Rindou, but he was clearly bruised and battered.

“Okay is a relative term,” Ran murmured in response.

“Wh-what happened to you guys?” you demanded, going to look back at Rindou but your gaze caught on the other three in the room: Shion, Mochi and Mucho, all of whom had also been beaten albeit none as badly as Rindou. Your voice rose in anger, “How the hell did Izana let this happen? Wher-”

Three dead, five arrested.

The anger washed away, your hands trembled. You pushed yourself off of Ran’s bed, looking around one last time--maybe you had missed him.

Your voice was little over a hushed whisper as you finished your question, “Where is he? Where-where is Izana?”

Neither Rindou nor Ran would meet your eyes. Mucho’s lips were pressed together tight. Mochi stared ahead at the barred window of the infirmary blankly. Not even Shion opened his mouth to answer you.

“Where is Izana?” your voice was louder, more frantic, “Hey! One of you fucking answer me, where is he?” 

No response.

You looked between Rindou and Ran, desperately trying to get one of them to look at you, “Answer me,” you were begging, you never fucking begged. “Answer me, please, one of you answer me. Where is he? If this is some sick joke-”

“Izana’s dead.”

It was Shion that spoke. His voice was more serious than you had ever heard before. You turned your head to look at him over your shoulder, eyes wide. His face was cold, stony--any and all hints of the wide, wild smile you were used to was gone as he watched you.

He was lying.

“You’re lying,” you accused, shaking your head, “Izana can’t die, he’s Izana. Where is he? This isn’t funny, Shion.”

But even as you spoke the words you knew, you knew deep, deep down that what Shion was saying was true. He was an asshole, but not even he would go this far--not with his friends.

“He’s dead, y/n,” Ran said. Your eyes were wide, glassy as you looked back at Ran, searching his face for any hint of a lie. “He took three bullets to the chest during the fight.”

There was none.

“No,” you said, “No, no no no, what do you mean bullets? It was a fist fight, you guys do fist fights, why the fuck was there a gun? What do you mean bullets, Ran? Who brought the gun? Who shot him? Ran, tell me who the fuck shot him, I’ll have them ki-“

Your world was spinning and tunneling all at once, you weren’t even sure how you were still standing up straight. Your head felt light, you were dizzy. 

“What are you trying to name it after?”

“Huh? Name what?”

“You said you’re trying to break off from your uncle. You’re gonna need a new company name, what’re you trying to name it for?”

“…”

“… you don’t know, do you?”

“… I haven’t thought that far ahead yet.”

“… whatever, I’m done practicing today anyway. Come here, let’s think something up.”

“You can’t kill him,” Rindou shook his head, “You can’t-”

“I can do whatever the fuck I want,” your voice was shrill, loud. “Don’t you fucking forget that, Rindou. Tell me who had the fucking gun.”

“Well I can’t do Japanese mythology, ‘cause that’s what Uncle Ichirou’s is… um…”

“Roman?”

“Hmm okay, I don’t know much about Roman mythology.”

“I actually have an idea, hold on.”

“Kisaki Tetta.”

“Shion!” Ran roared, “shut the fuck up.”

Shion stared right at you, “His name was Kisaki Tetta. The one who killed Izana.”

“Guys, I had the best idea for the name of my company when I get it started.”

You wanted to throw up. You pressed your hand to your mouth, turning around to face the wall so none of the others could see you.

Control yourself. Do not break down here. Breathe in, breathe out.

“Who had the best idea?”

“I-okay well, I guess it was Izana’s idea. But we’re pretty much the same brain at this point so it’s technically my idea too.”

“Excuse me, we’re what?”

You could feel nausea build in your stomach. You shut your eyes and the world around you shifted. You were back in the car with your family, reaching out for your sister, yelling for her to get up, that you guys had to get out of the car before it exploded. You could smell the smoke and the blood and the gasoline, you could feel the heat burning your eyes, you could hear your mother gasping for air as she breathed her last.

You couldn’t breathe. Izana, he-

“Anyway, get this! Janus! After the Roman god. He’s the god of beginnings and endings, and transitions, doorways, gateways, do you get it?! A new era for technology, and a shift away from my uncle, a new era for all of us, really. Once we get it started, everything will be easy after that.”

You wouldn’t be able to do it without him. You knew it. You fucking knew it. How were you supposed to? How were you supposed to build something alone that you had promised to do with him? Something that he named, something that he helped you plan, something you were supposed to do together. Your new era. Together.

“Stay away from that family, death follows them.”

How many times had you denied it? Spat those accusations in the face and then cried in Rindou’s arms at home because they spoke of deals with the devil and curses of death that weren’t true and you couldn’t make any friends because of it.

Maybe they were right, a part of you whispered. Izana had been fine and then months after befriending you he gets shot at a fist fight, what the fuck are the chances of that? They had so many big fights over the years but the first major one since you befriended him ended in his death?

Who was next?

Shion? Mochi? Mucho?

Rindou or Ran?

Your chest heaved, you pushed away the nausea.

Not here. Not here. Not here.

Not in front of them. Control yourself.

The door to the infirmary creaked open. You stiffened.

“Huh? What’s this?” an unfamiliar voice. Male. Deep. Accented. “What’s a girl doing in here? Smuggling whores in, Haitani?”

His voice was low, teasing, but there was an underlying edge that had your hair standing on end. Ran shifted in the bed next to where you were standing but before he could open his mouth to say something you were looking over your shoulder back at the room. 

They were tense. Uncomfortable. All of them. At once, a deep-set hatred swept throughout you. Whoever this was, he was not a friend.

“Who the fuck are you?” your voice was also low, but it did not have the same teasing edge as his did. Next to you, Ran inhaled sharply, a look of warning thrown in your direction.

The new guy was large—obscenely large, really, larger than Mochi and Mucho and they were the tallest guys you ever met. There was a tattoo curling down his neck to his chest, top unbuttoned, and you couldn’t help but notice the scars that riddled his chest.

“He took three bullets to the chest during the fight.” 

Resentment flooded through you too fast to control it. Your gaze drew up to meet a strange golden one that made your skin crawl.

“Watch yourself, girl,” the amusement in his voice was also gone, your eyes narrowed. 

The resentment shifted into a steadily growing anger. 

“Take your own advice,” your words were milder than the ones sitting on the edge of your tongue, ready to burst. “I asked you a question.”

Your name left Ran’s lips, a warning. He was telling you not to fuck around with this guy. One glance at Ran and the rest of them told you all you needed to know—his eyes were wary, hesitant, he looked torn between standing in front of Rindou, who was immobile on his infirmary bed, and dragging you behind him. Mucho was on his feet, standing to the side between you and the new guy, ready to jump in, Shion and Mochi were still sitting on their own beds, significantly more tense than before.

This was the one that beat the shit out of them.

Your gaze drew sharply from them, onto the two guards who had walked you here, now standing stiff at the doorway due to the new arrival, ready to intervene.

“Leave,” you said. Their eyes snapped to you,

protest visible in them.

“L/n-san,” one hesitated, looking at you.

“Now,” you interrupted before he could continue and you watched as the two of them shared a look before stepping out of the room, letting the door slam shut behind them.

“Sending away your only means of protection wasn’t a smart move, girl,” his voice was low and derogatory, the amusement was back again. That deep-set hatred began to boil again as your gaze fell back on the scars on his chest—proof of his survival against something that had killed Izana. “These fuckers can’t protect you. They hadn’t even been able to protect themselves.”

Your hands shook with anger from where they were stuffed in your pockets. If Izana was here-

You wanted to cry. Izana was not here. He was dead, and you felt like it was your fault. Cursed. You were fucking cursed.

Now is not the time. Control yourself.

If Izana was here, he would put this asshole in his place without sparing a second. You could practically picture it and-

-and if Izana wasn’t here to do it, you had to. For Ran and Rindou, for Shion and Mucho and Mochi, for Izana, who you knew would be furious if he knew some ogre was beating and bullying them.

Izana was gone, you couldn’t shake the words from you. Dead. Three bullets to the chest during the fight. You were on your own now—well, you supposed you weren’t on your own. You had Ran and Rindou and Shion and Mucho and Mochi, but they were not Izana. 

Izana understood you in a way that they did not. And that’s not to say that Ran and Rindou didn’t understand you—they did. But it was different. You knew they struggled to see you as someone independent, as someone they didn’t need to protect all the time. You loved them. You did. But Izana had always recognized your potential whereas they did not.

“I think you underestimate yourself too much, and I think when push comes to shove, you’ll do what needs to be done.”

Maybe he was right, you considered as words twisted through your head—bullets ready to fire at the asshole standing in front of you. But things were different now that he was gone. Izana’s presence had been a reassurance. A reassurance that if you split from your uncle, you would still have someone there watching your back—someone who understood, someone who wouldn’t coddle you or try to hold you back.

But Izana was gone. He was dead. And now you were drifting alone, drowning in the open sea and the only buoy you could cling to was your uncle until you could learn to float yourself.

You could stand on your own—you knew you could. Izana had faith that you could, and you had faith in yourself. But not yet, you knew you weren’t ready yet, and you knew that things would only get more dangerous as time passed. More threats to you, to them—threats that you wouldn’t be able to eliminate on your own. Not yet.

Your family name was like a bulletproof shield that surrounded the pedestal the world held you on. You hated using it, it always left a sour taste in your mouth but…

“When push comes to shove, you’ll do what needs to be done.”

If it was to protect them, you would use it. You would use your family name, you would use your uncle, you would do anything.

This was only the first test.

Chin up, back straight. Push all of your emotions to the back of your head. You can only fall apart in the privacy of your own home. 

“You’re foreign, so I suppose I can’t blame you for not understanding how things are run in Tokyo,” you said. His gaze darkened, you raised your chin, straightened your back. Your uncle's words swam throughout your head yet again. You did not know all of what your uncle was involved with, but you knew enough to realize this brute had no right trying to threaten you. And perhaps you were about to speak out of your ass considering you were crying about not being able to get anything done, not even a half hour ago, but nobody needed to know that. 

“I run Tokyo. Or well, I suppose my uncle does right now. But I will sooner or later. My family has this city in our pocket. Someone like you should already know just the way this world works,” your gaze drifted down to the bullet scars decorating his chest, the tattoo that you were sure had some sort of gang significance, “and you should know to avoid the larger fish of the sea.”

He scoffed, loudly, and he took a step forward, you did not move. “You tryna say you’re a larger fish?” he sounded amused, you were not.

You smiled thinly, “The largest someone of your standing will ever have had the misfortune of stumbling upon,” you said coolly, gaze flickering down to the name etched on his uniform. “Brutality and aggression get you nowhere in this world. Money is what makes the world go round, Terano, and our wallets are all but endless. You don’t want to make an enemy of me.”

“Or what?” 

Your eyes trailed back down to the scars marring his chest before flashing back up to his eyes.

“I don’t think you need me to answer that question,” any amusement that might have been apparent on Terano’s face was gone in an instant.

He stepped forward and at once there was a cock of a gun. Ran, Shion and Rindou flinched, Mucho and Mochi tensed. Your eyes flickered behind Terano to where Mister Mado was holding a pistol up.

A bullet to the chest might not kill him but Mister Mado always aimed for the head, and he never missed.

Terano’s brows knit together, his lips pressed tight. He glared so hard that you swore you’d be a boiling puddle of flesh and blood and bone if he had the power. His eyes flashed with something dark, angry, a sort of blinding rage and bloodlust that sent a chill running down your spine.

He was not a man that liked to be backed into a corner.

The adrenaline was fading, you could feel the nerves reappearing. You had to leave before you broke.

“I’ll be back to visit next week,” you didn’t look back at Ran or Rindou as you started walking away. They called after you but you ignored them. You were running out of time; you only had a few moments before reality smacked you once again.

You stopped as you passed Terano, tilting your head up to look at him, shoulder brushing his arm. Pupils constricted, gold stared down at you furiously. All it would take was one movement, one snap of his arm up and he would have your neck in his grasp, snapping it in one swift motion.

“If you touch them again, you won’t leave this center alive,” you said before turning your gaze back forward brushing past him and out of the door, ignoring the calls of your name.

As soon as the doors shut behind you, you pulled your hands from your pockets, revealing just how shaky they had become during the confrontation. You took deep breaths, trying to keep yourself calm.

“I’ll have the cameras wiped and we’ll pay off the guards to keep an eye around here,” Mister Mado said, squeezing your shoulder gently. “You handled this well. Your uncle will be proud.”

Your chest sunk. His words rang bitter in your ears.

This was what you wanted, wasn’t it?

—-

PRESENT.

You were sure that this was all you had ever wanted in life. 

Thin rays of sun slipped past the blinds, beating against your eyelids, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Not with Ran’s arm wrapped snug around your waist, his face buried in the nape of your neck. Warm, soft puffs of air fanned against your skin, short purple and black hair tickled your shoulders. 

You could feel Rindou laying somewhere in front of you, one hand curled around your wrist, as if he was trying to stop you from trying to flee when you woke up. You had always been the one to wake up first of the three of you. Your chest tightened at the thought, his grip was tight, holding your hand close to him.

Rin…

You let out a shaky breath, letting your eyes peek open. The sun burned, but only for a second as your gaze focused on Rindou’s sleepy expression, inches from your face. His lashes brushed his cheek and his pink lips were parted as he took in slow, even breaths.

You swallowed thickly, eyes tearing up as you realized just how at peace you felt at that moment. You felt safe, genuinely and truly safe, for the first time in years, even if you did know deep down you were in more danger than ever. 

Rindou let out a quiet hum in his sleep, grip tightening on your hand, and you inhaled sofly, bringing your free hand up to his face, cupping his cheek gently, scared of waking him up. Your fingers brushed his cheekbone and your breath caught as his eyes fluttered open, purple eyes lost and confused for a moment before his eyes trained on you.

His face was unreadable, if only for a moment, and then his lips lifted into a small smile, “Creep,” he accused, but even as the word left his lips, his eyes slid back shut and he leaned his face into your touch.

“Shut up,” you murmured, no heat behind your words as you let out another uneven puff of air. “I just-”

You couldn’t bring yourself to say your thoughts out loud. I just wanted to make sure you were real, I wanted to make sure this wasn’t some sort of sick trick. 

But you didn’t have to say it out loud. Rindou’s grip on your hand tightened in response to your words, his way of saying that he had been fearing the same, and his grip on your hand was his way of keeping ahold of reality. Ran’s grip on your waist shifted, nuzzling in closer to you as he let out a low groan in his sleep. 

Rindou’s eye’s flickered behind you, a strange expression crossing over his face. Your brows furrowed, asking him a silent question, and Rindou only shrugged, eyes sliding shut again.

“He hasn’t slept well in a long time,” he murmured, “Not without sleeping pills, at least.”

“Oh,” you said quietly, guilt stirring in you once again. You wondered if you leaving had anything to do with that, or if it was just something that had come with years in his line of… work. 

You grimaced at the reminder. You knew what they were a part of—you had known since that morning at Izanagi Headquarters—but it was different hearing it directly from them. They didn’t spare you any details, and you weren’t sure if you were grateful for it or not.

Bonten. The rival gang that has been trying and failing to back Sugawara into a corner. They knew just as much about Sugawara’s group as his knew about Bonten up until recently. Both groups were slippery, good at keeping to the shadows, careful and calculating. 

But Bonten couldn’t keep up. And you supposed it was nobody’s fault but your own. Your return to Tokyo had been the turning point in the cold war between the two gangs. Your money, your technology, your relationship with the Haitanis.

You shut your eyes, guilt pooling in every pore in your body, weighing you down heavy. 

Bonten was on its last legs. Sanzu Haruchiyo and Kakucho were frantically trying to get their shipments out of their warehouses before the police raided them. Kokonoi Hajime’s businesses had all but burned to the ground. Akashi Takeomi was trying to get in talks with smaller gangs but nobody wanted to step into a raging fire for a gang that would’ve looked away had they been in the same position.

And Rindou and Ran were here. With you. A part of you wondered if there would be backlash for it, but you doubted that Bonten could spare the resources anyway. And you were certain they couldn’t afford to drive away two of its executives when it was already falling apart.

Your fingers trembled.

You should have stayed away, back in Europe, or the Americas, anywhere but here. All you did was bring death and misfortune with you wherever you went.

You were certain that the kids from all those years ago were right. You were cursed.

A palm pressed softly against your cheek and your eyes fluttered back open, meeting Rindou’s.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked quietly, and you let out a breath.

“Nothing,” you said quietly. His brows furrowed in annoyance, you sighed louder. “Really, nothing, I was thinking about Izana,” you lied, “or well, just that day at the detention center.” 

Rindou’s lips pressed together tight at the reminder of Izana before he shook his head, snorting, “South. I cannot believe you and him work together now. I swore he was going to kill you that day. Even when we were with him in Rokuhara Tandai after, I don’t think I ever saw him so angry before. You made it look so easy.”

You smiled, shaking your head, “I was terrified,” you admitted, “and I was pretty much talking out of my ass. I was literally crying on the way to the detention center because I couldn’t do anything without Uncle Ichirou’s help.”

Your eyes fluttered shut again as Rindou’s fingers danced along your cheek, “Couldn’t tell,” he murmured, “You were…”

His voice fell off and a strange, uncomfortable feeling swept over you as you waited for him to finish the sentence. 

You were what? 

“I was what?” you finally asked when Rindou never continued.

He blinked, as if he himself hadn’t realized he never finished his sentence, before a strange look crossed over his face, “I don’t know,” he said quietly, “Looking back on it, that was really the day it all changed, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” you responded. You couldn’t meet his eyes, his hand drew back from your face and an unwelcome, longing feeling swept over you. “Yeah, it was.”

Rindou grimaced, and you could see all the thoughts running through his head. 

I should have realized, I should have done more, things would be different if I had noticed, I should have, I should have, I should have-

You squeezed his hand gently, “There wasn’t anything that could’ve been done,” you told him softly, but he shook his head, pulling his hand from yours and rising off the bed.

Your hand felt cold. Your lips parted to call after him. He wouldn’t look at you. 

“I’m gonna go see what Miss Yua is making for breakfast,” he said, not waiting for a response before he turned on his heel and left the room, letting the door shut loudly after him.

An excuse, of course, Miss Yua always made eggs in the morning. Mister Ayato was the one that did fancy breakfasts for the three of you and he was all but bedridden.

As soon as the door shut, the arm around your waist tightened. You let out a soft noise as you squirmed beneath Ran’s arm, turning your head to look at him, eyes meeting violet ones that peered at you from over your shoulder.

“How long have you been awake?” you asked, trying to shift away, but even wounded, Ran was still stronger than you.

“Long enough to hear you talk to Rindou. What were you really thinking about?” Ran questioned, voice low and sleepy, “I know you were lying.”

“Ran-“

“Don’t play games with me, I’m not in the mood,” Ran muttered, finally letting go of you so you could turn around to face him.

You could barely meet his gaze, eyes darting around to look everywhere but at him until his hand came up to hold your jaw, forcing you to look at him.

“Do you-“ you let out a shaky breath, closing your eyes. How fucking embarrassing. Were you really going to admit to this? “Do you remember what those kids used to say about me and my family? When we were younger?”

Ran’s brows furrowed as he nodded, unsure of where you were going with this, and you could feel the tears pool in your eyes behind your eyelids.

“Do you ever wonder if it’s true?” you finally asked and you hated how your voice shook, and you hated even more as Ran let go of you.

“What?” he asked, tone inlaid with such disbelief that it had your face heating up in embarrassment, “What are you talking about? Why would-?”

“My whole family died, Ran,” you interrupted him, “in a freak accident on the way to one of my

ballet recitals. And then as soon as I befriend your friends, two of them die too. I go to Europe and thousands of people are killed in the explosion. And now I come back to Tokyo, and everything goes to shit in a matter of two weeks. Everywhere I go, tragedy follows. And I’m scared, I’m scared every day that you and Rin will be next.”

You expected a multitude of reactions from Ran. You expected him to get angry, annoyed; you expected him to blow you off and call you dumb; you expected a roll of the eyes and a ‘quit it with the paranoia.’

You did not expect him to laugh.

Your eyes flew open, glaring at him. Amused purple eyes watched you fondly. Your glare lessened when you felt his hand rest on your bicep, thumb rubbing soft circles on your skin.

“Rindou and I have been around you for what? Seventeen years? We were together for nine before you went off to school? Don’t you think that if we were cursed, we would’ve been struck down by now?” Ran teased, “Is that really what’s got you so wound up?”

You looked away, he brought his hand up to cup the side of your neck and your eyes instinctively drew back to him. The amusement was gone and instead replaced by worry.

“Is that really what’s bothering you?” Ran’s voice was quiet, more serious. You grit your teeth to try to stop the tears.

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. You told yourself it over and over again but it wasn’t working this time.

“You don’t-you don’t understand,” you shook your head, which was a mistake considering the movement made the tears start to fall. “You don’t understand waking up every day and being terrified that you’re going to get the people you love killed-I-Ran, it’s so-“

Your vision was blurred but you could still catch the look on Ran’s face—the questioning and then the understanding and then the anger.

He spoke your name and you nearly flinched, “Was this the reason for the rush? When you left? You told us two days before, y/n, you didn’t even give us any time to process it before you were gone.”

He was trying to stay calm, you could hear it in his voice, but you could see the fury boiling behind his eyes. Your shoulders shook, you took in a wet breath. You opened your mouth to deny it. Deny, deny, deny but instead-

“I’m sorry,” your voice broke as a sob wracked your form, your hands flew to cover your face and you tried to move away. “I was scared.”

The excuses and apologies flew from your lips like bullets, but even as you cried and asked him to forgive you, you felt as if the last of the weight bearing down on you had been lifted.

Even if he hated you, at least you had nothing left to hide from them.

Ran let out a heavy, shaky breath, his hand wrapped tight around your bicep again, pulling you in close. You buried your face in his chest, melting into the warmth of his body, wrapping an arm around his waist as he held you.

“Rindou was right, you really are somehow the stupidest and smartest person we’ve ever met,” he muttered. “You are so fucking infuriating. So fucking infuriating.”

You ignored the insult, instead letting your eyes slide shut as Ran pressed his lips to the top of your head. And for a moment, the two of you just laid there--you bundled in his arms, trying to calm your breathing and dry your tears, and him clutching you tight, blunt nails digging a bit too hard into your skin but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

You weren’t sure how long the two of you laid there curled up into each other but you were sure that you would have stayed there forever if given the chance.

“Breakfast is ready.” 

You jumped at the sound of Rindou’s voice, pulling away from Ran to sit up and look at him. There was an odd expression on his face as he eyed the two of you but you only let out a breath as you pushed yourself off the bed, straightening out the button-up you had slipped into last night after the three of you were two bottles in.

Rindou’s, you recognized now that you weren’t drunk out of your mind--you could smell his cologne heavy on the collar of the button-up, a woodier scent than the one that Ran wore. 

“Eggs?” you questioned, raising your eyebrows. Rindou tore his gaze from where he was staring at the bed you had just been in with Ran.

“Yeah,” he said after a moment, “eggs.”

You rolled your eyes, nudging his shoulder, “Coulda told you that,” you said.

“Miss Yua always makes eggs,” Ran agreed as he stood up, a grimace crossing his face, his hand flying to his abdomen.

You and Rindou both took a step toward him but he waved you off, irritation flashing through his eyes, “I’m fine,” he snapped. You sighed, sharing a look with Rindou as Ran made his way toward you, breath shaky and knees wobbly. He was barely walking straight, the bruises marring his skin were dark and ugly against his pale skin, blending in with the tattoos on the left side of his body.

You shook your head, moving toward him, you took a spot on the right side of his body and Rindou moved to the left, helping steady him.

“I don’t fuckin’ need your help,” Ran, ever the difficult one, tried to push both of you away but you only tightened your grip on him.

“Relax, Ran,” you said quietly, “Let’s just get to the kitchen.” 

“I can walk myself,” Ran muttered, unamused, but he didn’t fight as he leaned into the two of you, letting you guys guide him to the kitchen.

Miss Yua was there waiting for the three of you, graying hair pulled up into a bun, lips flat as she scowled at the three of you. You could almost pretend that you guys were teenagers again, about to get a loud and unending scolding after the three of you had stolen Mister Ayato’s alcohol and blacked out, missing breakfast and lunch and stressing Mister Ayato out intensely when you didn’t meet him at the school like you were supposed to.

“Good morning, Miss Yua,” you murmured, Ran echoing your words. 

The woman raised her nose, sliding three plates of eggs and toast toward you guys. You picked up your fork immediately, going to shovel a forkful of food into your mouth. You paused when you caught all three of them staring at you.

“What?” you asked, disgruntled, “I’m hungry.”

Rindou snorted, looking down at his own food, and the irritated look on Ran’s face disappeared momentarily as he smiled down at the plate in front of him. 

“You, boy,” Miss Yua pointed a kitchen knife at Ran, Ran froze mid-bite of food, finishing chewing slowly and swallowing as he watched her, “Do not overexert yourself, I’m not going to do checkups on you every few hours. Your body is weak--” Ran flinched “--and it will become weaker if you push yourself. Take it easy.”

Ran let out a noise of agreement but from the look on his face you knew damn well he had no intention of taking it easy, and from the way Miss Yua rolled her eyes, she knew that too. Miss Yua let out a heavy sigh as she smoothed out her clothes, making her way back in the direction of where her room and Mister Ayato’s were located.

Before she left, she paused to look back at the three of you, there was a strange, longing look in her eyes as her gaze traced over the three of you, lips tugged up gently. Her lips parted as if to say something but instead she only shook her head, turning away, “It’s nice to see the three of you home together,” she murmured before making her way back down the hall.

With Miss Yua gone, a heavy silence overtook the kitchen. You chewed your food slowly, swallowing and placing your fork down.

“We should probably get out of here,” the words felt bitter. You wanted to stay, pretend that you had never left Tokyo and the three of you were lounging around the penthouse like old times.  

But you couldn’t. The longer you stayed here, the more danger you would put Miss Yua and Mister Ayato.

That wasn’t an option.

“Yeah,” Rindou said quietly, and you could see on his face that he probably felt just as reluctant as you did. “Let me go get changed,” his gaze darted over to you and Ran, “you two should get dressed too.”

You let out a breath, rising to your feet after finishing the last of your eggs, moving your plate to the sink, grabbing Ran and Rindou’s, placing them with yours. You swallowed thickly as you stood at the sink, hands braced against the counter as you shut your eyes.

Breathe in, breathe out. 

You had to get away from the penthouse--it’ll be the first place that Sugawara looks. But leaving the penthouse meant facing reality again and you didn’t know if you were ready for it. Facing reality meant facing danger, and facing danger meant that Ran and Rindou would be at risk again. 

You felt a palm press against your lower back, and you turned your head to the side, eyes falling upon Rindou, who watched you with furrowed brows and a concerned frown. You shook your head, giving him a small smile, “I’ll go get changed,” you said quietly, stepping away from the sink.

And you didn’t give him a chance to respond as you started your way back down the hall, a sinking feeling in your chest and a heavy weight returning to your shoulders.

---

The hardest part was saying goodbye to Miss Yua and Mister Ayato again.

You sighed as you leaned against the wall of the elevator, tilting your head back to look up at the mirrors lined in the ceiling. You could see Rindou and Ran standing against opposite walls, Ran typing furiously on his phone while Rindou stared ahead at him, fingers toying with his rings. He looked just as upset as you felt. 

“Where are we gonna go?” you asked after a few moments. Rindou’s head lolled to the side as he looked over at you, raising his eyebrows, “... well we aren’t going to go back to your apartment, right? You said the cops have been raiding all your warehouses?”

“What’s that gotta do with our apartment?” Ran muttered, lips twisting down as he started typing out another angry message. 

“... who do you guys think has the cops in their pocket?” you asked slowly, Rindou and Ran both looked up at you, Rindou’s face falling and Ran’s brows furrowing. “My uncle has had the TMPD in his pocket since we were kids, and if he does, Sugawara surely does too. Plus they have access to all the CCTV cameras in the city… that’s on me, I guess… sorry. Anyway, what I’m trying to get at is that we can't really stay in Tokyo right now. It’s not safe. They’ve got eyes and ears everywhere, literally.”

“The fuckin’ cameras,” Ran muttered to himself, shooting you a half-hearted glare before returning back to whatever argument he was having over text, “God, Sanzu won’t leave me the fuck alone.”

“What’s he want now?” Rindou rolled his eyes, turning his attention back toward Ran and you tuned them out as your phone buzzed in your pocket. 

You recognized Takuya’s number flashing on your screen and you swallowed thickly as you answered the phone, praying to whatever god that would listen that they managed to get out of Tokyo safely.

“Takuya, are you-”

“Get out of the fucking elevator now,” it was Mina’s voice on the other side of the phone. Your heartbeat faltered in your chest, your body moved on instinct, eyes darting up to catch the thirteen on the elevator as it descended down to the ground floor. You slammed your hand against the button for the twelfth floor.

“What’s going on?” you demanded, “Mina-”

“Sugawara’s fuckers are in the building, they’re waiting at the bottom of the elevator, coming up the north and south stairwells. Eight on north, nine on south. We’re way outside the city right now, I won’t be able to get to you. You’ve gotta get out of there.”

“Oh fuck,” you breathed out, looking down each hall, “Oh fuck, fuck, what floor are they on right now.”

“What the fuck is going on?” Rindou demanded, clicking off the safety of his gun as he readied it in front of him, eyes wild as he looked up and down the hallway, trying to figure it out on his own. 

“Sugawara’s men are here,” you said quietly as Mina and Takuya talked in the background, trying to pinpoint where exactly Sugawara’s men were. “In the building. Coming up now.” 

“They’re on the sixth floor, or close to it. I can’t tell exactly, there’s no cameras in the stairwells. They seem to have your location, they’re not even bothering to check the other floors, just coming right up,” Takuya’s voice sounded further away, you could hear him typing away at whatever computer he was on, “I’m trying to get into the building’s cameras now. They’re not ours, it’s taking a bit longer than it would if they were.”

“We need to move,” Ran said, grimacing as he pushed himself off of the wall. Sweat was beading at his forehead, his face looked paler than usual, his legs shook with every step. 

He was not okay.

“Ran,” you breathed out, trying to move forward to grab him but he batted your hands away.

“I’m fine,” his face was resentful, angry. He despised weakness. He hated being the one holding people back, “I’m fine. We need to move. Start moving.”

“You can’t walk,” Rindou spit right back, not having any of Ran’s shit, “You’re going to hold us back.”

“Then leave me,” Ran’s tone was absolutely vile, eyes on fire as he glared at Rindou.

“Fuck you,” Rindou snarled, shoving the gun in your hands before moving to wrap his arm around Ran’s waist, steadying him and helping him move along. His face softened as he looked back at you, “You know how to use that?”

“Yeah,” you swallowed thickly, holding the gun correctly in front of you, “I know how to use it.”

“Go to the left, down the north stairwell. They’re moving slower and there’s less of them. You’ll at least be able to get down a flight or two before they catch up. The building’s gym is on the tenth floor, it’ll probably be the easiest place to take cover and take them out. I’ll try to get the cameras out before you get to the floor,” Takuya said, you hesitated.

“Stop fucking standing there and move,” Mina boomed and you were moving forward immediately, sprinting to the north stairwell and shoving your phone into Ran’s hands as you reached the metal door.

“You’re on phone duty,” you said to Ran, who gave you a scowl so deep that you swore it would be permanently etched on his face. 

The door creaked open as you pushed it open, holding it for Ran and Rindou before closing it quietly behind the two of them. Your eyes darted around. There were no cameras in the stairwells, but you knew they must have seen the three of you enter it from the ones on the twelfth floor. You had to keep moving.

You let out an unsteady breath, holding the gun in front of you as you started down the steps, moving as quickly and quietly as possible. You glanced back at Rindou and Ran. Ran had shoved a fistful of his shirt into his mouth, muffling the grunts of pain that rose at all of the jostling, giving you a clear view of the nasty bruises lining his abdomen courtesy of your decision.

Guilt swelled again, you pushed it away.

Now was not the time. Hesitate and it’ll get all three of you killed.

Focus. 

You turned down the staircase, glancing down. You felt sick, anxiety was eating at your chest and stomach. You could hear the footsteps slamming against the metal stairs from floors below, the hushed voices. They were all armed, you were sure.

And you were the only one of the three of you armed. One versus eight, plus the additional nine on the opposite side of the building.

You felt sick. You couldn’t let them die here, not now. Not ever. You had to get them out, even if it meant giving yourself up.

They would never forgive you.

You don’t even know if they would actually let them go. They could lie.

It might be your only shot.

You felt dizzy, nauseous. You couldn’t push it away.

Floor Eleven.

One more floor, then sprint to the gym. You could make it. The three of you had done this a million times before, running from Miss Yua and then trying to camp out in the locker room, hiding behind the benches before she inevitably found you.

An intense sense of nostalgia swept through you as you looked back at them again. You could practically picture yourself hopping down three stairs at a time, shrieking and laughing and looking back over your shoulder as Rindou tried to keep up with you and Ran. The two of you had always been the fastest.

You were almost there. One more staircase. 

You turned down the last twist, and you swore your heart stopped beating when you came face to face with a man around your age, dark hair, darker eyes. Gun in hand.

No. They had sent someone ahead?

Recognition flashed through his eyes when he saw you, gaze ripping to the side, halfway up the other staircase to where Rindou was struggling with Ran.

Your eyes widened.

You hesitated.

He raised his own gun, but not at you, and your body acted before your mind could process what was happening, watching Ran use the last of his strength to force Rindou behind him, using his body as a shield. All of the lessons from Mina and Mister Mado before he passed away coming back to swim at the forefront of your head. 

Brace your feet. Steady your arms. Aim and pull the trigger.

Do not hesitate.

The bang that echoed throughout the staircase was terrible, loud, you wanted to cover your ears and curl up. In front of you, the man dropped dead to the ground, a hole through his forehead.

Your breath was erratic, your eyes were wild. “W-we need to keep going,” you told them. You could hear shouts from below, closer, the pounding of feet moving faster.

You raced down the steps, swinging open the door to the tenth floor, holding it for Rindou and Ran before taking off down the hall to where the glass doors of the gym were situated in the middle of the floor.

Your fingers trembled as you typed in the passcode—it was the same after all of these years and tears of gratefulness sprung to your eyes. A small mercy.

Your face was wet and sticky, you could feel a hot, thick liquid dripping down your cheek, something chunky in your hair. Your vision blurred and spun, shaky arms pushed open the doors.

Rindou and Ran slipped in and you shut the doors just as the doors to the stairwell slammed open on either side. Ran looked worse, you noted as you followed them into the locker room, locking the metal door behind the three of you. He was barely standing, shivering and sweating at the same time.

“Ran-“ you began, but he interrupted you.

“Are you okay?” Ran asked, your brows furrowed, unsure of why he was asking you that when he was the one in awful shape. “Was that the first time you killed someone?”

Your lips parted to answer, no noise left them. You swallowed, clearing your throat as you tried again, “Directly, yeah,” you said softly, looking away.

You felt two fingers press against your jaw, Rindou turned your face to him, bringing a warm, damp rag to your skin and wiping off the blood, removing whatever had been in your hair and hiding it in the rag before you could see it.

“You did good,” he murmured, “He would have-“

He would have killed us.

Well, you corrected, them. Your mind danced as you recalled the brief second before you shot him. He had seen you, recognized you, and then purposefully turned his body to pull the gun on Ran and Rindou.

They weren’t targeting you.

“They’re not targeting me,” you said quietly, refusing to look at either of them, “They-he looked at me and recognized me, but then he turned to try to kill you guys.”

“I figured they wouldn’t,” Ran said, grunting and shifting from where he was sitting on the ground, arms circling his abdomen, “Not when you’ve got all the money from Izanami. They’ll probably try to take you in and-“

“I should go,” you said, interrupting him. Rindou and Ran’s heads snapped toward you, confusion on the former’s and fury on the latter’s. “They won’t kill me, I can make a deal-“

“They won’t kill you yet,” Ran hissed, “That’s not to say they won’t once they’ve got their hands on Izanami.”

You shook your head. Your throat felt tight, your hands were shaky, you didn’t even know how you were talking coherently.

“We won’t make it out of here,” your eyes were tearing up.

Not now. Not now. Not now.

Ran opened his mouth to protest but you continued before he could, “There are what? Seventeen rounds in this? There’s seventeen of them just coming up here looking for us. There’s god knows how many downstairs waiting for. There’s only two exits for the building and I’m sure both of them are covered. I would rather-I would rather take the chance than certain death.”

“No,” Ran said instantly, “Absolutely not.”

“You can barely even walk,” you hissed, taking a step closer to him, “You can barely walk, Ran. H-“

“They’ll kill you as soon as they get what they want,” Ran’s expression was livid, “You fucking promised that you wouldn’t pull shit like this. We can hold out here-“

“Hold out for what?” you demanded, and to your horror, your voice cracked, “Hold out for what? Bonten isn’t coming. You said it yourself, they’re busy dealing with the raids. What are we holding out for? For them to finally break in here and kill you guys?”

Neither Ran nor Rindou responded, you let out another shaky breath, “Answer me,” you said, voice pleading as you looked between them, “Tell me there’s something else we can fall back on and I won’t. But I’m not going to stay here like a sitting duck so they can come in here and kill you guys.”

You could hear banging coming from the hall, a shattering of glass—you flinched violently. They were in the gym. It was only a matter of time.

“They’ll kill us anyway,” Rindou’s voice cracked, you had never heard him like this before. Tears sprung to your eyes and you forced them away. You had to stay strong, convince them that this was the best route. He grabbed you by the jaw, forcing you to look at him. “They’ll kill us anyway, all you’re doing is giving yourself up. If we can hold them off, you can get out of here.”

“That’s a big ‘if’ when you have one gun,” you snapped, “you’ll die if we do it that way. There’s no way.”

“We’ll die either way,” Ran shouted, trying to hide the grimace that swept over his face at the action. “We’ll die either way, I’d rather die knowing you might’ve got out of here instead of you having thrown yourself to death row for us.”

“I’ll hold Izanami hostage,” you looked away, staring at the door of the locker room that led to the gym, to where Sugawara’s men were gathered and searching for the three of you. You heard a shout and a bang against the locker room door.

They knew where you were.

“They’ll need me to sign over Izanami before they kill me, otherwise the company will go over to Takuya at my death,” you said quietly. “I’ll refuse to sign it over until I know you guys are safe.”

“No,” Ran said, “No, stop. They’ll just take us in and torture us until you give in. There’s no win-“

“The signing is public, for a company of Izanami’s size. Or even if the signing itself isn’t, I’ll be expected to make some sort of public announcement and speech detailing the future of Izanami under someone else’s leadership,” you interrupted, staring at the door blankly as the metal shook underneath the force of a kick. “They wouldn’t risk me speaking out in public.”

You smiled wryly, looking back at them, “Unfortunately for them, I’m a lot more popular with the general public than my uncle is. They know it would start an uproar.”

You supposed there was always the issue that they could just hold Rindou and Ran hostage to keep you quiet during the speech but… you were running out of options, and time. They would die here without a doubt if you didn’t do anything. At least they would have a chance if you played along.

You rose to your feet.

“No,” Ran’s voice was hoarse, panicked as he struggled to his feet. 

You did not look back at him.

“Don’t you dare walk out that door,” Ran spat out, “I won’t forgive you. Don’t you fucking dare. Rindou, stop her.”

You did not look back at him.

A hand reached out to grab your wrist, holding you in place. You turned your head to the side, looking at him from the corner of your eye. 

“Don’t do this,” he said quietly.

“Trust me,” you responded. “Please, Rin.”

Rindou stared at you for what seemed like an eternity, searching your eyes for some sort of answer. You waited, hoping and praying that he found it.

He let go of your wrist.

You let out a shaky breath.

“Thank you.”

Ran was shouting, furious, but you did your best to tune him out. Distantly noticing how Rindou was forcing him back down to the ground instead of chasing after you and Ran, too weak to fight back, could only spit vile insults and curses at his younger brother.

You stood in front of the door, swallowing thickly.

“I’ll come out,” you called loudly, the shouting on the other side of the door ceased. “I would prefer not to be shot.”

For a moment, there was no response, you could hear your heart beating in your chest. You could hear Ran begging you not to go—you had never heard him beg before. Your throat felt tight, your hands felt shaky.

“Come out,” one man called, “Any tricks and we’ll shoot down all three of you.”

You reached out for the lock on the door.

“Please,” Ran was gasping, his voice was cracking, your lips trembled, “Don’t fucking do it, don’t go out there. We just got you back, we just got you back.”

Chin up, back straight. Push all of your emotions to the back of your head. You can’t fall apart now. Don’t let them see you break, they’ll latch onto weakness.

You raised your chin. You straightened your back. You opened the door.

***

WC: 12.2k

REBLOGS AND FEEDBACK GREATLY APPRECIATED !!! 

— feedback on character development and story progression pls do not nitpick little mistakes

FIC ART NEEDED

Hey guys....it's me again lol

So if I'm going to be back full-time, I need to update and revamp my masterlist. This also means the fic art that I have previously used. Specifically with Unsaid Vow and Quarter Quell. The fic art for those was good but they had my old username so I can't use it anymore.

So right now I just need something new for Quarter Quell and Unsaid Vow. (open to These things take time, Pen Pal and Paparazzi too although they aren't priority) If any of you would like to submit cover art for it please do so! The only thing I ask is;

Fic name is visible and in a classic font (I detest the fake cursive btw)

Somewhere below title is "Written by laughing with god"

The image you use of the member matches the fic description (ex; Unsaid Vow Jungkook has short black hair, so a pic of him with red hair as the cover won't work)

I prefer darker colors, and simple photos of the members!! No bright neons or anything pls, it's all yandere content!!

As a thank you, if I choose your art I will obviously tag you in all the chapters and the new master list as the creator of the fic art. ALSO as an incentive, I will give you a personal gift :) I will give you the first 5ik of either Unsaid Vow or QQ5 (I'll let you decide). Just a one-time favor though, as I do have patrons who pay to beta read and will be the first to get the full chapters once they are completed.

Please just message me any of your submissions, I will respond if I want to use yours.

reblog and make a wish! this was removed from tumbrl due to “violating one or more of Tumblr’s Community Guidelines”, but since my wish came true the first time, I’m putting it back. :)