Bos Taurus | Dogmeat Series Pt., I
bos taurus | dogmeat series pt., i
mafia butcher Simon Riley x Reader
You don't question your brother when he sends you to drop off packages to his friends, but when the enforcer for the 141 shows up to teach the small-time dealer selling on their turf a lesson, you realize there are different ways to pay someone back with pounds of flesh.
(OR: your brother owes them, and Ghost is content to let you settle the debt. after all, if you wanted freedom, then you shouldn't have caught the eye of the butcher of the 141, should you?)
18+ SMUT. noncon. objectification. marking. kidnapping. threats of violence. unsafe sex (manipulation into unprotected sex). rough sex. size difference. breathplay. 10k of foreplay. light pussy slapping. overstimulation. mafia au.
SERIES MASTERLIST | AO3
The goal is to be as quick and discreet as possible.
In and out, he says, looping the baggie around his index finger. Inside, a snowfall of white powder settles at the bottom.
Meth this time. Oxytocin the last.
He ties it tight before giving the bag a quick shake, breaking up the clumps. Satisfied with the way it looks, he turns toward you. Levels you with a sombre look, the picture of a concerned older brother.
You almost fall for it. Believe it. But the clouded, flat edge to his gaze undercuts his worry for what it really is. A farce.
“And if it seems sketchy—”
—run.
But your knees are locked, soles glued to the pavement. You can't move even though everything is screaming at you to flee.
The problem, maybe, is that there's nowhere to go. Escape cut off, filled by a body, a man—even though the idea, the mere notion, of thinking this behemoth as human, flesh and bone; blood and tissue, is laughable when he's so clearly a beast. A monster.
He fills up your field of vision. Your line of sight was eclipsed by the thickness of his waist, the broad expanse of his shoulders. Thighs that are as wide as the trunk of a tree. Arms boxing you in. A prison of obsidian. A black shadow.
In the panic that surfaces, surging to the top like an oil spill, you catch a pocket where he doesn't root. A small alcove between the bend of his elbow and the slot of his knee perched against the wall. Enough room for you to—
“Wouldn't do tha’ if I were you.”
His voice seems to shake the earth, rolling out of his broad chest like the low, brassy roar of a lion; a rumbling thunderclap.
You feel sick—
The leather covering his hand is cold when it closes around your arm, grip tight. Bruising. Trapping you with just the slightest effort.
“Go’ a problem, you and I,” he starts, and it's almost conversational. Might be, perhaps, if the clean, sleek outline of his gun inside the unclasped holster around his ungodly thick waist wasn't threatening you more than the grip he has on your arm. “How do you reckon we can fix it?”
You have a meagre twenty dollars in your pocket. Less money for them to take if things go awry. If they decide that the little girl standing in for her older brother was an easier target to rob—money and drugs—than to settle things fairly. Money, goods. Hand over hand.
Just like the movies, he'd said.
Just like the movies, you think when he leans in closer, bulk swallowing you whole.
There is a pockmark in the corner of his crooked, misshapen nose and the crease of his eye. A scar, maybe. It's circular—almost perfectly so; a silver-pink moon on the angular ridge of his nose. Uneven, craggy, like crumpled printer paper.
It looks almost like—
You think of the mark on your arm. Soot-stained. The smell of burning hair, tissue. The searing pain.
“I–I can pay you—” you stammer out, tearing your gaze away from the ugly mark on his skin. A cigarette burn. It makes you shudder.
He cocks his head slowly like a big, dumb dog, but there's something eerie in the ink spill of his eyes. The soft matte of a saltwater crocodile staring at you from beneath the murk. Calculative. Hungry.
“Pay me?” He echoes slowly, dragging the words out mockingly. “D’you know ‘ow much trouble your brother is in? For sellin’ ‘ere of all places?”
“No,” you swallow. It feels like your heart is stuck inside your throat. “I–I just—”
“Run ‘is errands,” he finishes cruelly but you can't deny it. “Ain't you a good little sister? Almost makes me wish I ‘ad somethin’ as sweet as you f’myself growin’ up.”
You don't answer. He doesn't seem to be looking for one, really; just empty words to fill space. To echo in your head, barbed wire around any sense of comfort you might have felt. Punishing cruelty.
He has the upper hand, it says. He's the one who makes derisive jokes while you tremble in his grasp, and try to make yourself as small, as unassuming, as possible. Hiding from the predator in plain sight. Hoping he passes you over for something bigger, more calorie-dense; the effort to catch and consume you expends more energy than the return. Hardly worth it in the long run. The comfort of a risk-reward ratio, right?
But he's opportunistic, it seems. A snacking scavenger.
Could eat, it says, like a basking tiger keeping a mouse trapped between his paws, letting it squirm and squeak as he slowly licks his lips. Not enough to fill its belly but enough to satisfy the gluttonous urge a predator has to eat. Sharpening its teeth on flimsy bones. Child’s play.
It's a fitting image, especially with the way he arches over you, looms; fingers looped around the thick of your arm, holding firm, but not—
Not as tight as he could.
It's a loose-fisted grasp. Lazy, almost. He knows you won't run—or, at the very least, knows you won't get far.
You peel your gaze away from his, dropping it to the curve of his shoulders—the width of them is just as dizzying as his height; broad, muscular. Pulling it further down the length of his arm, covered in a thick jacket. Black corduroy. Ashes stain the cuffs. A bulky watch juts out from his wrist. Gold. Glinting even in the grey-blue gloom of an overcast evenfall.
His muscles tense. Hand tightening around your arm, fingers digging hard. Rubbing muscle painfully against bone.
A warning, maybe. Stop looking—
But something else catches your eye. Blood red. The colour of meat. A fresh kill.
The back of his hand has a blooming rose. Petals spread out, unfurled. In the middle, a milky skull sits. Stencilled in boxy, yellow letters is ONE-FOUR-ONE—
You know what it means even as your mind whirs, gears turning, turning; plummeting into a tailspin, making excuses as it falls, dragging your heart down alongside it. An area code. Some special date. An inside joke.
But you've seen the marking around town before. Heard whispers about them from your brother, his friends. 141, they say, and then: mafia.
The real deal, he said, puffing around a joint his friend rolled. It's too tight. He scoffs, and rips it out from between his lips. Shitty roll, man, make another one—
Mob. Mafia. Gangsters. It seemed so extreme, Hollywood. Fiction, fantasy, all rolled into one. Tony Soprano. Ralph Cifaretto. Michael and Vito Corleone. Tony Montana. Larger-than-life men created on paper.
You think your brother thought so too. Child's play. Grown men selling weed to kids for two hundred an ounce. Buying themselves sleek, black cars—G Wagons, Escalades, Cullinans—on the Xanax they sell at clubs, parties. Cocaine. Heroin.
Nothing to worry about.
Then his friend went missing.
Sent out on a routine delivery to drop off cocaine to well-dressed men in suits outside of a local butcher shop. A normal, nondescript Tuesday.
But he wouldn't answer his phone. Texts were being delivered, read, but no chat bubble appeared. Nothing sent back. Calls went straight to voicemail. He wasn't at home. Wasn't at his mum's. No one saw him. Heard from him.
Your brother didn't call the police. Didn't report him as missing.
It's just not what they do, he said. You don't involve them. Ever.
The most shocking part of it was that no one saw anything. He just vanished. Disappeared—stock an’ all, your brother angrily spits—without a trace, picked up off the streets.
If it was the police, someone would have said something by now. They're hardly discreet. And a rival—
Well.
The biggest problem was that your brother was blindsided by his own small-time success. An accumulation of little wins bolstered his confidence. Overfed his ego. This fallout was tunnel vision. A refusal to see the bigger picture.
Or the storm clouds looming on the horizon.
You'd heard of the 141 in passing. Little quips, anecdotes from the passel of friends that congregated around your brother—often getting high on the couch and watching old cartoons; sharing a joint back and forth between gossip.
Through rheumy eyes, they'd talk about the real gangsters in town—much to the irritation of your brother—and swap tales of run-ins and feats they heard from a friend (of a friend, of a friend). Most of the guys were known already. Soap and Gaz are the biggest names that cropped up on the streets through reputation alone. Both fighters for a gym. MMA, mostly, but whispers of street fighting and extracurricular activities weren't uncommon.
Liked the thrill of it, they said. But the worst was a man simply known as the Ghost. An enforcer for the 141—a fucking butcher, more like, Liam cut in, jaundiced eyes widening—the guy who took care of problems.
“Can't be,” your brother scoffed, lifting off the couch to reach in his back pocket for his wallet. A small anthill of white powder poured into the glass table. “They don't get involved in our shit—”
And for the most part, you're sure that's true. Dealing to the same circle of people—outreach spread through word of mouth—seemed paltry in comparison to the scale of an operation that had a money laundering gym. But the problem was that your brother lacked common sense. His ego often got in the way of foresight. The shadow greed casts blocking out the bigger picture.
Like—
Territory is territory—regardless of what's being pushed.
You wish there was a modicum of surprise when his friend turned up. Barely recognizable. Sent right to the morgue as a John Doe.
Most would see the marks on the man's skin—the distinct lack of blood—as an indicator to abandon ship, find the boss, beg for forgiveness, and maybe even try to strike up a deal. But—
That picture is hidden under his anger. Greed. Selfishness.
He sends you instead.
You're somethin’ they ain't expectin’, he said. Won't mess with you.
Right.
He catches the realisation dripping down your brow—beads of sweat gathering at your hairline; anxiety, fear, churning your stomach—and hums. Cocks his head to the side.
“Was expectin’ ‘im t’show up, though—” he murmurs, hand tightening around your arm. The pressure, the sting, is eclipsed by the gnawing sense of dread biting viciously into you. “Told ‘im if I caught ‘im sellin’ on our streets again, there'd be trouble. Thought we ‘ad an agreement after ‘is friend. But—”
His eyes cut to yours. It feels like a knife to your guts, sinking into soft tissue. A pain you can't breathe around.
Won't mess with you, you think, and then viciously—sadly—he knew. Was warned by them and still sent you out. Let you take his place for whatever comeuppance they decided he deserved.
It should shock you. You almost wish it did. Desperately clinging to the threads of surprise that slip through your oily fingers, grasping onto the nothing but empty air. Numbed to the resignation that trickles in.
Of course he would leave you here to save himself. Letting you fend off whatever they threw at you alone. Leaving you trapped between a brick wall and a wall of a man.
The excuses are there. They pool on the tip of your tongue—it isn't me, don't do this, it's my (stupid, selfish) brother you want, not me—but you swallow them down and try not to wince at how quickly they dissipate when you do. It doesn't matter in the end because whatever you have to say won't negate the drugs in your backpack. The empty house you'll lead them to—your brother probably squirrelled away somewhere until this blows over. Half-hopeful you'd call him and say everything is fine, the deal went smoothly. You're on your way back. Or that the debt he racked up with them is settled by you.
It's half-hearted when it slips out again, caught between resignation and dread. A brittle whisper. A prayer—
“I can pay you. Whatever he owes, I can—”
He's already shaking his head.
“Too late for that, birdie. ‘sides, I don't want your money.”
He moves back, rocking on his heels to put a small measure of distance between your bodies. In that scant space, he drops his gaze, sweeping it over you. His eyes darken.
When he pivots them down, catching yours, you can't stop the shiver that crawls up your spine.
That calculative gleam is back.
“But I think we can work something else out.”
Something else turns out to be ushering you into the backseat of an old Ford pickup.
The door whines when he opens it. Rust flaking off, falling to the ground by your feet. Your mind reels. Spins comparisons to falling snow, dried blood.
He hauls you in with his hand wrapped around the nape of your neck, thick thigh sliding between your own to boost you up. The protest—a mindless, reactionary squeal at being manhandled—only makes him chuff. A brief flex of his fingers around the skin of your neck is the only warning he gives before it pulls away, and wraps tight around your waist. His thigh flexes, muscle drawing taut as he shifts his foot up to the running board, lifting your feet off the ground and seating you fully on his leg like a child.
(In his hands, you feel like one, too.)
The motion makes you slip, back glueing along his broad chest with a shallow thump. You feel the rumble of his laugh trembling up your spine before you hear it.
“Careful,” he drawls, oiled with amusement. “Might slip.”
Anything you could say in response is choked back when he bumps the corded steel of his thigh into the seam of your legs, pushing tight to your clothed cunt. His intention is unmistakable this time. Unignorable. And with the rasp of filtered, balmy air against your crown; the pull of a groan when you rock back into his groin, the noise still slicked with mirth, you feel a knot of dread spool tight in your belly.
Something else is dragged back to the forefront, coiling like wisps of smoke around you.
And you knew. It's shocking, you think, but not necessarily a surprise. To call it a dichotomy would be lying to yourself, and so, you settle against it. This notion that what he wants—wanted—is flesh. Not money. Not retribution.
Not to talk things out like you'd hoped he’d try (grabbing onto the idealistic thread, holding it tight to your chest); bringing you in and forcing you to convince your—stupid selfish greedy—older brother that quitting was the only option. Dangling you—baby sister—over his head in an appeal to his emotions. Familial bonds. Love.
That thread is cut. Snipped.
Probably severed when they first came to him with an offer. No strikes against him and yet—
The idea of using you to make him bend was expunged from the drawing board. It's not even a plan b, or c, or z.
And—
You knew. Have known. Maybe that's why it's so easy to swallow around the panic when it lances through your chest, climbs up your throat. You can think and feel and breathe around this dagger in your back like it was there the whole time and you've only just noticed it now.
Nothing but a small, whispered oh in the roiling polyphony of your emotions.
It sits there as he manuevers you into the passenger seat of his truck, your head spinning around the indescribable sensation of being woefully cognisant despite the paralysing fugue pressing against the bubble of stark awareness that keeps it at bay. It manifests itself as a numbed sort of shock. Or more accurately—
Indifference.
Defeat.
His hand brushes your cheek, the snag of dry leather against humid skin tugs uncomfortably at your flesh, stinging as they dance down to your jaw, the delicate line of your vulnerable throat, skimming over the curve of your breast—
And it's too much. Too present. Too real.
Autopilot. Dissociation. Derealisation. All of these concepts slip past the bubble of hypervigilance, skidding the surface like a pebble thrown over a lake. Out of reach as he unashamedly gropes you, barely making an effort to mask his actions as just buckling you in.
You pretend, though. Curl your fists around the sides of the seat, fingers digging into the worn foam. Head lulling back on the headrest. Eyes fixed out the window as he walked around the front, head and shoulders still visible in the windshield despite the height of the truck. It makes your heart leap, stuttering in your chest as the absurdity of his size is brought back into focus. Too big, you think. Grossly so.
There's a moment when you think about running. Toying with the idea of sliding your hand over the lock, pulling the door open when he's too busy on his side to notice. It'll give you an advantage—a head start. Enough time to slink through the dense forest of concrete buildings lining the industrial zone, and into somewhere safe. Help, a behemoth is chasing me—
But the door clicks. Swings open with a squeal of rusted metal just as your fingers twitch toward the handle. Hope evaporates with each lurch of the cab as he climbs inside, metal creaking under his weight when he settles in the seat.
From the corner of your eye, you can see his head tip. Chin angling toward you. Staring. Assessing.
When he speaks, you feel the words like cold fingers dancing maliciously down your spine.
“‘pected you t’run.”
It's said idly enough. Nonchalant. Tone even, if a little cruel, and you wonder if this is some test. One that you passed—and failed—in equal measure.
He doesn't look away. It takes less effort than you wish it did to peel your lips apart, to breathe in the stale, mulch scent of the cab—something overgrown, rotting, and damp—and mumble:
Where would I go?
It seems to amuse him. He hums around a mouthful of mockery before turning away, pawing at the ignition. Gloved hand curling over the wheel.
“Smart girl.”
You don't feel very smart. In fact, you feel very small. Stupid. Maybe you should have taken a stab at it—running. Tried, at least, to save your own life before the jaws of the beast closed over you like an iron bear trap around your ankle. Fought like hell. Clawed and kicked and screamed.
When most kids read the back of a cereal box, you learned about secondary locations. You know better than this.
But the truck sputters to life in a belly-deep rumble, hacking up soot into the air as he pulls the lever into DRIVE. The fight inside of you—however ephemeral it might have been—dies inside the smoke spilling out of his exhaust. Gone so quickly that you begin to wonder if it was even there at all—
Must be, you think, eyes listing outward. Keen. Mapping the twists and turns—a futile effort in the end: he doesn't bother hiding where he's taking you, and you've been down these old, grim streets more times than you can count.
It doesn't surprise you much when he turns down the street leading to the butcher shop. An old relic that still carries the marks of a booming farming town before it fell victim to industrialisation. Concrete skyscrapers in place of lush cornfields. Warehouses over old barns, ranches. Cattle, meat, produce—it all used to be a mainstay here but now hides under layers of steel.
The dark windows of the small shop gleam with hazy smears of neon blue, red, when you pull up, catching on the array of rowdy bars across the street. All clubs that belong to the 141. A playground of drugs, sex. More money than you'd ever see in your lifetime.
It's an uncanny juxtaposition to the quiet, assuming street right across from it. Barber, butcher, accountant firm, antique store. All dark inside and bathed in the smeared stream of glimmering neon as lights flash in the fading glow of twilight.
He pulls up to the curb in front of the shop. A bold move if the streets weren't so empty. Lifeless. The clubs won't be open for four more hours. Everything else follows the same nine to five as the rest of the world. The shops closed an hour ago, and everyone in town seems to know not to linger here after dark.
The air seems to stagnate in your lungs when he cuts the ignition. Slips the key into his pocket.
“Don't get any funny ideas in tha' pretty little ‘ead o’yours.”
“Funny ideas,” you echo, toneless. Flat. It rolls out with your exhale. Words that might have been smarter to swallow down. “Like following a stranger to a butcher shop?”
“Lippy little thing, ain't you?” He scoffs. The truck creaks when he shifts. “Ain't go’ no one t’blame but yourself. Told you what would ‘appen if you kept sellin’ in our territory. You should ‘ave known better.”
“That was my brother.” The words slip out before you can stop them. “Not me—”
“‘ow am I suppose t’know that? You were sellin’ where I told ‘im not to—” he has the gall to shrug. Spit these careless words at you like it wasn't life or death. “That's all there is to it, birdie.”
“That's not fair—”
The truck groans under his weight, shaking from side to side as he leans over to push his door open before turning back to you, rolling his eyes.
“Life ain't very fair, is it?”
The acerbic words are flicked out from between his teeth; an apathetic, droning curl clinging to each syllable. He doesn't care. Won't. What happens to you next is your choice, and yours alone.
And he's just doing his job—
“When I get out of ‘ere, you ain't gonna do anythin’ funny—”
His hand lashes out. Gloved fingers close over the thick of your throat in a blink. Fear lags by a beat, giving him enough time to sink his fingers over your neck, and when it catches up—heart rabbiting in your chest, thudding in your ears; roaring as your pulse thunders beneath the press of his thumb—he’s already got you in his hold. The width forces your chin to lift, stretching up to accommodate the curl of his hand around you.
Trapped like a rabbit. Cattle to the slaughter.
He tilts his head down, keeping his eyes on yours as he forces your crown into the headrest, chin lifted up. It's uncomfortable. The curve of your neck cuts off your airways. Constricts your breathing to shallow gasps. An ache grows in your nape.
The swell of panic, fear, in your eyes makes him hum. But there's nothing echoing back. An absence of light in the deep, placid pits. It looks like still water. A stagnant lake.
It's unnerving how dispassionately expressive his eyes are. Wild, wild. Vats of ink. Pools of obsidian. Ringed in red-lined ivory. Long, ashen lashes dusting over the smears of charcoal under his eyes. Sleepless nights, maybe. Fatigue. The corners are tattooed with coal, leaving behind a thumbprint in the crease.
But empty. Barren. No light.
Like black holes. Eating everything around it. Devouring all that gets too close, but giving nothing in return except a bottomless crater in the bruised-plum nebulous of space around it.
You're not sure you like it. You can't look away.
But in staring back so hard (getting pulled in deeper and deeper), you catch the twitch in his left eye. A shallow spasm. It throws off the symmetry when he blinks, one eye a sliver of a second behind. Desynchronized in a way that seems so—
Unlike him.
Disjointed.
You blink in response. Perfectly synchronous.
His lid twitches again. Just once. Brief. Pale, pink eyelids drop, unveiling a nebula of indigo veins on the smooth, thin surface as they roll down to half-mast over his eyes, now narrowed slightly in contemplation. Thought.
Whatever is happening in his head can't be good. It causes a ripple over the lake. Little rings rebound outwards.
He looks away first. A quick slide of his eyes to the corners, glancing out of the passenger side window. Whatever catches his attention is unknown to you. The anchor on his hand around your throat keeps you still. Immovable.
(Every instinct in your body compels you not to look away from him because nothing outside could ever be scarier, more dangerous, than him.)
A second later, he breathes in through his nose. The fabric of his mask is pulled into his nostrils from the force, forming little black holes under the crooked arch.
You hadn't really given much thought to his appearance outside of big, massive. But there's a strange asymmetry to the slopes and valleys beneath the balaclava. Trying to map his face, fill in the blanks with just black cloth and vague, lopsided outlines, is impossible. There are too many gaps. Too many missing pieces. You can only wonder, then, what he looks like under it.
Monstrous, you hope.
It's just a coincidence that he looks at you the moment the thought passes, but you flinch like a naughty child getting caught doing something you shouldn't when the heavy, dour weight of his impenetrable stare is levelled at you once more. Your heart stutters. It's loud in your ears. In the truck.
You wonder if he can hear it just as loudly as you do—
Another blink, and his gaze flickers down, settling on the gap between your lips, watching the little tremble they make with each shallow hiccup of air you greedily suck in. His head tilts to the side, eyes never leaving your mouth even as he leans down, masked lips brushing over the beading sweat gathering on your hairline.
It's a brief touch. A taste. You tremble when he pulls back, fingers tightening around your flesh.
His eyes are lavascapes.
“Are you, birdie?”
You almost forget what he's asking. The conversation hidden between the scant beats it took for him to measure your worth with the blistering intensity of his stare, and the tumult of your feelings still looping around each other in your belly. Knotting up tight into a ball. There's fear, of course there is.
But the rest—
You'd rather not think about.
The grip on your throat eases just enough for you to shake your head no to whatever he is asking. Doing anything funny, you think, scrambling at the tangle of memories flipping past, trying to connect the pieces to a puzzle you've already forgotten.
It must be the right response. Or maybe it's another question like before, a test where there’s no right answer.
Run, stay.
Smart and stupid.
But it seems to appease him—marginally. His eyes crease. Tightening. His other hand folds over your throat, sliding until his palms kiss the sides of your neck in a near-perfect symmetry.
Something frissons across the blank, placid lake of his expression. Another ripple. A shudder. He leans in for a moment, nose touching the apple of your cheek, and when he breathes in, it’s sharp, reedy. Cold air ghosts over your skin. Long, pale lashes flutter when you swallow.
He hums quietly under his breath before peeling back. The flatness to his gaze is back; a cold, impenetrable distance widening like a chasm as he uncoils around you. You almost fall for this—this indifference. An icy nonchalance. But you've been eating the minuscule quirks of him just as ravenously as he's been devouring yours.
There is something there. A fracture, maybe. A splinter.
But what leaks through from the other side isn't anything close to warmth. It's—
Hunger.
The shift in your throat draws his molten gaze to your neck, still wrapped tight in his firm grip. Your reflection blooms in the vat of black; eyes wide, all white. Pupils narrowed to a pinprick. Mouth slack, corners tugging downward from the pressure of his hand. The tilt of your head. His thumbs press under your chin, pushing you back further until it feels like your neck might break—
He stops. Shifts. You puff out a shallow breath.
What looks back at you is unremarkable in the murk. A sliver of fear. A slip of unease.
Eye of the beholder, you think when his breath chuffs out shallowly through the mask. When that hunger is ground down to a raw, esoteric fissure hairlining the black of his eyes. The widening expanse of his pupil.
You wonder if it's your fear that itches under his skin, dredging up something predatory in his hindbrain. The urge to chase. To bite.
But the nearly indiscernible flicker of his gaze has you brushing that idea aside when it snags on the expanse of his hand coiled around your throat. Easily swallowing it whole with just his palms.
You're not a small thing, but the indomitable size of him makes you feel insignificant.
You think he feels it, too.
His fingers flex over your nape, stretching. Pulling. It pushes the flat of his palm into your throat, ridges crushed against your trachea. But you can still breathe. It's shallow. Hoarse. A touch painful. Dizzying in a way that makes you feel like you're on a rollercoaster. A teacup ride that just spins and spins and spins—
The gap closes. A sliver of air snakes down your throat. Muscles flexing, shifting. Struggling to swallow around the pinch of his hand. A harrowing task when you feel the gloved fingers link to the first, then the second knuckle, tying together in a too-tight, impossible, noose around your neck. Thumbs overlap. Fingers slide into place. It forms a chain of his hands with no gaps between them. Not a single sliver of skin shows from under the leather of his gloves.
He makes a sound when they meet—a nasal groan in the back of his throat, mouth clenched shut so the air has no choice but to tear through his nose. It's raw. Fractured. The devastating moan of a tiger nuzzling at its meal.
Your vision blurs. A black fog presses into the edges, seeping over the arch of your peripherals. Dripping down slowly over the hazy smear of the man. The way the ochre sun peeks over the angular roof of the accountant's office illuminates his back and casts swaths of shadows over his front. Drenching him in murk.
Despite the flickering darkness shuttering over your sight, you don't blink. Even as the tears prickle at your eyes, they stay open. Fixed on him. Black holes, you think, watching as the fever marbling those obsidian pools recedes. Cools.
He makes that noise again. Softer this time. A purr from deep in his chest. A breath. And then he peels back. His hands go slack. His shoulders slumping back into the lax, easy spread from before as you gasp hard, nearly choking on the flood of air that roars down your throat.
Your cheeks feel hot for a moment, and then cold. Icy. You don't have to touch them to know that you're crying. That the deluge clinging to your lashline spilt over, dripping messily to the collar of your shirt.
The placid lake is back. In the stillness, you heave. Mouth hanging open, chin quivering. His thumb lifts, slides over the curve of your chin. You don't feel it. Numbed, maybe, by the brief kiss of hypoxia. But you see it. Watch as he slides it up to the jut of your lower lip, the black, angular tip tickling over your skin. He follows the seam between skin and lip, tracing it to the corner of your mouth. It's slick. Drool pools in the crease, dribbles over the top of his finger. His eyes drop when he mops it up, catching it on the pad.
He makes another noise. An arid rasp bubbling between the soft tissue behind the roof of his mouth and the back of his tongue. It's ugly. The shiver you try to fight back slinks through.
His hand peels away from your neck, movements lax. Slow. The unwinding gait of an idling tiger in no real rush, no hurry, because there's nothing in the frigid Arctic that can touch him.
You watch him with flared eyes as he brings his thumb to his clothed mouth, and rubs your spit into the fabric of his mask.
His eyes don't break away from yours once.
Your spit doesn't stand out against the black of balaclava, but the idea of it burns through you. Throwing you headfirst into a dazed stupor. Dizzy. Confused.
Satisfied with whatever it was supposed to mean, he clambers out of the truck before coming around to your side. Distantly, you're sure this is what he meant by funny ideas when he passes the headlight, head straight and eyes gliding around the empty street. An opening to run. You know where you are. It would be easy to flee. Hide in the construction zone just ahead, tucking yourself into the tightest corner you can find until help arrives.
Help, though.
Officer, please. I got caught selling meth in the mob's territory and now they're going to skin me alive. Please hurry—
Right.
They'd rather help bury your body than get in the way of the mafia. Gangland violence isn't their concern unless it tumbles out into the street. Fat wallets keep even the most compassionate person quiet. Willing to turn a blind eye.
You'd be thrown in a cell. Or dropped off at their doorstep.
Either way—
You won't be coming back alive.
There's nothing to steel, harden, when he pulls the door open, your nerves long since ground down to fine powder. Nothing to fight against, either. He hauls you out of the truck, hands firm on your skin. Bursting blood vessels easily between his fingers. Barely any effort at all to crack your bones.
The moment in the car seems miles away when he pulls you in front of him, hand curling over your nape. Any flicker of humanity rendered out when he pinches you tight and shoves you forward. Dragging you back to the butcher shop by the scruff of your neck, leading you down a narrow set of stairs to the basement where pale white carcasses hang from hooks on the ceiling. He laughs when you tense. When your heels dig into the brown-stained linoleum.
Ain't gonna hang you, he mocks, fingers dipping punishingly into the sides of your neck. “Not yet, anyway—”
It brings little comfort when he drags you to a room in the back, kicking open the door with the toe of his boot before pushing you inside with a nudge against your nape.
It's dark. Walls covered in stains; mould, mildew. Something you hope is just rust. A single mattress is shoved into the corner; sheets stained with sweat and grime. Tinged a pale brown. Two pillows sit at the top, lopsided and matted with use. Threadbare. A twisted, black heap of fabric sits at the bottom. Wisps of cotton poke out from the cigarette burns.
A pair of muddy, black boots sit against the wall at the end of the bed. A basket of clothes—jeans, black shirts, black sweaters—is piled on the wall across from the door.
The room smells of stale sweat and old cigarettes.
You don't want to be here. The thought is abrupt. Immediate. Unease prickles along your nape, warmed and damp under his gloved palm. Between the look of the room—the floors stained the same suspicious brown, the rumpled bed in a corner—and the smell, you know this is not a place you want to stay. To be trapped inside with a man cut from Everest; whose hands are more dangerous than the sharp end of a knife.
He must feel the tension brimming beneath your skin; the spark of adrenaline surging through your veins. The clamp of his hand on your nape digs in tighter. Holding firm.
A breath tumbles out, thickening with mockery. “Like I said,” he leans down, pressing the mountainous width of his chest into your spine. The accentuation in your size difference, how big he is in comparison to you, makes you feel like prey. Small. Brittle, thin. He eats you whole. Spares nothing for later. “I wouldn't do that if I were you.”
Another nudge and you're pushed further into the room. He leans away, foot shoving back on the door until it snaps shut with a noise that cuts through the gossamer that spun around you, bifurcating reality from dream. The haze is wafted away, and all that remains is a barren room with a lumpy mattress, the smeared stain of rotten blood coagulating on the floor, and his body boxing you in. No escape.
The rumble of his chest shakes loose the cobwebs spooling across your thoughts. A brush of humid air ghosts along the line of your jaw, dampening the skin below your ear as he leans in close, too close, and purrs:
“Go on now. Strip for me.”
Each scrap of clothing you slowly roll off of your body is exchanged for a slip of information about him—who he is (Simon Riley, the name rumbled through the split between his teeth; a low, brassy purr as his eyes gleam in the dark, drilling into the expanse of skin unveiled to him)—and what he wants—
Nothing, he tells you, lifting one massive shoulder up in a half-hearted shrug. Jus’ what's owed to me, pet. For stickin’ my neck out f’you.
You don't think he did. Not really. But you're harshly reminded of the unsubtle threat. The gun balanced on his massive thigh. So wide, so big, it seems to make it look smaller in comparison. Tiny. A toy.
Child's play.
It's made worse, somehow, as he lounges. Sprawls out on the bed, legs spread, pulling taut on the jeans that stretch around the thickness of his upper thigh, bunching around his calves in a half-tuck inside his black boots. Arms flexing. Folded over his broad chest. He rolled the sleeves of his black shirt up to his elbow, showing off an impressive tapestry of harsh, faded black ink. Crisscrossing lines. All asymmetrical. Guns, barbed wire. A bullet with a wide, toothy grin—
All of it knits together; woven into a tangled mass of muscle. Of man, hidden under scar tissue. Rope burns on his wrists cut so deep that the skin is permanently dented in. More cigarette burns hidden inside the mess of ink. Jagged lines—from a knife, maybe; bullet wounds.
His skin tells stories of a terrible life. Ink spills over the worst of them, but they're visible under the fading charcoal. A series of burns—acid, fire, chemical—and raw, torn skin. He looks like he's been mauled. Pressed into the cold metal of a wood chipper until chunks of flesh were taken out. But even with these deep gouges, craters of missing tissue, he's big. Bulky. Soft—like a tiger. Predatory muscle tucked away under a thick layer of fatty tissue.
The pillowed pouch of his belly, the softness around his biceps—
It belies the danger underneath. The steel.
But as scary as it is, it has nothing on his eyes.
Glinting in the dim room. Dark pools of obsidian that follow each movement with an almost clinical keenness. Sharpened to a razor's edge.
They might be pretty, you think, if they weren't so intense. So liquid. His eyes gleam like wet ink, languidly rolling along his lashline as you clumsily shed your jacket, your blouse. Shoes, socks. Pants. Until you're in nothing but your panties.
Swallowing around the influx of panic that flutters like little birds beating their wings against the soft walls of your throat, you slip your fingers into the hem, now or never, and—
And you hesitate.
There's a difference between undressing willingly and doing so to save your life. It should spurn you on—survive, survive, survive—but you freeze at the apex. The summit is within reach.
You know what happens when you climb it. Cross over the invisible threshold.
What you've been trying to ignore this whole time, ever since he shoved you into the room with a huff, taking his perch on the edge of the bed, legs spread wide, but in such a terrifying state of vulnerability, nearly nude, you can't any longer. Can't avert your gaze to the stained linoleum in a thinly veiled effort to keep from glancing at the thickening bulge lying prone against his thigh.
His—
Well.
You knew what he wanted when he grabbed your face in his hand, squeezing your cheeks until your lips pursed, puckered for him to run his finger along the inseam. Prying your teeth apart. Rubbing his finger over your tongue, eyes dark—full; black holes pulling, tugging you in, dragging you closer to the event horizon framed in a ring of arsenic—and locked on to the sight of his gloved knuckle disappearing into your mouth. Wanting. Hungry.
You knew. And now—
Committing to it is legions above what you’re mentally prepared for. Nausea brims, churns your stomach. Unease curdling inside of you like rotten milk.
You don’t want this. But you don’t have a choice, do you?
That notion, the idea, prickles along your nape, raising the fine, peach-fuzz there until it stands on end.
You freeze. Movements still as every muscle in your body tenses. Coils. You can't do it. Can't—
A huff is dragged out of his chest as he sits up, knocking the gun carelessly to the mattress. His eyes daggering, sharpening into needlepoints, as he stares at you.
“Gotta do everything f’myself, do I?”
A grunt and he’s up. Pulling himself to his feet with nothing but the flex of his abdominal muscles.
There's no reprieve. Not a moment graced to gather your bearings before he crosses the distance between you. Once a comfort, a chasm, now conquered in a single stride.
The tips of his gloves are cold when they brush over your skin, sliding down the slope of your waist until they meet the hem of your panties. The last piece of modesty you have—
But he doesn't wait.
You're aware that this isn't a non-consensual thriller where the lead looms over the hapless love interest, eyes blazing with passion and need. That each interaction is drenched in a thick, palpable tension tethering the two together. Urges coalescing. Threads pulling taut, magnetic, dragging them closer and closer to the brink until they tumble over.
This is reality. And he doesn't stare into your eyes with an all-consuming desire as he slowly removes that last scrap of fabric keeping him from devouring you. No.
His skin-warmed fingers push under the elastic band with a rough shove, curling into the fabric until it tightens across your pelvis and thighs, and then he huffs, annoyed, and pulls. Pulls—
Until something gives.
The lace yields to the tension in his flexing bicep, and scrapes over your skin as it rips apart in his hand, threads snapping. Popping.
It hurts. Stings. You hiss, but the noise is ignored when he peels the ruined scrap of fabric from your legs, shoving it into his back pocket with a grunt of satisfaction. He looks back to you, eyes rippling like the dark, ink-black surface of a lake during nightfall, and coos, mocking and mean—
“Not s’hard, was it?”
He leans closer to you, a hand skimming up your spine before his fingers curl around your nape, keeping you still for just a breath before he pulls you into him with too much force. Your hands lift, palms slapping against his thick stomach when the movement nearly topples you over and threatens to break your nose on his chest.
“Makin’ me do all the work when y’supposed t’be payin’ me back? Ain't very nice o’you, is it?”
He touches you like he's taking stock of your worth. Grabbing a heavy, rough palmful of your beast in his hand, squeezing. Testing the weight, the softness, how supple you were between his fingers like he might with a piece of fruit. Meat. Prodding into the flesh, feeling the ripeness there. Gauging whether or not it was a piece he wanted to keep.
It's demeaning. Humiliating. He treats you like cattle; presses into the elasticity of your muscle, examines every inch of your skin for blemishes. Scouring for imperfections. There's no softness in the way he grabs handfuls of your body—squeezing your breasts, pushing them together, rolling your nipples between his thumb and forefinger; pinching your belly, your sides, your waist; curling his fingers under your thigh, lifting it until it hitches over his waist, cunt exposed and pressed tight to the bulge trapped in his jeans. Your ass is handled rougher than the rest. Each cheek sitting in a hand, squeezed and punched and spread embarrassingly wide.
He ruts into you as he does it. Pushes the thick, fat length of him into your belly, rolling his hips against you with a heavy, ragged puff of air.
He feels big.
Everywhere, of course—it’s not so much his height, but the absurd width of him that really digs into your hindbrain, crossing all those intricate wires until they're tangled up, knotted together. Seeing his thigh, the same scale as a tree truck, slotting between yours—a mere branch by comparison—makes your belly flop. Turn over itself.
The muddled wires spark. Heat pools between your hips.
He could crush your head between them like a bear pushing its paw down on a watermelon.
It's fear and heat.
The two work in tandem, forming a seamless cohesion, as they flit down your spine, brimming up the urge to sink to your knees, the need to roll over and show your belly. A paradoxical desire to both run and be chased.
You're not sure if he's tendering your meat to eat later or if this is the usual type of foreplay he engages in, but once satisfied you're softened up enough for him, he shoves his fingers between your thighs with an abrasive hum that reverberates through his belly, tickling your palms.
“Tired o’waitin’,” is what he says when your head jerks up, eyes widening in shock. Terror. Horror. “Don't look so surprised,” he huffs, dryly. Voice a rough scrap over your cheek. “What'd y’think was gonna ‘appen?”
“Wait—” but he doesn't.
His fingers twist, pushing through your folds to graze your clit. It isn't gentle. It's sudden, quick. You gasp more from shock than pleasure; the rough slide of leather feels strange on your flesh, and your head is too muddled to separate fear from bliss.
Despite that, your body heats. Reacts to his touch. Your lower lip wobbles. You bite back another sound that crawls up your throat when his knuckle catches on your clit again, the pressure just shy of too much.
The burn, the fever, melts the unease. Shallow gasps spill out. Your cunt clenches, fluttering around nothing—throbbing, growing sticky, slick; achy and empty—when he starts to glide his digit between your folds. Little sawing motions drag each groove and stitch of his gloves over your pebbled clit, each thrust of his hand between your thighs making heat pool between your hips. It's done so clinically, so detached, like his hand rubbing over your leaking pussy was nothing to him. An action to get done, a task to complete.
It's the shame of that, the embarrassment, that makes you want to weep. Your fingers dig into his chest, nails pulling uncomfortably on the pleated bumps of his jacket as you grip the fabric right between your fists, clinging to him like a newborn fawn—all wet-nosed, teary-eyed; knobbly knees threatening to buck.
“S–stop—” you mewl when the monotonous rhythm melts into something harder, more intense. Heart thudding in your chest, heat burning you up as he turns his hand, palm up, between your sticky, shaking thighs. He rubs his hand back and forth, curling his middle finger up when he passes your hole, tip pushing against your leaking rim.
The friction aches. The stretch stings. The leather feels strange, foreign when it pries your folds apart and dips inside of you.
You don't like it. It's too much—
He makes a sound—a tut—when you pull away from him, standing on the tips of your toes until the blunt curve of his finger slides out of you. He sucks his teeth in a mockery of disappointment before digging his fingers, hard, into the sides of your neck. A warning. You whine. Whimper—
It goes unheeded. And when you press your thighs tight together, shivering at the slip-slide of your skin rubbing against each other, he growls. The noise is inhuman. Animalistic.
Your act of deviance comes with a swift, bruising punishment.
His fingers tighten on your neck once again. A warning squeeze as he reaches down with his other hand, grabbing your hip. It keeps you still, immobile, as he bullies his boot between your feet, kicking your legs apart. You're not expecting it. When you stumble, he huffs in amusement. Can't hold yourself up? Want me that bad, huh? Needy fuckin' thing, ain't you?
You don't get a chance to respond. His palm splays wide over your hip, leather creaking as he flexes, stretching his fingers out, tapping some soundless beat out against your skin. Touching you like he's owed the privilege. The right. And in many ways—
Go’ a problem, you an’ I
—he does.
Brute strength, and an unmatched, almost laughable, dearth in your physicality ensures that he has the upper hand—even without the gun he left on the mattress; darker and flat, a full matte compared to what you were expecting.
(They're always so shiny in movies, aren't they?)
The threat of it—dull as it might be—roots you to the spot as he slides his hand down, thumb brushing over your belly button, dipping in; pressing until your stomach starts to ache—
It peels away when the whine wells up, sloping down, down. Teases your mound with the tips of his fingers, gentle swipes along the sensitive seam of your belly and pelvis, the sensation is an odd tickle that pulls at your navel, pulses at the apex of your thighs. You mewl—a slow, soft thing that barely makes it out from between your teeth—and he lets his hand drop. Palm flat against the soft flesh of your mons, fingers reaching, spreading, until they curl over your folds. Index and ring finger tucked tight into the hollow bend of your pelvis and thigh. The tip of his middle rubs gentle strokes over the skin above your clit. It's a whisper of pleasure. The idea of a touch.
Mindless, your hips flit, following his hand—
“Needy.”
It cows you. Douses you in icy shame. There's barely any mockery in his even, observant tone, but you feel it unfurl over your shoulders all the same.
He doesn't give you a moment to think, to let the ripples of humiliation take over, forcing you to pull away, hide. His fingers trail over your hood, the pebble of your clit. The sensation, the cool undertone in the leather of his glove, is unlike anything you'd felt before. The thick stitches in the fabric catch on your flesh, nerve endings flaring in pleasure. Heat blooms in your belly.
It feels good.
You gasp, head tipping back. His hand winds around your waist when your knees buckle, catching you with a rasping huff—
“Feelin’ good, ain't you?” He pulls you tight to his chest, finger rubbing circles around your throbbing clit. Your cunt clenches, empty, and you whine, needing something more. Something to fill the ache inside of you—
His finger slips. Slides easily between your folds, parting your lips around the thick of him until he reaches your drenched hole. The sounds it makes when he taps his finger against your fluttering core makes your toes curl. Has heat blistering over your cheeks, down the slope of your neck.
It makes him groan. The low growl makes you throb, clenching in needy little pulls, pulses, as his finger dips into the slick dripping out of you.
“Suckin’ me in,” he grunts, and pushes his finger inside, thrusting up to the last knuckle. Palm tapping against your folds as his index and ring finger close to give him more room to sink deeper into you. The messy, slick squelch is loud, rolling over the mewling gasps that tumble from your lips.
Heat floods your belly at the belly-deep groans he lets out when you squeeze around him.
“Stranglin’ my fuckin’ finger, birdie—”
He leans down, knocking his forehead against the side of your face. It's more intimate than you were expecting. Jarring. The proximity plays a twisted game inside your head—the urge to run, to roll over coalescing into a paralyzing tailspin. Rooting you to the ground when the warm, damp knit of his mask grazes your cheek.
The intimacy of his head on yours is eclipsed when you can feel the shape of his mouth through the fabric.
It's softer than you expected. A plush, fleshy give when he presses his lips against your skin. And—
A gap.
On the side of his mouth, there's a gouge. A pockmark. You feel the gap, the absence, of his flesh when he rolls it over your cheekbone. You try to read the asymmetry of his face—mapping all of these misshapen parts; his mauled lips, the crooked nose that digs into your skin and leaves behind a tacky smear of condescension when he breathes out through his nostrils in a heavy puff of air—and convince yourself that you're doing it so you can bring these patchwork pieces to the police later.
Survival, you think, your head tilting back as he noses down your neck, tickling along your skin.
(And when your cunt flutters around the rough, thick drag of his finger petting along your walls, you add: a bodily reaction. That's all it is.)
He takes another lungful of your scent before he rocks back on his heels, pulling away from you. Straightening up. Looming above you once more.
“Now—”
He pulls his finger out of you slowly and you try not to whimper at the empty feeling that brims up. The way your hips rock toward him, seeking and eager. Wanting.
Needy, just like he said.
Just a bodily reaction—
He holds his hand up to the dim light flickering over his head, fingers spreading apart as he takes in the glossy shine of his middle finger.
The gleam of it makes your ears feel hot. Shame pools in your belly as he makes another noise—a groan, deep and low, in the back of his throat. Eyes darkening as his pupils bloom, eclipsing his irises in an endless pool of black. They flicker toward you, listing half-mast in a way to leonine, so predatory, that it shudders through your bones. Run, run—
His hand flexes around your waist when you twitch. A warning. A threat. You tremble when he leans in, masked lips brushing over your cheek once more. Breath ghosting through the fabric, tickling the inside of your ear.
He smells of war. Of fire and brimstone. Napalm and nitroglycerine. You want to close your eyes, look away, but you can't. His proximity alone roots you to the spot. Turns you into a prey animal, frozen on instinct alone as he prowls around, creeping closer. Maw stretching wide, drooling dripping off razor-sharp canines—
“Let's see if y’worth all the trouble.”
—and he bites.
Knocks his palm into your sternum, roughly shoving you down on the mattress.
His hands fall to the button of his jeans. “Ready?” He asks, but doesn't seem to care about your answer. Opts, instead, to fall to his knee beside you. It pulls on his zipper, tugs it all the way down with a sharp, metallic sound that cuts through the stagnant air as each ring of teeth is pried apart.
You can't help it. You look. Dragged there by something primal, magnetic—the morbid curiosity to see the monster for yourself as it tries to take a bite.
And almost immediately, you wish you hadn't.
The spread of pale skin, dark curls jutting out from the split of his jeans, makes everything feel more real, and moving fast. Whiplash quick. Happening in a blink:
The shift of fabric as he pulls the mask up over his lips, letting rest on the crooked bridge of his nose. A flash of his mouth, mangled. Mauled. Full of ugly, pale pink scars. A gap where tissue once knit his upper lip together. The bite of crooked teeth as he brings the sticky, wet tip of his glove to his mouth, sinking in. Pulling. Tugging. The roll of skin—a rose, a gun, a skull—all encased in barbed wire; thick rivers of blue-green veins.
Another pull and it's free. Dangling between his teeth for a moment as he reaches up and shoves the jacket off his shoulders. Rolling and thick. Wide. A broad chest. Soft belly. There's an inch of flesh around the expanse of him—biceps, thighs, calves, chest, stomach, shoulders—but it's a buffer for the corded, streamlined muscle beneath. A layer of fatty tissue.
Like a tiger, hiding its dizzying musculature beneath a thick, loose pelt.
When he moves, it flexes. His shoulders roll; muscles bunching together, pulling taut under soft skin. The jacket slides off. Falls to the ground behind the mattress. Forgotten, discarded. The glove is next to go. Dropping from between his teeth, landing just beside your ankle with a muted thud.
He follows after it. Ink spilling over his lashline as his eyes drop, staring at the roll of his skin tucked on the outside of your thigh. Trailing up to your knee. Your hip. The split of your cunt beneath your other leg; knee tucked to your chest.
A flash of something, a flicker, is the only warning you get before the back of his hand is nudging the glove off of your skin, replacing it with the rough, calloused grip of his palm.
You jerk at his touch, flinching back—
He's intimidating above you like this. Leaning back on his haunches but still as tall as you are standing up. The sheer absurdity of his height—his width—is dizzying. Gives you vertigo when you look up.
His throat shifts when you move. A swallow. Coarse stubble grows down the column of his neck, dusting over his lower jaw, chin. The rest is swallowed by the balaclava bunched around his crooked nose.
He's not—
He's not handsome.
A smattering of crisscrossing scars, burns, skin pocked and gouged out in deep pockets along his flesh—the slide of a knife carving away at him, you think; digging down to his marrow—all take away from any sense of modern attractiveness you might feel for him with his broad, jagged nose and full lips.
But there's something rugged about him. Untamed. Wild. Appealing in a dangerous way.
You don't know if you would have let this happen under different circumstances. If this minacious beauty of his would have worked on you enough to want it outside of this awful, almost unfathomable trade.
He's too big. Wouldn't even fit inside of your house—
The graze of his thumb on your angle knocks the thought loose, and you're dragged back to the heat of his hand. Rough and coarse; palms slightly damp from the glove. It tugs on your flesh as he draws it up, a rubbery sort of pain as it catches on the soft, dry skin of your ankle. Your shin.
He follows behind a second later, pulling himself into the mattress with a huff, knees shuffling forward as he crawls over you. The jostling rocks your body. Makes your breasts shake as he lumbers on the bed, hand still sliding up, up, until his fingers curl over the bend of your knee.
The bed dips under his weight. Your body sagging, rolling into the divot beneath his knees. Tucked under him. Loomed over. He stares down at you through the cutout of his mask, eyes liquid in the gloam. Pools of melting, dripping obsidian. Black holes. Event horizon—
You look away before it drags you in. Submissive. Softened under the harsh burn of his flat, wide stare. He chuffs when your nose brushes over the thin skin of his wrist, mouth sliding over the thick, pulsing vein stretching down from his inner arm and curling into the bend of his hand. Your lips purse, and he makes that noise again.
Quietly amused, and—
He shuffles forward until the backs of your thighs are pulled over his, spread out on his lap. Bare. Open to him.
And he looks.
And looks.
Hungry, you think. Quietly amused and hungry—
The notion is wrenched out of your head when he shifts his weight. Watches the folds of your pussy open for him as he pulls your knees wider apart, head dropping between his massive shoulders, gaze drilling into the split of your thighs. Gasping at the sting, the sudden stretch, does little to deter him from shoving your leg down until the outside of your knee touches the bed. Muscles straining. Pinching. It hurts; hipbones twinging in agony.
But the embarrassment burning through you singes all the pain.
You're spread open under him. Bare. Legs tangled around his waist, stretched wide around the width of him. Ankles knocking into the hard plains of his lower back each time he shifts.
“Fuckin’ hell—” he grunts. Snarls. The word ripped up from the back of his throat, forced through the twisting channels of his nose. Nasal and ugly when it scrapes out between his teeth. “Gonna ruin this pretty pussy, birdie.”
It's a threat. A promise. You twist, mouthing your protests into the warm skin of his wrist.
There's something about his voice—that airy, brassy tone—that strikes a chord deep inside you. Makes heat pool between your thighs, leaking out in a syrupy mess—
His hand peels away from your knee, sliding down your sticky, damp inner thigh until his knuckles graze the sensitive slip of skin sitting between your outer lip and hip. That ticklish, belly-fluttering sensation blooms in your groin as he rubs his scarred knuckles over the crease, catching the slick gathered there on his thick, meaty thumb.
“Fuckin’ soaked,” he groans, shifting his fingers until they cover the whole of your cunt, cradling you in his hand. He holds you like that for a beat, eyes locked on the way you're swallowed up by the broad stretch of his palm.
The rough drag of his skin over your folds feels good. An all-encompassing heat spreads over your tender flesh from the curve of your ass to the bump of your mons where his middle finger rests, almost touching the strip of skin between your loins and your belly. Held in his grasp. Cradled in his palm.
Your thighs twitch. A shallow jerk as your knees try to bend over his hand, but you can't. With his thumb and pinkie tucking into each crease between your outer lip and leg, it keeps you from closing your legs. Hinged by the wide, flat cup of his palm.
And it shouldn't bludgeon through you the way it does. All heat. All want. Need. A growing ache you can't think around.
(bodily reaction, you think even as the image of his hand—big with thick fingers, scarred knuckles; streaks of faded, ashy ink etched into milky, veined skin—laying over your pussy, swallowing it whole, sears into your mind—)
“Can feel your little cunt,” he grunts, feeling the pulse, the little throbbing pulls of your muscles as they twitch at the sight. The feeling. Clenching down around nothing. “Greedy little thing, ain't you, birdie?”
Anger paints his words as he rasps them out. A teeth gnashing, jaw clenching frustration that needles into the scorn, the fury, forced out between the tight seam of his crooked teeth.
You don't understand it. Can't, maybe.
But it's tucked away as quickly as it appeared, shifting into an ugly, mocking derision. Dry. Acerbic. His teeth flash, lip pulling upward in a sneer—a snarl—before he hums, sliding his hand down. The drag of his damp, rough fingers over your swollen folds has your knees falling open wider around his thick thighs, baring yourself willingly to him.
Want it bad, don't you? He mocks, and the sound of his voice alone has your pussy clenching tight, belly fluttering around the abrasive scrape of his tone. Brassy and full. Gritty. You whine, hips inching up—
His hand peels off of your slit. The rush of cold air drags another whimper out of you, hips pushing up to chase the heady, molten feeling of his skin on yours. And he's amused by it—a laugh echoes out, crackling in the hollow of his throat at your desperation—but you're too achy, too hot, to feel the simmer of humiliation nipping the apples of your cheeks.
He's not even making a real effort to pleasure you, to make you feel good, and yet—
Your hips twitch toward him in needy, mewling cants; please sits on the tip of your tongue, cradled between your teeth. Slips out on a shaky, breathless gasp when he meets you on the next buck of your hips, palm slapping over your wet slit.
The crack echoes through the room. Rough, dry skin on soaked flesh.
And it shocks you more than it hurts. The sting is there, of course, but it's just an afterthought to astonishment. An eye-widening disbelief masking the way your cunt smarts, throbbing from the slap. Nerves muffled behind the burn in your eyes, the searing heat pooling in your sinuses.
Wrenched open, unblinking as you stare up at him, your eyes begin to sting, to water. You blink, and feel something hot trickle down your cheek. A tear. His eyes snap to it. Pupils narrowing to a pinprick as he watches it slide down your face, little droplets clinging to your jaw.
“Poor baby,” he mocks, tilting his head as he tracks the teardrop. “Better behave.”
Behave. Like he's admonishing a child and not an adult.
It morphs; rots. Becomes yet another thing you shouldn't feel feverish over. The slick, sticky feeling grows between your thighs as your cunt flutters at the humiliation of it all.
And deeper—maybe—the bastardized sense of care—
(Punishment is affection in its own, special (awful) way and you've been aching for something just like it, haven't you—)
It's pushed down. Swallowed. And you know in the back of your head that if you keep eating these feelings, you're going to be sick. But you can't stop. Barely breathe around the idea of them sometimes—
“Tha’s’it,” he coos like he knows. Sees them bright and burning behind your irises. Little flickers of need, a smouldering want that you'll never grasp at yourself.
So he gives it to you.
The rough slide of his hand, all scarred and dry and calloused, scrapes over your slit once more. A full, flat stroke upward until your clit bumps into the ridge of his palm. Then down, down—
His fingers spread. Ring and index prying your folds apart as he pushes up once more, opening your seam to slip his middle finger through the slick, sticky mess that drips out of your burning cunt.
“Gonna be good f’me?”
The slide of his fingers drags the tip up to the bump of your clit. You stare down at it, fixed on the jut of his ink-black knuckles threading through your folds. The crease of his nail as he slips his fingers up higher, pad pushing over your pebbled clit. They're dirty. Grey-black under his nails. Congealed with dirt. Blood, maybe.
Your stomach churns even as your hips lift. Eager, searching. Hating yourself each second of it. It's gross. Disgusting.
You want his dirty, thick fingers inside of you—
“When I ask a question—” the tip circles over your clit. A shallow roll that pools heat between your thighs. “I expect an answer.”
“Y–yes,” you stammer out, hips flexing against his hand. Seeking more of that white-hot bloom of pleasure he brings with each pass of his finger.
“Good girl—” and you hate how it burns you up from the inside out. “Wasn't s’hard, was it?”
The retort is bitten back with the slow swipe of his finger drawing tight, small circles around your clit. His fingers are rough, scarred. Too dry. The abrasive drag over your soft sensitive flesh makes you whine—a drawn-out whimper nestled between clenched teeth.
It's too much.
Too harsh. Too sharp.
He rolls your clit under the pads of his fingers in jerking half-circles. Puts too much pressure on the bundle of nerves than you ever would—your touches are always soft, sickeningly sweet; gentling your flesh until you cum—and the sting, the burn, of it makes your toes curl. Body burn.
It's good.
And that's the problem.
It shouldn't be. His touch shouldn't make you so wet, growing slick and sticky between your spread thighs, bare to his hungry, prying gaze. Shouldn't make you moan. Hips twitching with each stroke of his fingers—
And then he peels away from you, but the time to mourn the loss of his touch, the fear of losing this trembling ember pleasure, is snuffed out when he presses his wet, slick fingers against the inside of your knee. The touch is intentional. Insistent. He makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat before pushing it down to the mattress. The twinge of pain swallowed up as quickly as it forms when he drops to his elbows between your thighs, forearms curling under your legs, and tugs you sharply into him.
Heat floods your belly when the backs of your thighs press tight to his broad, muscular shoulders, but it's nothing compared to the sight of him on his knees between your legs. It's so obscene you nearly weep—
And then he leans down and licks a long, broad swipe of his tongue over your cunt.
You hadn't expected it, maybe. His mouth on your pussy, his broken, jagged lips sealing over your pebbled clit. Going down on you seemed too intimate for what he was after. His end goal. It does nothing for him at all—
You realise your mistake when he dips his tongue into your hole and his hips jerk forward. Unconscious. Eager. Seeking. The shifting drags his jeans down his hips, and his cock slips free.
Most of the cocks you've seen—in porn, pictures, art—jut out from the person's groin. standing at attention, the nasty comments used to say. Jokes whispered on the playground. But his falls. Droops down between big, folded thighs. Skin marbled in shades of red, peach. Deep gouges dot his upper thighs, some sinking deep enough to reach bone. More scar tissue than flesh.
—than man.
It looks raw. Fresh. Some injuries not too dissimilar to the Wagyu hanging in the front of the storeroom, on display and oh, so out of place in a town where the richest man must be just a hair above the poverty line.
On paper, anyway.
You swallow, avoiding his gaze as he pauses, dark eyes watching you with his mouth pressed against your seam. Unmoving. Still as a predator between your thighs, cock visible between the bow of his torso, jutting sickeningly from mangled legs as you gawk at this hideous thing that makes several, half-hearted attempts to spring up towards you, spitting clear, milky liquid all over with each jerk. Tugged down by its own weight. Too heavy to fight against gravity like the rest of the cocks you've seen have done—
Normal cocks, you amend. Textbook.
His is anything but.
Ugly, you think again, stomach churning. Roiling. Obscene. An odd thing considering what you're looking at but all too fitting with the way it droops, big, flared head drooling pre-cum all over the bed in long, dangling stands that prickle over your jaws—half nauseous, half hungry, too. Saliva pools in your mouth even though the sight of his cock scares you. Fills your belly with dread. Misery.
It looks like a bruise. Skin smeared with purples, reds. Patches of pink. Long, thick veins run up from the fattened, full base to the divot of his frenulum. Thick. It hangs low. Drips.
He raises slightly and shoves his hand down between his thighs, big hand curling over the fat base of his cock. His grip is tight around himself, and he strokes up, from base to tip. It squeezes more precum from the flushed, fat head, and dribbles between your spread thighs in a thick, pearlescent puddle.
It makes your mouth dry. That twinge in your jaws coming back. Festering. You wonder if he'll make you take that thing in your mouth. Choke you on it. Taste his precum—
“Fuck,” he snarls into your cunt, hand jerking over his cock. “Keep lookin’ at my cock like tha’, birdie—”
You gasp at the rough grunt, the way it seems to tremble through your sensitive flesh. More, though, from the way he sounds. His voice brassy, rough. Unkind, but the words bloom a fresh heat behind your navel.
His voice does things to you. Things you're not allowed to like.
Those thoughts are knocked from your head when he bows down again, eyes still fixed on you, and seals his wicked mouth over your cunt. It's hard to compare it to anything else other than being devoured. Eaten in the truest sense of the word.
His tongue splits down your seam, tip digging into your slick hole. A groan bubbles up at your taste—the soft, fluttering clench of your body trying to drag him in deeper. Needing him deeper. A huff of air ghosts over you, dipped in the same derision as earlier but the harsh slap of skin on skin, his hand working furiously over his cock, makes you acutely aware of how much this affects him.
“Taste good, birdie,” he grunts, and then sucks your fold into his mouth, laving it with his tongue and teeth until the skin is tender, swollen. “S’fuckin’ good—”
Your breath catches when the crooked arch of his nose presses taut to your clit. Pleasure twisting in a dizzying pirouette inside your belly, winding tighter and tighter—
His nose jerks up on your clit. Lips moulded to your seam, you hear him rasp eyes on me, birdie. Don't fuckin’ look away—
The rough snarl trembles through your body, sinking its teeth into the coil until it snaps under its jaw. Your knees snap around his head as your release locks your joints tight. His name, Simon, a hoarse cry on your lips. You barely have time to bask in the ripples of pleasure throbbing through your body before he rips away from you with his teeth bared, and his chin wet.
“Fuck—!” he snarls again, shoving your knees apart as he lifts his massive body up from between your thighs. “Gonna fuck you, birdie. Gotta be inside your tight cunt—”
He towers over you, grinding his cock into the apex of your thighs. The drag of his cock—a little damp from being stuck inside his jeans all day; balmy—against the dry skin of your belly makes you shudder. Shivering beneath him as he huffs through the mask. Head bowing. Dipping to look at the way his cock slaps down on you. Cockhead nudging above your belly button, dribbling a small puddle of pre-cum that gets smeared into your skin when he rocks back on his haunches.
His hand wraps around the thick base of his cock once more, squeezing tight as he grips himself above you. It makes the head swell, engorged with blood. Thickening in his hand as globs of pre-spend leak out onto your belly. That feeling in your jaws comes back—nauseous and wanting.
He leans back with a hum. “Like my cock, eh, birdie?”
The crass words bring a fresh bloom of heat simmering in your veins, creeping up your collar. Like doesn't really cover what you feel when you stare at it—his inked hands running along the long, veined shaft—and the unsettled feeling in the pit of your belly rears when he nudges forward, the weeping head of his cock bumping your mound.
It's humiliating how much want floods through you just looking at it. At him. Disgust, dread, desire.
You don't answer. Not that you really need to—
Your silence is loud enough.
“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, the rasp thick in his throat. “M’gonna give it to you, pet—”
And he does just that. Slips the head of his cock down the slope of your mound, letting it graze your clit until you're panting, whining softly for more, and pulls it over your slit until his pre-cum is smeared over your drenched folds. You know exactly what this is even without glimpsing the ugly burn of his possessive desire smouldering in the back of his eyes—ownership. Greed. Hunger. It revels in the stain on your skin, from belly to slit; his, all his. Outside and soon—
In.
It shocks a creeping sense of worry into you. “Wait, what about a condom—”
He snorts, ugly and caustic. “What about ‘em?” He taunts, and it's flat. Playful.
“You should—”
He drags his gaze away from the pearlescent smear of his spend on your folds, your clit, and the even, placid look in that stagnant lake tells you everything you already knew.
“I've never—” you start, wincing at the kernel of fear lacing your hoarse words. “Not without a condom—”
It's the wrong thing to say. Near cataclysmic. He drops his head back with a groan that rumbles out of the slope of his throat, sounding like the rip of a chainsaw.
“Firsts for everything,” he purrs, and he nudges your entrance with the bare, weeping tip of his cock.
“But—”
His hand lifts, catching your jaw in the too-wide span of his palm. The force makes your teeth clack together.
“Need me to gag you, birdie?”
You swallow. It's not much of a choice. Gagged and fucked raw, or—
Just fucked raw.
No gag. No condom. You fight back a shiver and wish it was all just from fear.
“No,” you murmur, like you have a choice. “No gag.”
“An’?”
“Um. No–no condom, either—”
It's not enough. "What are you gonna let me do to this pussy, birdie?"
You know what he wants. What he's angling for. But there's a line, you think. A delineation between unwilling participant, coercion, and giving into the need that slinks down your spine, and rots inside your belly.
(Being forced to ask for it isn't permission, but what happens when you want it more than your next breath?)
The shame can come later, you think, and feel yourself give in.
"Cum—cum inside me—"
“Good girl, birdie.”
You hate what that does to you. How eagerly your body reacts to the dark possessive curl in his eyes when you do something he likes.
He nudges your entrance again, this time with purpose. Intent. A heavy pressure pushing on your rim. Too tight, you think, and the sting of the first inch he feeds—forces—into you burns, pulsing behind your navel. His tip isn't even in yet, and it's already too much.
You think about telling him so, offering up your mouth instead, but he leans down on his forearms, and catches your lips in a bruising, biting pantomime of a kiss. A blood-soaked parody with more teeth and tongue—sinking into your lips, nipping hard until the skin splits; catching all that spills with his tongue.
With his weight pressed against you like this, there's nowhere to run when he cups your throat in his hand, winding the other up above your head, forearm tight on your crown to cage you in. And then he shifts. Bears his hips down on yours until the fat head of his cock pops inside of you.
Your squeal is chewed up between his teeth, swallowed down with a rumbling groan.
Caught beneath him, trapped, he works himself into you demanding, heavy thrusts. Each inch burns more than the last. A stinging stretch that brings tears to your eyes. It's already too much and it's not even half. Barely even the tip.
“Can't—” you slur into his wet, demanding mouth. “No more. I–I can't—”
The breath rushes out between his teeth. Your watery eyes drop to the divot above his canine. A permanent snarl. A condescending sneer.
“You can,” he says decisively, words ground out from between crooked teeth. He presses them to your cheek, nipping at the skin under your eye. Possessive and wanting—
(Hungry for something you can't name—)
“And you will.”
—Or maybe you just don't want to. Can't look at the thunderous need draped over his mangled, battered face without thinking of the rumble in your chest that echos back against his thundering call—)
Stupid, foolish thing—
The dark promise of his words isn't a threat until his hand tightens around your neck, nails grazing your skin, and he adds, all of me, birdie as he grinds his hips into yours shallowly. Broad chest expanding with each ragged inhale. Cementing his taunt with a steel edge as you try not to come undone beneath him.
You'll take every fuckin’ inch—
He pulls back until only his glands stretch you open, and you know what's coming when his fingers grip the sides of your neck tight. Holding on. Anchoring you to the bed as he nudges his forearm tighter between your skull and the wall, a protective hold.
Before you can tense up, bracing for it, or even cry out no, please, don't, you can't take it, he huffs, and then slams his hips forward, splitting you open on the fat stretch of his thick, too heavy cock.
Maybe it's hysteria, delirium, but the blunt press of his length against your tender, sore walls balms the ache, the sting. The deeper he pushes, the less it hurts. A paradox that leaves you whimpering under his hand, heels digging into the broad stretch of his waist as you struggle to decide if you want to kick him away or pull him closer.
A war you don't have the power to win when he surges forward, burying himself to the hilt with a growl that shakes the fragile tendons surrounding your heart. Fear, misery. Pleasure, pain. It admixes. Coalescing into a dizzying sense of fullness, unbearable pressure. Catastrophic in its heaviness as your mind reels, struggles to come to terms with the gut-wrenching, heart-aching uncertainty of how you're supposed to go on without having him seated as deep inside of you as he can get. You've never known emptiness before him. Before now. Mere seconds ago.
And now, the thought of it leaves a palpable hollowness itching behind your ribs. Festering. Rotting tissue and bone.
“Simon,” you choke, sobbing his name out under the firm press of his hand. “Simon—”
But he knows.
His arm curls over your head like a crown, and you can easily forget the pinch of each thorn when he holds you tight. Protectively. Possessively. Securing you in his arms before he lifts up, palm sliding over the mattress, touch tender against your cheeks, and then settles it on the indent of your knee. Widening you for him as he spreads his thighs under yours until you're opened up for him.
Those dark eyes are dragged down to the split of your legs where his cock disappears into your slick, swollen cunt. You follow it down, gazing at the impressive width of his stomach bowing over you until they land on the jut of skin pushing out from a messy smatter of damp curls around the base of his cock.
The coarse hair of his groin unfurls as it sticks to your wet lips, and he rolls his head back over his shoulders he heaves through the too tight stretch of your walls over his length. You feel the pulse of him inside of you, thudding like a heartbeat. It blooms molten under the feverish weight of his lidded, dark gaze.
“Fuck, birdie,” he rasps, and it's scorched. Charred. “Look at you—”
As the world is condensed, narrowed down to nothing but the near impossible stretch of his cock seated as deep inside of you as he can get, he leans down, scarred, mangled lips brushing cruelly over your ear, and whispers, see? Told you'd take me.
Every fuckin’ inch.
Your hand jerks to your belly, fingers dancing over your navel as if to feel him there, bulging from under your skin. Nearly hysterical as you try to come to terms with the pulsing, white-hot ache of him inside of you, slowly acclimating to his girth, his length.
He grunts when he sees what you're doing, eyes flaring as your fingers skirt around your navel.
“It's—” you shudder, gasping for air. “It's too much, Simon, I can't take it—”
He rolls his hips with a groan. “m’cock too big for you, birdie?”
His usual cadence is flat, droll, but an unmistakable sense of masculine pride, a deep, egotistic sense of satisfaction, drapes itself over his brassy words. Glueing to the scorching rasp of his voice in a way that makes you unerringly certain that he likes it. Likes that his cock is too big for you. That it hurts.
“Y’can take it,” he prompts, forcing more of himself into you until something snaps. Splits. Makes room. Carves out a space for him to fit.
The brief flash of pain is soothed when he's seated deep. That same paradoxical balm making itself known as he flattens his hips into yours with a noise—half a grunt, or a growl; a lazy, pleasure-soaked snarl. You're not sure what it is, but the sound knocks the air from your lungs, igniting inside of you like a spark inside a tinderbox.
It's only when his balls are flush against you that the same masculine pride brims up again. Primal. Animalistic. The urge to present your soft belly rears up suddenly, and it's only stifled when he grunts again, looking down at you with lidded, black eyes.
“Now, be good and let me fuck your tight cunt.”
He's not looking for assent. Nothing you could say at this moment will sway his mind one way or the other. There's a nasty spool of determination welling up like blood on a pricked finger. Beading up to the surface in a clean, neat droplet as he rolls his broad shoulders, and shuffles into a comfortable position on his haunches between your spread thighs. The motion jostles his cock in a way that makes your breath hitch with each jerk.
It's not painful. Not particularly. But you're overwhelmed by the sensation of utter fullness in a way you've never experienced before. Each grind of his cock against your overly stretched walls deeping that incipient feeling of anxiety brewing in your belly that one wrong move and you'll tear. He's just—
Too big.
And despite his claims—or rather, in spite of them—you don't think you can do it. Don't think you can take him. It's too much. It feels like being turned inside out and then put back into place. An uneasy sense of discomfiture blooms with each too-tight, too-sharp tug of his cock pulling taut on your rim.
Almost deliriously, you think you can feel the pulse of his cock inside your goddamn throat.
“Simon—” you start on a tremulous breath but he cuts you off with a hum.
“Relax.”
You can't. Can't—
“Fuckin’ hell, bird,” he rasps, leaning down suddenly until his face was pushed tight into the curve of your neck, breath shallow on your thudding pulse. “Stop squirmin’ ‘round me like tha’ or I'll cum right fuckin’ now.”
Your heart stutters. Gallops painfully in your chest. His words make you dizzy because for as much as this feeling of him, his cock, inside of you dances on a delicate precipice of being more than you can feasibly handle and somehow the most incredible thing you'd ever experienced before, you hadn't considered how he'd feel.
Inexplicably, it pleases you.
There's something so strange—so extraordinary—about bringing a man like him, like this, to his knees. Pleasuring him by just heaving through the white-hot stretch of his cock inside of you. Making him bury his head in your neck, groaning about how he was gonna fuckin’ bust, pretty thing, fuck—
It was a powerful feeling.
Unwarranted, maybe. But incredible, nevertheless.
“Fuck,” he grunts, and you feel his throat work around a thick swallow. “Gonna fuck you, birdie. Gonna fuck this pretty cunt so fuckin' hard until you beg me stop—”
And he does just that. Rears back from your neck, and settles again between your thighs—quicker this time. With an urgency that makes you whimper when his cock grinds against your walls hard enough to bruise.
When he finally pulls out until only the flared head of his cock remains, you knot a fist into the thin pillow, clinging on, and latch the other onto his hip as if that could somehow stop the vicious promise in his eyes about poundin’ you into the goddamn mattress. There's a flash, a brief flicker of his eyes, and then he thrusts back inside of you with a grunt that makes your belly clench, and your back arch.
True to the promises he gave, it's brutal. Violent.
Any pleasure you feel is leached through osmosis. A tether bound around his own.
His arm is shoved under your back, angling your pelvis up. Thighs dangling over the thick spread of his own, ass seated in his lap. He drives into you, thrusts deep—grinds his hips until your moans break into hoarse screams, whimpers. Makes your eyes roll so far back, all you see is black even when you blink your eyes up at him.
He carves a spot deep inside of you with each delirious piston of his cock, pounding into you with brutal thrusts, and then holding tight when his balls slap against your ass. Digging the head of his cock into the seal of your womb until it aches behind your navel. Each breath feels like glass in your lungs—
“Tha’s it,” he slurs in your ear, mouth damp against your skin. “Take my cock so good, pretty birdie. Little pussy was made for it, weren't you? Tight cunt all mine—”
His gruff words tug on that tether until you're wrapped around him like a bow. Following him down this endless spiral as he slams inside of you over and over again, cooing in your ear about the sounds you made for him, pretty cunt so fuckin’ wet f’me, birdie, hear tha’? all f’me—
“Cum f'me, birdie. Want this pussy cummin’ ‘round my cock—”
“Can't—” you gasp, arching into him, desperate and needy. It rides a line between pain and pleasure; a needlepoint you wobble on. “Need—”
You try to reach down, to touch your clit, but grinds his hips into yours with a snarl. “Cum ‘around my cock, birdie.”
“Touch me—”
“Fuckin’ hell—”
It edges on too much. Pain and pleasure teetering on a knife's edge, split apart by a line the width of a razer. Looping and tangling around each other until you can't differentiate between the two. But it makes sense, you suppose, staring up at him arched above you like a black cloud of smoke. All hunger and fire. Consuming, devouring, everything in its path. A wildfire.
Butcher, you think again when his hand wraps around your throat. A mimicry of what he did in the truck, forcing your eyes on him. Your life tucked neatly against his palm.
These hands take lives. It's what they're made for. All scarred, and thick. Scar tissue and bone. Muscle and cartilage. Meant to render meat of cattle. Slaughterhouse in the shape of a man. Consumption personified.
But where there should be fear, all you feel is an echoing sense of hunger. Leatherbound to each other, maybe—
The look that passes over his eyes as he stares down at you, cupped in his palm, seems to fit perfectly into the fractured gaps inside yourself you try so hard to ignore. And what doesn't—
Well.
He'll make room to fit.
You reach up, curling your fingers around his thick wrist. His eyes flash, but he doesn't slow his thrusts. Doesn't stop. Just watches as you peel his hand away from your neck, bringing it up to your mouth.
On his palm, there's a piece of skin that's unblemished compared to the rest of his worn, burnt hands. A strip just big enough for you to sink your teeth into.
And you do.
“Fuck, Birdie—!” The snarl is ripped from his throat. His thrusts grow harder, sloppier. Each bit of strength in his muscled hips and thighs is used to pound into you until your vision blacks out. It hurts. Aches. Your heels slip down, catching on the broad expanse of his lower back. And you tighten them around his waist, pulling him closer. Deeper. “Fuck, Birdie, fuckin’ cunt was made f'me, wasn’t it? So cum on my cock. Now—”
Whining, you shake your head. “Can't. I can't. I need—”
You don't get to finish. With a huff of anger, he rips his hand off of the mattress, leaning back on his haunches, and shoves his hand between your thighs, scarred fingers stroking over your pebbled clit. It's rough. Sloppy. His anger hums through his body, skewering into you as he glared down, gaze swinging like a pendulum between the split of your thighs where his cock disappears into your swollen cunt, his fingers rubbing over your clit, and back up the hand around your neck, the tears staining your cheeks.
There's an edge to his thrusts. A viciousness in the way he pistons his hips into you. Dark eyes catching every flicker—each wince, gasp, moan, whine all meticulously catalogued and exploited. He finds the spots that make your hips jerk, twitching both toward and away from him. Angling into the ones that have your eyes rolling back into your head, drool dribbling past your slack lips as you gasp his name out into the dank, humid air.
It smells of sweat, sex, and him. Something brutal, bloody, and dark. Rotten leaves. Charred forests after a rain shower. Dangerous. Tinged with a slight acrid, chemical stench—benzene, oxidizing iron. It drips down your throat, and drenches your lungs. Staining you from the inside out.
And he exploits that, too. Leans in, and breathes heavily against your upper lip, your cheek. Drowns you in his scent. His sweat beads along his jaw, droplets raining down over your brow. Soaked in his essence. Unable to see, smell, or touch anything that isn't him.
With his hand over your mouth, teeth sunk into his palm, all you can taste is him, too. Leather. Gun oil. Blood.
The ravenous look in his eye sharpens, turning into deadly points.
“Such a pretty fuckin' bird.” He rasps, the words shattered, mangled in the back of his throat. They carry the scent of blood when you breathe them in, and you wonder if he forced them through glass. Pushed them out with his bloody fists.
You bite down harder in response, keening through the white-hot pain of his cock spearing deeper than before, stretching you past your limits. The taste of blood on your tongue, the rasping snarl pulled from his chest, his fingers toying with your clit, push you over the edge once more. Again and again, and again, and—
His hand peels away from your oversensitive clit, dropping down to the mattress beside your face. He follows quickly after several impossibly deep thrusts that shove you higher up on the mattress, pressing in until his balls sit flush against your ass, cockhead battering against your cervix, and he groans—deep and liquid—when he comes, spilling inside of you. Rooted deep, cock twitching, Simon drops to his elbow beside your head, smothering you under his weight as the tension in his body bleeds out.
Your teeth stick to the divots in his hand, and the sensation of ungluing them from the wounds you gave him makes you shiver. Slowly, you roll your tongue out, chasing the drops of blood, and breathe heavily through your nose as he burrows deeper inside of you, chest shuddering over yours.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he rasps, hips jerking into yours with a slap that echoes through the room. “Little tease, ain't you?”
Even with his cock softening inside of you, it's still thick. Fat. Stretching you open as he yawns out above you, bloodied hand dropping down to cup your neck again, forearm resting heavily between your breasts. He raises slightly on his elbow, black eyes glinting in the shallow dark of the room. Piercing as they drill into your sweat-slicked face.
It aches when he moves. When he presses his hips harder into yours, the muscles in your legs throb as his broad waist splits them apart. Your feet dangle, sliding uselessly down his back, over his ass, before coming to rest curled around his thighs. Melting into the mattress, tender and sore and all chewed up—
You feel like a massive contusion instead of a person. A pestle. His.
The thought makes you shiver, and his eyes flash in triumph like he knows.
The feeling of him pulling out of you draws a whimper from your lips. The drag on your sensitive, bruised walls is a strange mix of tender pleasure and pain. He chuckles at your mewl—dark and low; the sound of nightmares, you think. Crackling sap on charred wood.
You try to pretend it doesn't make you shudder, but the way he hums in response dashes the feigned oblivion before it can form. All you can do is heave on the bed, and watch him through narrowed slits as he leans back on his haunches once again, head cocking to the side. His dark eyes fixed on the split of your legs. The ache in your cunt growing sharp under his molten stare.
“Fuck,” he rasps, the shallow groan pulled out from between clenched teeth. You wonder if the mangled curse was unintentional. Ripped from his throat before he could clamp his jaws around it—a crack in the facade. A hairline splinter in the indomitable mask he wears.
Your heart lurches. None of this makes sense, but your head is too muddled, too syrupy, to think much at all. A quandary for later when he throws you from his bed with a harsh slap on your ass and a and don't think about doing this ever again.
But you don't think you can move. “Give me a minute,” you start on a trembling breath. “And I'll—”
His brows move but his eyes stay fixed on your sore cunt. You can feel him leak out of you, spilling on the mattress in thick globs. The sensation makes you shiver.
“You'll what?”
It looks like he has to forcibly tear his eyes away from you, reluctance forming a cold, angry crater between his brows. The brunt of his ire—white, burning—makes you want to supplicate yourself at his feet, roll over on your belly and show the beast you mean no harm.
(Run, and run far—)
He huffs. “You'll what, birdie?”
It takes a minute to find your voice through all the panic clogging your throat. “I'll leave, um—”
He peels away from you with a loud, rough snort, and drops to his his elbow beside you. Hands curling possessively over your waist, fingers tight. Unyielding.
“Not goin’ anywhere, birdie. Told you, didn't I? You're mine.”
“I'm—”
“Go to sleep.”
He pulls you roughly to his chest until your head is pillowed on his shoulder, and then rolls on his back, keeping you cushioned at his side. You try to move, but his arm wedges under your neck, curling over your shoulder. Trapping you to him.
The panic wants to come now. To rage against the shackle of his embrace, to run home and scrub your skin until it bleeds. But the exhaustion collapses over it all until your eyes feel too heavy to hold open. Too painful.
As you drift, aimless and dreamless, his voice cuts through the fog. “Gotta learn ‘ow to cum with nothin’ but my cock inside of you sooner or later, birdie. Or you won't be coming at all—”
It sounds like a threat. A promise. You fall asleep with the words echoing in your head, his arm an anchor around your waist.
He wakes up hungry.
A gnawing in his belly pulls him from the thin doze he fell into after fucking you three more times—with your face pressed into the mattress, ass in the air for him to rut against like a beast; teetering over his hips, the spread of them too wide for your thighs to split over leaving you precariously unbalanced and shifting your weight above him as neither knee sat comfortably on the mattress; and on your belly with him crushing you to the floor under his bulk. The memory of which makes his spent cock stir, twisting limply against his damp, sticky thigh. Matted down with drying cum, sweat, the slick wetness of being buried inside your messy cunt.
Filled now with his cum.
He groans low in his throat as he thinks about it. The sloppy way you let him take you over and over again until you couldn't keep your eyes open anymore, passing out before he finished. Letting him fuck his cum inside of you as you whimpered in your sleep—
Perfect little thing, aren't you? So good to him.
Simon can't remember the last time he fucked someone, much less when it was this enjoyable (an understatement, of course; in the back of his head, wheels spin round and round as he tries to come up with a plan to keep his cock buried inside of you at all times while still doing his work—), and the overflow of unquenched lust churns in his belly. A hunger he can now slake on your willing body. In the silence, he purrs—
But the effort, the exertion, dredged up a different need inside him.
Simple hunger. An appetite.
He could eat—
his eyes slant toward the top of your crown in the dark, and he amends it, quickly, to: in more ways than one.
He'll go home in a minute. Make himself a steak from the prime cut he butchered a few days ago, leftovers that no one had any qualms about when he took several pieces home with him.
(and really, why would they argue with the butcher who keeps their wallets fat and their bills paid?)
It was left on the counter earlier before he got the call that your brother was making another move. Now a perfect room temperature as it waits for him to come back. Cook it the way he likes—
Rare.
The perfect grill is a nice char on the outside, but bleeding red on the inside. Basted in duck fat and garlic. A sprig of rosemary in the pan, but not touching the meat. Just enough to give the juice that earthy, sweet flavour. Let it rest for ten minutes under foil with the rest of the fat poured over it from the pan. Served as is with maybe a dash of salt and pepper on the side.
Simple. But incredibly difficult to perfect, he finds.
Everyone tries to make it fancier than what it needs to be, but at the end of the day, meat is meat. And going from picking scraps from the garbage outside of the Italian butcher on the corner to ordering his own pretentious filet mignon still gives him a sense of unease. Whiplash, perhaps. Nothing to something—how about that, Tommy?
Maybe that's why he prefers to raise and butcher his own cattle. A never-ending supply of meat for him to sink his teeth into even if this whole thing goes belly up and he's back to begging for morsels on the corner. Tommy hiding in the shadows with a baseball bat waiting to ambush the richer men who happen to feel altruistic that day.
This practice bled over into his current occupation, too. The basement of that same Italian butcher shop he used to sneak expired sausage from out of the bins is now his home base of sorts. A money laundering front of the 141. Headquarters for them to congregate in secrecy upstairs. And here—
A torture chamber for those who tried to cross them. Strung up on meat hooks like the cattle they eat, the ones he feeds them, until he makes up his mind on what he wants to do to them.
It's where you should have been, he supposes, thumb brushing a spot of dried blood on your shoulder, right below a nasty bite mark on your forearm. The ring nearly black from the clotted blood pooling in the indents. It matches several others on your thighs—top, insides, back—and neck, belly, collarbones, sternum. All chewed up. Marked by the butcher.
In working for the old Italian man who ran the shop when he was eighteen, he learned that most of the butchers preferred to mark their carcasses when they came in. A little x on the fat to signify they'd be the ones carving up the prime meat.
He didn't think you could handle his knife, so he gave you his teeth instead. But the implication is clear.
His.
It's overkill considering his reputation, and the claim he already had on you. Because even before this, back when he saw you through the window of his shop as he was moonlit as a legitimate butcher and businessman instead of the enforcer, the brute, everyone already knew he was, his interest was clear. You were off-limits. His to deal with.
And while Price refers not to get involved in small-time street dealers, the warnings Soap and Gaz impressed onto your brother should have been the end of an irritating situation and not the beginning of a fuckin’ headache. But no. He had to push. And push.
Until Price gave the order to take care of it.
And that he did.
(With the added benefit of killing one bird and keeping the other in a pretty cage.)
Price probably won't like his solution, but Simon racked up enough favours to keep a little pet of his own. Been a good boy for a long, long time now, and he supposes he's owed a bone.
Or a sweet thing tucked tight to his side having passed out some two hours ago after he slaked his dizzying thirst on you over and over again even though it doesn't feel like it's been enough.
It's rare that he has an appetite for people. Even rarer that he lets this meagre hunger consume him like this. But there's something about you that makes his teeth ache in the same way they often do whenever he's hungry for meat.
He wants to devour you. Consume you. Eat you alive and save nothing for anyone else to taste.
(So—
Price will just have to let him keep you, won't he?)
The mattress vibrates under him. His phone buzzing with an incoming text. He reaches over, pulling it close enough to read the notification on his screen. It's from Soap.
All her stuff is on your porch.
He hums, but doesn't reply. Simply opts to drop his phone on his belly, and tug you closer to his broad chest. He'll wake you in an hour, and the stirring in his groin tells him it'll be for another round. Maybe he'll take you in the freezer. Make you cling to the hook hanging down from the ceiling as he fucks you like that. He has a pair of ties for ox, lamb legs, that he can loop around your wrists and heft you up on.
It'll hurt, he's sure. The binds weren't designed with comfort in mind, but he can easily bear your weight as he pounds into you from below, your pretty legs wrapped tight around his waist.
The image, the thought, alone has him thickening against his thigh. He reaches down, gripping the base tight in his hand as he pulls you even closer, burying his nose in your crown.
At the very least, he wouldn't be lying when he told Price he strung you up.
Three rounds—on your back, your hands and knees, perched above him like a pretty goddess he stole away from a temple—and he still isn't satisfied. Fuck. He breathes in your scent and doesn't think he ever will be.
He'll get you out of here, take you home. Make you the steak he likes for a late dinner, rare and simple—the same one he gave your brother weeks ago when he dragged him into the shop, strung him up on a hook, and demanded payment for his disrespect.
Who'd have thought that his payment would be you?
(fitting, though, since he'd had his eye on you for a while now—)
He nudges you when his phone chimes again with another message doubtless from Soap telling him all your things have been tucked away. Matters dealt with.
“C’mon,” he grunts, running his hand down your spine. “We’re leavin’.”
You blink at him slowly. “Leaving?”
He nods. “Get dressed.”
You're quiet as he turns, reaching for his jeans left in a heap beside the mattress, but he hears the hitch in your throat. The click when you swallow. Unbothered by it, he turns, giving you his back as he wedges his feet inside the trousers, pulling them up his legs.
The bed shifts behind him. “I—I can walk back to my brother's—”
The hope in your voice is a delicate thing. Fragile like fine china. A pretty, vulnerable tchotchke meant to be seen, admired, but not touched. Not handled roughly.
Unfortunately for you, he's never had much of a gentle touch.
When he throws a glance over his shoulder, he's not surprised to find your arm folded over your bare breasts as you kneel on the mattress, your palm resting flat between your parted thighs, wrist and forearm covering the slip of heaven between them from his greedy, prying gaze.
It paints a startling picture, he finds. One with you looking thoroughly ravaged. Taken. But presenting it in a soft sort of sensuality meant to make a man feel both hot under the collar and like an unrepentant voyeur.
Pretty bird, he thinks, and feels his cock stir.
He rises swiftly, hiking up his jeans around his thighs as he goes, and then turns to you with a heady desire to crush that gossamer of hope between his greedy hand like a silken cobweb that will stick to his fingers.
“Not goin’ to your brothers,” he says, pushing his tongue against his cheek to stem the ache burning in his muscles.
You shiver, eyes growing wide, frenzied with fear as you stare up at him. The shift of your throat when you swallow makes pre-cum dribble out of his fattened cock. He's never really had much of a taste for it, but he's overcome with the urge to see you cry—
“Where are we going?”
Amid the ache in his loins, the flickering fantasies of your pretty, lachrymal face gazing up at him helpless, hopeless, and needy, he catches the edge of panic when you speak. The razor-sharp tremble of fear.
But buried amongst it, hidden in the bruised look you give him as he towers over you with his cock bulging in his slacks and his eyes burning with want, he finds a keen sense of eagerness amongst the rubble. Agog, almost.
And fuck. If that doesn't do something awful to him.
“What?” He taunts, cocking his head to the side as your breath grows shallow and your eyes wide. “Did you think that was enough to pay your debt, birdie?”
“What? You can't—”
“Don't like it—” he lifts his shoulder up in a cool, indifferent shrug, enjoying the dismayed expression that falls over your brow more than he should. “—go to the police.”
“The ones on your payroll?” You spit, eyes flaring wide like an angry cat. “You—”
Several things might have continued in place of your choked, angry sob, but it's swallowed down as pragmatically as it was the first time he cornered you earlier today. And as beautiful as your ire is, he finds the cornered look on your face to be much more pleasing. Prettier.
“C’mon, bird,” he mocks, holding his hand out toward you with a tick of his lips. “All your stuff is at home. Don't be stupid.”
“Stupid?” You gasp in indignation, but there's a bruised look in your eyes. A wounded thing that makes his breath hitch in his lungs for reasons he can't really ascertain, but just knows that he likes it. Likes it a lot. “This is—insane.”
Again, he shrugs, but the indifference this time isn't the same manufactured callousness meant to inspire fear. The conversation is stale already. Grating on him. He's not used to having his orders ignored or questioned. What he says usually goes—either through association or reputation, or just the fact that no one has ever come close to filling the same measure of space as he does—and questioning him like this makes him feel too much like a boy, and not enough like the living ghost he pretends to be.
“You can't do this. It's not right.”
An appeal to his humanity. Cute. He huffs, reaching down to fasten the button of his jeans. The sound the zipper makes cuts through the room. “You're mine, birdie. Better get used to it.”
Catching your eye as he says it was only meant to reignite the kindling fear you have of him from extinguishing. A scared prey animal was a better pet than an angry one. But the look on your face catches him off-guard.
It reminds him of a flightless little bird shivering in a child's shoebox. Tiny broken thing his mum warned him not to touch or its mother would abandon it to die on its own.
“Until the debt is paid off.”
A statement, not a question. He shrugs, but doesn't respond. Tilts his head toward the door. “Let's go.”
His lack of reassurance doesn't soften the flint in your gaze, but the prospect of recompense seems to spurn you on. Another wishbone of hope to cling to. And despite himself, he lets you keep it. Lets your little finger wrap around the delicate bone for comfort because as much as you might think there's a fifty-fifty chance of getting the bigger piece, he has no intentions of letting something like that get in the way of his appetite even if you do.
(And his hunger has always been particularly voracious, hasn't it?)
“Come, birdie. Gotta get you home, and fed, don't I?”
More Posts from Maboiisuga and Others
play stupid games;
summary - bakugou gets drunk and bets his girlfriend, but is there a more sinister manipulation occurring? part one.
cw - cucking, rough sex, manipulative yandere izuku, no one is well behaved, blindfolds, degradation, praise, *hurt* comfort, sub drop, angst but there is comfort, light bondage, they're all a little toxic but also are well intentioned, cum eating, voyeurism, threesome healer reader.
MINORS DNI
“Katsuki,” your voice is a whisper with a hint of pain, “You bet me?” Your boyfriend shifts uncomfortably. “You, you bet me?”
“He did,” Shindou takes a sip of his whiskey, “But sweetheart, I’d never touch you without your permission.” You shiver, the AC at the cocktail party is blasting at your back.
“Fuck off,” Bakugou yanks you into his body, “I’m gonna beat you in the popularity poll, and whatever I said when I was drunk isn’t gonna mean shit.” Shindou watches your teeth close over your lower lip.
“Did you really bet me, Katsuki?” you mumble, so quietly that Shindou barely catches it.
“Do you not fucking believe in me?” Bakugou snaps at you. You stand up and excuse yourself, and he rolls his eyes before realizing you’re serious and standing, “Wait, baby, come back I-”
“Fuck off.” You snap, and Shindou watches Bakugou weigh chasing after you, and decide to let you go. The dark haired pro hero pats Inasa on the shoulder, shaking his head before standing. He breaks from the group at the gala table and follows you down the dark hallway, finding you where you’re leaning against the wall with your eyes closed. Shindou clears his through and offers you his drink. You down it so fast it dribbles on your chin a little, you wipe it away with shaking hands.
“He cares about you,” Shindou starts, and you roll your eyes, “He does, alright,” he brushes some hair from your face.
“He bet me,” you simmer, “Shindou, he just, we’ve been dating for months and he just said, yeah, cool, Shindou fuck my girlfriend if I lose a popularity contest.”
“Are you upset because you know he’s going to lose?” He asks, smirk on his lips. You look away, scoffing.
“You’re an assole.” You shake your head.
“Newsflash, most pro heroes are. You’re a healer, you could have worked at a hospital instead of an agency.” He touches your arm softly while you chew the inside of your cheek. “Legitimately,” he moves so that he can make eye contact with you again, “I would never touch you without your permission. You know that.” You nod.
“I know.” You cross your arms over your chest, something else is clearly bothering you. “Shindou I, I think I’m a good healer-”
“Maybe the best in the country.” He counters and you shake your head. “I don’t wanna see you do that shit,” he shakes his head. “Really. You might be one of the best healers in the world, you’re absolutely wasted at their agency.”
“You don’t have to say that.” You cross your arms. “And I mean, I had a lot of offers, but I wanted to be with my friends, the people I went to school with.”
“I know I don’t have to say that, and yet here I am, saying it.” He touches your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I mean,” he smirks, “I’m not gonna make it easy on either of ya, if I win.” He leans in to speak in your ear, lips brushing your cheek, feeling you shiver. “And when I take you,” you look away from him, “I’m gonna make him fucking watch.”
“He’s not going to lose.” You protest, gently pushing him away from you. He obliges, the hard muscle you can feel under his shirt another reminder that you spent your life at the mercy of powerful people. “I believe in him.”
“You can’t be serious,” Shindou laughs, stepping further away from you. “You’re defending him right now?”
“I,” you swallow, and Shindou reads the genuine pain and indecision on your face. “I had a crush on him for a really long time.” You say softly, and he nods.
“Listen,” He shrugs, giving you a soft smile. “I can’t pretend I don’t understand what it’s like to have a fantasy of a person, only for the reality to be not what you were expecting.”
“He’s really a very good partner,” you protest, “He is, he cares for me, he’s just, I dunno,” you chew your lip for a second before finishing, “Clumsy with my feelings.”
“He’s immature.” Shindou shrugs. “He’s a good hero, probably a good guy. But the guy’s 22, in the most high pressure situation he’s ever been in, not a good sign by the way, that he’s dealing with that pressure by going out more with his friends, but I’ll let that stand.” You look away. “You’re a smart girl, you already know all the things you need to know.” He reaches for you, tucking some of your hair behind your ear. “If you need some time to accept them, I get it.” He lets his hand fall and leaves you, standing alone in the hallway. You collect yourself, as best your able, hands trembling. You adjust your dress, take a deep breath, and make your way back into the ballroom, sitting down next to Bakugou.
“You know I only did it because it’s never gonna happen.” He says in a low growl, leaning over to speak in your ear immediately. “I love you, and I, I was just fucking around.”
“You don’t get to fuck around like that and keep me.” You say, barely audible over the hum of conversation around you. He stiffens, he can hear his heart pounding in his ears. “I’m not breaking up with you, but if you lose, I’m gonna sleep with him.” You don’t look at him, but imagine the way his eyes would narrow at those words.
“You can’t- “Oh, please,” you hiss, turning to him, “Tell me what I can and can’t do, I fucking love it when you do that.” His jaw sets.
“I’m sorry.” He mutters. “I’m sorry, I was drunk, and just,” he runs his fingers through his hair, “I just, you’re everythin’ to me, okay, I wanted to prove to him I was serious so I bet something that mattered.” You hear his voice catch on the last word, and his hand comes to rest on your knee, you catch a familiar burning determination in his eyes. “I’ll be better. I’ll make it up to you.”
“Yes,” you sigh, the little seeds of doubt starting to germinate in your chest. “Yes you will.” You look up, and Bakugou’s arm around your waist turns to iron as someone taps on a microphone and calls the annual hero gala to attention. Bakugou’s hand trembles as he reaches for his drink. The statistics are fairly predictable, with new agencies much lower on the list, but they’re doing alright so far. That’s when you do some quick math, Bakugou isn’t going to lose the popularity contest, but you were intimately familiar with the data on saves at the agency, despite only being the healer. They were down a hero, Mina was recovering from knee surgery for a few months. They were going to lose the ranking to Shindou’s agency in number of saves. Bakugou realizes a second later, swearing under his breath.
“I told you not to do it.” Kirishima mutters, inspecting his reflection in a silver plated fork. “I told you not to run your fucking mouth, didn’t I?” Bakugou scowls, studying the pattern on the rug.
“Oh shit,” Denki flashes a boyish grin and touches Bakugou on the arm.. “Listen if you’re letting other guys have a piece of it can I -”
“It?” You whirl on him, “Are you fucking serious right now?” Denki shrinks, flashing his palms.
“Bakubroooo protect me.”
“Drop dead.” Your boyfriend snarls. Shindou clears his throat loudly from a few tables over, crossing his arms over his broad chest, smirking.
_____
Bakugou walks you to the door of your apartment.
“We okay?” he asks, knowing the answer. You laugh bitterly.
“I’m just tired of you treating me like property.” You say, leaning against the door. “I mean, even if you were drunk, I’m not yours to give out. We were friends for a long time before we started dating, maybe we-”
“No,” he breathes, taking both your hands desperately, “No please, come on, I, fuck.” He screws his face up. “I’ll quit drinkin’, no more parties, no hero shit, I’ve been lettin’ dunce face and shitty hair drag me out because they need to blow off steam and I hate clubs and shit so I get wasted, and it’s not a fuckin’ excuse but goddamnit, please, please don’t end this, I’ll,” He looks so desperate that your heart melts.
“Okay,” you glance down the hallway, unlocking your door. “Okay, um, come in, I won’t,” your heart aches in your chest. “You know I don’t want to leave you Bakugou.” You fidget.
“But.” He says, hands trembling in his pockets.
“But you hurt me. Again. So be better.” You reach out and touch his arm, he dives for you, wrapping his arms around your body, burying his face.
“I will.” He vows hoarsely. “I will.” He rubs your back.
“Come to bed, kats,” you say and he nods, so grateful you’re willing to hear him out that he nearly doesn’t see the message from shindou, his phone lighting up while you’re in the bathroom, and he’s lying in your bed.
Shindou: I want you to be there.
Shindou: to watch.
Bakugou: I’m gonna blow your fucking brains out
Shindou: temper temper
Shindou: bet she doesn’t like your mean streak
Shindou: sweet little healer Shindou: does she like being overstimmed? I’m gonna find out but I thought I’d ask first.
Bakugou: as if you could make her cum.
Shindou: I have some unfortunate news for you.
Shindou: just because you’ve been struggling with it doesn’t mean it’s hard.
“Kats,” you call, and he barely hears you, “I’m getting in the shower, alright?”
“All good,” he gunts, “I’m gonna crash, I’ll be here when you’re done.” He inhales deeply through his nose. It was going to be a long week.
On Wednesday, Denki pokes his head into Bakugou’s office, looking a little nervous, not meeting his eyes directly.
“Hey I uh, Shindou just put a meeting on our calendars?” Bakugou scowls, and flies to his email calendar. “Is it uh, is it what I think it is?”
“Jesus fucking christ.” Bakugou rakes his fingers through his hair. “Who else is on it?”
“Uhh, it’s me, Sero, and Kirishima. He cc’ed Deku but-”
“What the fuck?” Bakugou stands, slamming his palms against the desk. “He cc’ed Izuku?”
“Listen, maybe I’m off base but maybe this is a good reason not to bet your girlfriends pussy on your agency stats.” Denki shrugs, an evil smirk on his face.
“Get out of my fucking sight.” Bakugou snarls and Denki squeaks, letting the door close behind him. He groans and collapses in his office chair, hands sparking when he gets a little chime on his computer, and a popup. Midoriya Izuku has accepted the invitation.
“Are you going to look at me?” You say softly, as the elevator takes you up to Shindou’s apartment. “After I mean, are you going to be able to look at me?” Bakugou mashes his palms into his eyesockets instead of answering.
“I love you.” He says after a long silence. “Nothin’ Shindou or Deku can say or do is gonna change that.” He scowls. “Plus I deserve this. For bettin’ ya in the first place.”
“You do.” You say petulantly. “Plus I’m sure we’ll have a safeword.” He nods.
“They fuckin’ better.” The elevator doors open and he presses a kiss to the top of your head before stepping into the hallway, and leading you gently down the hallway to Shindou’s apartment. He knocks once and the door swings open.
“Hey,” Shindou leans down and kisses your cheek before beckoning you inside. It’s a large apartment, dark wood and well stocked bookshelves. The couch is a luxurious leather, and there’s a purposefully unfinished exposed brick wall in the kitchen. “It’s pretty nice, right?” He stretches, you can see his chest muscles rippling through his thin gray t-shirt. “Don’t worry, ah,” his eyes flick to Bakugou, “A few years in the field and I’m sure you’ll be able to afford something like this.” Bakugou mutters something under his breath and the smirk on Shindou’s face widens.
“Hi,” you hear, and you round the corner into the living room and see that Deku’s already here, somehow already taller and broader than he was at your Yuuei graduation. “It’s so nice to see you!” He says, standing and taking both of your hands, giving them a squeeze. “You too Kacchan.”
“Yeah.” Bakugou grumbles, giving a nod to Sero and Kirishima, who are sitting on the couch, Sero’s on his phone and Kirishima looks deeply uncomfortable. “You know you don’t have to stay, shitty hair.”
“He wants to see y/n’s tits as much as I do,” Sero says, elbowing the redhead without looking up from Twitter, “But he’s pretending to be ashamed about it.” You swallow and Kirishima goes as red as his hair.
“Are we just waiting for Chargebolt,” Shindou says, eyeing the nervousness easily readable in your expression. “Oh,” he coos, “Come here.” He reaches for you and Bakugou reluctantly lets the dark haired man pull you into his arms. He rubs your back, and you feel your anxiety dissipate just a little.. “Don’t worry, we’re gonna take good care of you, sweetheart.”
“Yeah, don’t worry, Kacchan.” Midoriya can’t keep the hint of the smirk from his smile. “We’re gonna take perfect care of your girlfriend.”
“Just have a fuckin’ safeword.” Bakugou snaps, crossing his arms over his chest, flopping in a chair. Deku nods.
“You okay with the colors?” Midoriya asks, touching your shoulder, pulling you from Shindou a little. “Red for stop, yellow for less, green for fine?” You nod.
“Gonna need you to say it for us, sweetheart.” Shindou says, and you swallow, finding your voice, but only barely.
“I understand.” There’s a hard knock at the door and Deku lets you go, disappearing down the hallway and returning with an out of breath Denki Kaminari..
“Oh thank god,” he pants, doubling over. “I ran here after patrol.” Bakugou crosses his arms over his chest, looking anywhere but at you.
“Nice to see you,” Deku chirps, as Denki settles on the couch.
“Have you ever been with two men at once?” Shindou asks you, pulling your focus from your audience. You shake your head.
“I’ve actually, um,” you bite your lip. “I’ve only been with one other person besides Katsuki. Like, ever.”
“Awwww,” Shindou coos, “God, that’s adorable.” He straightens up, stretching a little. “Your job is easy, all you have to do is listen to us, alright, if you’re a good girl, we’ll reward you.”
“I don’t really brat.” The words tumble from your lips before you can stop them and Deku laughs, glancing at his former classmates.
“I have high standards, we’ll see about that.” He glances at Bakugou. “I can’t imagine Kacchan is very strict with you.”
“Can we shut up about me?” Bakugou rasps, bouncing his knee up and down. “Get it over with.” Deku laughs, and starts slipping your jacket off your shoulders.
“I dunno about you,” he turns to Shindou, “But I think I’m gonna take my time.” Shindou shrugs, a smirk on his lips.
“Fine by me.” You let Deku take your jacket fully and immediately regret the little sundress you wore for ease of removal, because you already feel bare and you’ve barely gotten undressed. “I don’t want you to think about your audience at all, at least at first.” Shindou says, taking something off of his coffee table. “So I’m gonna blindfold you, is that alright?” You nod.
“You should get used to confirming things out loud for us.” Deku interjects, “You can just say, yes Daddy,” your head snaps to Bakugou, whose fists are white knuckled. You look back to the two pro heroes.
“Ah, um,” you shiver, Shindou’s apartment is cool. “Yes, um, yes daddy.”
“Good girl,” Deku coos, taking a moment internally to admire his own restraint, that he managed not to rip your dress off the moment that word left your lips. He rubs your upper arms affectionately instead. “We’ll warm you right up alright?” Shindou finishes tying the blindfold over your eyes and as your world is engulfed in darkness some of your inhibitions dissipate. Deku slips the first strap of your dress off of your shoulder, then the other one. You feel it crumple to the floor.
“You’re beautiful,” you feel Shindou’s breath on your ear, as he draws your back into his chest. “Such a beautiful girl.” You feel his hand on your bra clasp, then feel it fall away, you have a brief moment to wonder how long it took him to learn to do that so efficiently before you feel his hands on your chest. Shindou palms your breasts, your nipples already pebbled in the cool of the air. Your mouth drops open a little when he rubs them, pinching them gently, then harder, you suck in a breath through your teeth. Izuku gently tugs your panties down your legs and you feel his fingers on your folds, parting them softly. He stares up at you, giving your clit the tiniest kitten lick. You mewl softly, and Shindou buries his face in your neck, you feel his rough tongue on your soft skin, sucking gently then biting down, in a way you know is going to leave marks, but it’s getting hard to focus, with Izuku’s teasing touches and Shindou’s hands wandering your chest.
“Oh,” you feel your face start to warm, as Deku slips a finger inside you, “Mm,” your moan is sharp, hummed through your lips, as your legs start to tremble.
“Right there?” Deku asks, “Oh,” he adds a second finger, “I can tell, that’s it, right there.” You whimper again, and they all watch you struggle to stay still, hands reaching for Izuku, then flitting back to your sides when you think better of it. “You can touch me,” he teases gently. “C’mon, if you want me so bad, pull my hair, show them all how desperate you are.” You whimper again.
“Just don’t try that shit with me.” Shindou says, before sinking his teeth into your neck hard enough to make you yelp. “You’re gonna stay nice and still while I take my turn on ya, arentcha baby,”
“Y-yes daddy,” you breathe, and Izuku starts to kiss and suck at your clit, and your legs buckle. Shindou holds you up, wrapping an arm around your waist, locking you against his body. Your back arches involuntarily, and you gasp, holding onto Izuku’s hair for dear life as your legs nearly give out from underneath you..
“Holy shit,” you hear, and it’s Sero, leaning forward in his seat.
“Oh my god,” Denki manages. Kirishima leans back, face still burning, arms still crossed, to sneak a glance at Bakugou, who is studying the carpet in front of him. You let out another whine and Deku picks up the pace,
“Oh, oh my god,” you breathe, “Oh my god, fuck, fuck,” You squirm but Deku’s hands around your thighs might as well be iron, holding you in place.
“Are you gonna cum?” Shindou asks you, and you nod quickly, desperately. “Beg. You don’t cum without permission.” He pinches your nipples hard enough to make you gasp sharply. “You belong to us tonight.”
“Please,” you pant, twisting in his arms so that your head is tucked right under his chin, “Please please, please, daddy, please can I cum?” A shudder rips down your body as you teeter on the edge of your high. Deku’s hands sink further into your thighs, and he barely manages to resist turning around, to see the look on Bakugou’s face as his girlfriend cums on his tongue.
“Whaddya think?” Shindou looks over at Bakugou, who looks positively volcanic, “Should she get to cum?”
“Fuck. off.” Bakugou says lowly, and Shindou grins like a jack o’ lantern.
“That’s a no.” Shindou lifts you off the ground by the waist, pulling you away from Deku’s touch. You tremble and struggle a bit, processing the lack of sensation, the feeling of your orgasm being ripped away from you. The pro hero pins your arms behind your back before setting you on the ground again, catching you just before you reach between your legs for some relief.
“I didn’t say-” Bakugou stands angrily.
“This is as much a test of your ability to obey as it is hers,” Shindou interrups, maddeningly calm. “If you’re not cooperative with us, she’ll pay the price. So be a good boy,” You hear Kirishima chuckle nervously at that, “And sit back down.” Bakugou swallows, feeling Denki, Sero, and Kirishima’s eyes on his as he slowly sinks back into the chair. “There you go. Next time, just say yes, and we won’t have to do this. Or you could, you know, not bet your girlfriend.” You twitch in his arms, making a soft sad sound and he leans down and kisses your forehead. Jealousy twists in Deku’s stomach, and he makes quick meaningful eye contact with Shindou, who releases you, pushing you towards the other pro hero as you stumble on shaking legs.
“Sweetheart,” Deku coos, catching you and rubbing your back, “Sweetheart it’s not your fault,” you sniff, “You’re being a very good girl for us.” He touches your shoulder. “Very good.”
“I wanna be good.” You say softly, and every man in the room takes a sharp breath. “I wanna be good, for you.”
“You are, baby,” Deku says emphatically. “I promise.” He gives you a squeeze and moves you in front of him, before collapsing in an empty armchair and pulling you into his lap, still blindfolded, poorly balanced on his knees. “Now I know you’re not used to taking a fat cock,” he says, still speaking sweetly, the way a teacher would to a student, “But you’re gonna take mine, and I don’t wanna hear-”
“Shut the fuck up,” Bakugou snarls, unable to contain himself, “You don’t know shit about what she can take.” There’s a split second of silence.
“Is that right?” Shindou drawls. “Hand behind your back.” You obey quickly. “I think you should see what your boyfriend’s gotten you into.” He says, slipping the blindfold from your eyes and pulling the knot out easily. Deku takes the opportunity to take his shirt off, tossing it on the ground before hooking his thumbs in his black sweatpants and pushing them to the ground underneath you. Shindou ties your wrists carefully together, letting you lean against his chest for balance while the other pro hero undresses. You blink in the light of his living room, and then look down, letting out an involuntary nervous squeak, just as Shindou secures the knot. He’s thick, and it’s long, even with prep you know the stretch will be painful.
“Relax,” Midoriya says, “You ready?.” You nod, and he uses his feet to scoot the chair over to an angle where you can’t see any of the men behind you, but they can see his face, watch his eyes lose focus as he pressed the head of his cock to your entrance. “That’s it, just like that..” He breathes. “Good girl.” You sigh softly, your eyes fluttering shut as he pushes farther inside you, “Let me in,” he says softly, and for a moment he can pretend that you’re alone, that you belonged to him, just like you were always supposed to. He’s pulled back to the present when you whimper. “Let daddy in,” he repeats and Shindou suppresses a chuckle, watching you sink down on Deku’s cock.
“Oh, oh my god,” You choke out, and Midoriya makes eye contact with Bakugou he starts to fuck you, “Oh my god,” you moan this time, the pain bright in your voice. “S’so big, I’m-” Shindou reaches out and touches your shoulder, a warning.
“It’s so big, daddy.” Deku corrects, voice honeyed and breathless, a smirk on his boyish face.
“Daddy,” you whine, “Please,” you suck in a breath, “It’s-please can I have a second,” He nods, and rubs comforting circles in your hip, slowing his movements.
“I’ve got you,” he says, sitting up a little and wrapping an arm around your waist. “Do you trust me sweetheart?”
“Yes, daddy.” You whisper, and he leans farther forward, wrapping you in his arms and kissing your neck as he starts to fuck you slowly, pulling soft little musical moans from your lips.
“I’m the number one hero,” he says and Bakugou’s nails nearly break the skin on his own palm at the genuine emotion on Midoriya’s face. “I’ll take good care of you, baby, and I would, you know, if you came to my agency, I’d take care of you.” He doesn’t give you a chance to respond, even if your brain had been working, sinking his teeth into your neck, letting you gasp in pain as you take the last inch of him and cry out softly. Deku moves his hands lower, holding you down on his length while you squirm. “What’s your color baby, you okay?”
“Green,” you say, voice half protest, half pleasure.
“I’m gonna move,” he warns and you relax against him, eyes shut. “I’ll hold your hand, okay?” You nod, and he laces his fingers with yours, giving your hand a quick squeeze before bucking his hips up into yours.
“OH!” You spasm in his arms, not expecting him to move so quickly, it almost feels like you’re being split open, you feel him press a reassuring kiss on your cheek.
“So,” he groans, “Shit, Yo, she’s so tight, can barely move.” Shindou rolls his eyes at the younger man, coming to stand behind him and reaching around your body, his fingers lightly vibrating by the time they touch your clit.
“Shh,” Shindou breathes, kissing your cheek, letting you lean back against his chest while Deku fucks you, “Takin’ it so well, sweetheart, you’re doing such a good job.” At the praise, you relax a degree, and Deku can move a little, behind your back, Shindou takes your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“F-fuck,” you choke out, “Fuck, Deku, I-”
“Yeah?” He cuts you off, every soft roll of his hips against yours is bringing another wave of pleasure to your mind, and you’re still sensitive from your ruined orgasm earlier, still close.
You choke out a sob, shoulders shaking, as the sensation of being filled and toyed with overwhelms your consciousness.
“Good girl,” Deku coos, eyeing Shindou’s closeness and wanting to take back control of the situation, “Good girl, taking this, okay, if you’re good we’ll let you cum, is that what you want, to cum for us?”
“Yes,” you say, your voice hitched and desperate. You roll your hips against Shindou’s face, but it seems like he’s used to it, expertly avoiding your most sensitive spots, keeping the pleasure just on the edge for you.
“I kinda,” he says, “Wanna ruin it again.”
“You’re so mean,” Deku laughs. “She’s dating Kacchan already, hasn’t she suffered enough?” Shinou laps at your cunt, pulling another soft cry from your lips.
“Please,” you beg, “Just, just fuck me a little harder, and I can, I can cum, I promise I-” You feel Deku pick up the pace and tighten his grip around your waist.
“Keep begging.” He orders swiftly and you do, broken pleas falling from your lips.
“I mean,” Denki breathes, elbowing Sero, “Are we all gonna pretend this hot as shit?” He palms his lengh. “Sorry bro, but jesus fucking christ.”
“She’s so fucking hot like this,” Kirishima whispers, leaning forward.
“I wanna see her cry more.” Sero grins.
“Shut. The fuck. Up.” Bakugou growls, turning to his friends.
“I mean,” Denki says, smirking, barely audible over your pleading, “This is why you don’t get drunk and bet your girlfriend.” He shrugs. “Right, I mean, I know I’m right. Oi,” he says to Deku and Shindou, “What do I have to do to have a turn?”
“Join a different agency!” Deku says brightly, momentarily distracted. “I invited Iida and Shouto and they were so sorry they had conflicts. I made it work.”
“Please,” you beg, feeling Deku’s cock hit that spongey spot inside you easily with every thrust, “Please can I cum, I’m gonna,” you squirm, trying to get away from Shindou’s magically vibrating tongue, “Please, I’m gonna lose it.”
“Can she?” Deku looks to Bakugou. “Gonna let your girlfriend cum on my cock?”
“Please Kats,” you whimper, “Please Katsuki, please, please, I’ll be good, need it-”
“You need it?” Shindou says, dripping in condescension.
“Yes,” you choke out a sob, “Yes I need it, daddy please.”
“She can.” Bakugou says, eyes all over your body, on every mark they leave, every bruise, every rough touch, and a smirk slides across his face, “Cum for me, bitch.” You twitch in their arms, your orgasm ripping through you like a knife, it’s like you’ve been thrown off a cliff, the free fall is ecstatic and terrifying. Deku fucks you even harder, Shindou pulls away to watch Deku’s cock disappearing into your soaking cunt.
“Fuck, baby,” Deku groans, throwing his head back, “Fuck you’re gonna make me, fuck, I’m gonna cum, inside,” his voice gets deeper, darker, “Wanna breed this fuckin’ pussy,” he tightens his grip on your hips and Bakugou scowls. “Gonna cum inside, you wanna have my fuckin’ kids, you wanna have the next number one hero, right baby?”
“Ohmygod,” you cry out loudly, not at all coherent. “Fuck, fuck fuck,” your voice carries as you keep cumming, the orgasm is a few minutes long, Deku fucks you through it and Shindou carefully keeps you right on the edge of overstimulation.
“You belong to him, huh?” Shindou asks, while you’re still breathing heavily, choking out little sobs, Deku lifts you off his cock and sets you on all fours on the coffee table, so that Bakugou can watch the number one hero’s cum dribble out of your pussy, thick and white. “Lick that shit up.” Bakugou looks at Shindou like he’s insane. “I’ll punish her, if you don’t.” Shindou threatens. “And she’ll take it, but it won’t be pleasant. I promise.” Bakugou swallows, looking at the way you’re already trembling.
“Fine.” He says gruffly, and Denki inhales sharply. “Shut the fuck up.” He says again, sinking to his knees on the carpet, all the men in the room watch you soften at his comforting touch, the way you shiver with happiness when he rubs a circle in your thigh. “Baby,” he coos, “Baby, color?”
“Green.” You mumble, and he pauses, mouth inches from your cunt.
“You sure?” His touches are feather light.
“I am.” You say. “Thank you for asking, though.”
“There’s nothin’ I wouldn’t do for ya.” He says, leaning forward and licking a stripe up your core, pulling more moans from your lips as he laps roughly at your overstimulated, swollen hole, wiping his mouth off with his hand when he’s done. Deku ghosts light patterns on your back with his fingertips and Shindou rubs the top of your head before slipping the blindfold off of your eye.
“Hi, baby,” he coos, and you blink, getting used to the light. “I wantcha to look at your boyfriend, can you do that for me?” You nod and he lifts you, turning you around so that you’re face to face with Bakugou, still on his knees by the coffee table.
“I love you.” The words tumble from his lips before he can stop them, just as Shindou lines himself up behind you, frowning, missing the surprised expression on your face.
“Do you love her?” Shindou asks, the head of his cock pausing at your entrance. “Or is she convenient?” He pushes himself inside you and Bakugou watches your mouth drop open Shindou starts to fuck you.
“I love her.” Bakugou says, staring up at the other man. “I do.”
“Because,” Shindou throws his head back, groaning before responding, “Fuck, what a good little cocksleeve,” he slaps your ass hard, and tears spring to your eyes in front to Bakugou. “Because we both know she’s hurting,” he rolls his hips against you and you shudder with pleasure, “Her career, by staying at your agency.”
“Fuck you.” Bakugou says.
“I,” you choke out, “It doesn’t,” you whimper when Shindou reaches two fingers around your body and you feel your knees buckle as they start to vibrate against your bud.
“It’s selfish,” Deku says, pulling himself out of his post orgasm haze to jump in, “To keep her there, when she has better offers.”
“What kinda self worth do you have,” Shindou says to you, touching you softly as his words rip right through your skin, “To stay with a guy who would loan you out like this, huh?” You take a shaky breath in.
“Why,” you gasp again, trying to form sentences, as Shindou plows into you, setting a brutal pace, “Oh, oh my god,” you feel his cock filling you completely, feel the boy's eyes on your body.
“You can touch her.” Shindou says to the men on the couch and it’s a moment before any of them reach for you. Denki’s first. He cups your breast and lets out a low whistle.
“She’s so pretty,” Kirishima breathes, “So good,” he coos, reaching out, cupping the side of your face, stroking your teary cheek with his thumb, “So good.” Bakugou swallows, reaching within himself, wondering why he can’t offer you the same kind of validation, wondering why you’re doing this for him, why you work with him, when Deku is the number one, when Shindou does better on popularity numbers, when Kirishima was more kind, when Denki wasn’t afraid to touch you in public. You open your eyes, and see the tears in Bakugou’s,
“I need a break.” You say quickly and all the men let you go as you leap at Bakugou, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Hey,” you say softly, “Hey baby, where did you go on me, huh?” He swallows.
“I just,” he peels you off of him so hard that you stumble back, Deku catches you. “I just dont uh,” He stands. “I know I don’t deserve you.” His voice is barely a whisper.
“You made a mistake.” You say, standing to meet him, cupping his face in one of your hands but he grabs your wrist and peels you off of him.
“I,” he pauses. “I gotta go.”
“Katsuki,” you say, your voice hitching in your throat, “Seriously I-”
“I bet you?” He says, shaking his head, backing away. “And you didn’t dump me?” Your teeth close on your bottom lip and there’s an awkward silence.
“I love you.” You say, and behind you Shindou pulls his sweats back up to his hips. “I love you, okay, and I-” He shakes his head, cutting you off, bile rising in his throat.
“They’re right.” He says sharply. “You shoulda taken a good offer, and told me to go to hell.” Your eyes widen and he grabs his coat off of the back of a chair. “I’ll drop your stuff off. Don’t call me.” He nearly runs out of the room before you can summon the breath to respond. There’s an awkward pause. Kirishima stands.
“We’ll take care of it,” he gives you a soft pat on the head and Sero and Denki nod, following the redhead out of the room. The door closes with a soft click and you turn around to Shindou and Deku.
“Um,” you swallow.
“Don’t do anything,” Deku says quickly, snatching a blanket off of the back of Shindou’s couch, wrapping your body in it and gathering you in his arms. Shindou collapses on the couch and Deku joins him, sitting you like that, in between them.
“What um,” you blink a couple times, “What’s happening?”
“Kacchan freaked out,” Deku says softly, Shindou reaches over and rubs circles in your thigh. “He’s right, though, by the way, that you sacrificed your career to work at his agency.” Your lips twitch.
“I didn’t think I was anything special.” You mutter.
“Oh,” Shindou says, combing his fingers through your hair, sending shivers down your spine, “You really are, sweetheart, and I could pull the stats to prove it.” You curl up in a ball on the couch.
“Am I an idiot?” You ask, your voice is tight and small. The two men exchange a worried glance over your head.
“No,” Deku says, “No okay,” he rubs a comforting circle in your shoulder. “Listen, get dressed, and we’ll take care of you tonight.”
“You um,” you wipe your face, turning to Shindou, “You didn’t cum, I”m-”
“I literally don’t care,” he says, rolling his eyes, “Not to be rude but I’m a pro hero, if I wanna get laid, I get laid.” He puts a hand on your thigh through the blanket. “Stay here, okay?” He looks to Deku. “Grab her a glass of water and just take a sweatshirt from my closet.” A few minutes later you’re sipping a glass of cool water and wearing soft clothes.
“I was pretty surprised when I heard you agreed to this,” Deku says softly, “I mean, I know you had a crush on Kacchan when you were in general studies, but uh, I was surprised he asked you to work at his agency before you started dating.” Your jaw tightens and Shindou slips an arm around your shoulders.
“I,” you whisper, “He just, he seems so sure all the time, he’d tell me something, and I’d just believe it.” You shake your head. “Fuck, I, he just dumped me. I-in front of all of you.” The corners of your mouth force themselves downward.
“This is sort of what I wanted to say in the hallway to you,” Shindou says, “That I know you like him, but he doesn’t,” he pauses, picking the right words, “Sorry, it’s not a problem with his personal valuation of you. It’s a problem with his professional evaluation of you.” You nod a couple times.
“Thanks for um, taking such good care of me.” You say, standing abruptly, reaching for panties where they’re crumpled on the floor. “I should go though, I’m sure you don’t want to deal with this.” The two men stand in nearly perfect synchronization.
“Please.” Deku says, taking a step towards you. “Hear us out.” You start looking for your panties, “Look at me.” He reaches out and cups your face, speaking with a bit more authority, and you freeze. “You’re such a good girl,” he says, and you melt into the softness of his touch, head spinning, “That’s it,” he says, seeing you relax, and he pulls you into his chest. “What if you stayed with me,” he murmurs, “And we talked about it in the morning.”
“With you?” You glance at Shindou, who comes and stands behind you, locking his arms around Deku, trapping you between them.
“Do you honestly have any friends who won’t take Bakugou’s side?” Deku says and your lips droop downward.
“I don’t.” You say, knowing Mina wouldn’t, knowing Sero and Denki and Kirishima had already chased Bakugou when he’d left, rather than checking on you. The two men smell like pine and cedar, and they feel so, stable.
“Don’t waste your time worrying about that,” Deku murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “If you wanna cry, you can cry to us, that’s fine..” You nod slowly.
“Bakugou,” your lower lip trembles, “He just left me here.”
“He did.” Shindou says, resting his chin on the top of your head. “But we’re here.” You nod slowly.
“O-okay, I’ll um, I’ll go with you, Deku, I,” You lose track of the sentence, still reeling. Shindou kisses the top of your head and Deku gives your waist a little squeeze.
“We’ll take such good care of you, baby.” He says. “You can trust us.” You nod again, wiping your tears as you let them gather you on the couch. “I’ll get a blanket, we can put on a movie and order food.” He picks his phone up off of the coffee table and goes to Shindou’s bedroom. He stops, and takes a deep breath, catching Shindou’s smug expression. He just shrugs, and takes his phone out, knowing that his co workers are anxiously waiting for an update.
Deku: it wasn’t that hard.
Iida: he didn’t? Did he?
Shouto: of course he couldn’t handle it, bakugou’s more ego than he is human being.
Deku: kinda hate myself for suggesting this but you wanna dip early at work and come make her feel better? She’s pretty upset, and I’m worried Shindou’s gonna take our money and the healer.
Iida: it’s heroic of us, to save her from working for anyone else, but I can sense you have doubts, Midoriya.
Shouto: she needs a caretaker. We can do that for her, keep her safe. I’m happy to ask the interns to cover for us.
Shouto: how much did we need to bribe shindou to get him to pick this fight with Bakugou?
Deku: 10K and he can borrow her a few times a year but it’ll be worth it. We need her.
Shouto: We do, and she needs us. She just doesn’t know it yet.
Iida: agree.
Deku sighs, sliding his phone back into his sweatpants pocket and returning to the couch where he tucks the blanket around you. Shindou releases you and gently pushes you towards the other pro hero. To Deku’s delight you take his hand with both of yours, leaning into him.
“Kacchan’s an idiot.” He says softly, as Shindou gets up and walks to the restroom, tossing Midoriya a sly smile over his shoulder. You shrug.
“I love him.” You look up at Midoriya and his heart breaks. He's never seen you this vulnerable, not in the field, not during exams, not even when someone was gravely injured. Your eyes are watery and unfocused, and your lower lip is trembling.
“It’s not your fault.” He says, hating the little string inside of him pulling him down the path of least resistance, causing his mouth to form the words he knows will make you stay. “I know how hard you’ve been trying, and he’s just not ready yet. He’s too immature.” You sniff, and remember confiding your crush to one person, and one person only, listing your reservations to a very patient Kendo Itsuka. You had no way of knowing, none at all, that Deku was standing outside the classroom listening, and that these years later he’d use your own fears against you.
“I have been trying hard.” You warble, folding into him. He rubs your back. “I’ve been trying so hard.” Midoriya nods.
“He never yells at you, does he?” You hear a sharp undercurrent in his voice, and feel the pro hero relax as you shake your head.
“But even watching it, I feel like, I dunno.” You mumble, hiding. He leans over and kisses your head.
“It’s not that late.” He offers, and if you peek through the curtains of the huge window in the apartment you can see the last vestiges of golden light shining through. The sun has not quite set. “Shouto and Tenya are going to a bar if you wanted to come out and meet them, maybe Uraraka might come by.” You swallow.
“I haven’t seen them in a while.” You stretch. “But I should, I should um,” You blink back tears, “Did he dump me or fire me?” Midoriya winces.
“Both, I think.”
“Fuck.” You rub your eyes. “I wanna actually, I want to go to my office and pick up my stuff but,” you lift your head, eyes wide, “You won’t make me do that by myself, will you?”
“Of course not,” he says, oozing sincerity, “Of course we will, how about we rip the band aid off, I can have them pick us up here?” You nod, burying your face in his chest, heart aching.
______
You say your goodbyes to Shindou, who gives you a warm hug and a soft kiss on the forehead, and waves your concerns away when you mention promising to return his clothes. Midoriya pockets his phone when you step out into the hallway.
“They’re gonna meet us downstairs in a car.” he says, and your eyes widen.
“Oh oh, that’s not necessary, I don’t need anything fancy.” You shrug. “I could call an uber or-”
“We have drivers.” Midoriya cuts you off. “So it’s no trouble really. No trouble at all.” He offers you a hand, and you take it, letting him lead you to the elevator and through the lobby, feeling him rub circles in your palm with his thumb. The car that pulls up is sleek and black, and Deku opens the door for you before helping you climb up into the backseat.
“Hello,” Iida greets you stiffly, and you squirm with embarrassment as you reach for a seatbelt. “I hear you had a rather difficult evening.” You glance fearfully back at Midoriya, who flashes his palms.
“I spared them the details.”
“I’m just an idiot.” You mumble, burning with embarrassment, flopping in the seat next to Shouto, who pats your knee awkwardly.
“Well,” he considers, “You’ve made a series of decisions based on how they felt, rather than thinking about them, and perhaps that’s an experience to be learned from.” You burst into tears as Midoriya closes the car door and gives Shouto a stern look. “I, but,” he says quickly, wrapping an arm around your waist, scooting you closer to him, “You don’t have to do it by yourself anymore.” He blurts. “If you want, we’ll, we can be helpful.”
“I think what Shouto means,” Midoriya says, as you feel the engine of the car hum to life, “Is that it might be worth it to lean on your friends for a bit.”
“All my friends are gonna take Bakugou’s side,” you snip bitterly, wiping your face on your sleeve as Iida hands you a handkerchief.
“I don’t take his side.” Shouto says sharply. “And I’m your friend.” You perk up the slightest degree at that, so he keeps going, “I’d never,” he shakes his head, huffing, “I’d never bet you. If you were mine I’m not sure I’d let you out of my sight.” That makes you laugh, you wipe some of your tears and you lean against him.
“Bakugou’s impulsive,” Iida says gently, adjusting his glasses, “You deserve stability, both in your workplace, of course, and romantically.” He stretches his shoulder a little and through your tears and little sobs notice the pain in his face.
“Did you,” you reach for him, distracted, “Did you hyperextend your elbow?” he cocks his head at you, confused. “You might have, sorry,” you mutter, wiping your face and scooting across the black leather seat towards him. “Let me just,” you take his hand quickly and energy shoots from your fingertips up his arm, pooling at his elbow. He lets out a little sigh of relief.
“I, didn’t even realize I’d injured myself.” He squints at you. “You know, if you need to find a new job quickly, perhaps you could work for us?” You blink up at him, and all three men watch and wait as your teeth sink into your lower lip.
“I suppose,” you look down at your hands. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.” There’s a brief silence, where each man considers their own integrity, their ambition, and the mark this little lie would have on their immortal souls.
“We could hire you,” Deku says finally, somehow managing to make it sound nonchalant, unpracticed. “On a trial basis, of course.” You look up at him eyes wide.
“Please,” you lean forward, “I’ll, I’ll owe you forever, I, Midoriya I have rent to pay and student loan debt so I need a job.”
“That’s what friends are for,” he says, keeping his smile light. “We’ll help you carry your things from his office, but um, there’s the matter of where you’re going to sleep tonight?” You wince, and rub your eyes.
“I was going to get a hotel.”
“That’s not necessary.” Shouto cuts in. “I have a guest room.”
“We all have guest rooms.” Midoriya says, and it might be your imagination but his eyes darken just a little. “You’d be quite safe with any of us, I don’t know if it’s a good idea for someone with a powerful healing quirk to stay alone in a hotel.”
“Of course.” Iida agrees and your phone buzzes in your pocket. You glance at it then put it.
“It’s Kirishima.” You press your lips together. “I don’t want to talk to him though.” You let it ring, letting it vibrate in your palm. Iida clears his throat and holds his hand out. You give him the phone and a tiny warmth sparks in his chest.
“Good girl.” He says stiffly. “I’ll give this back to you tomorrow.”
“They’re all going to hate me for breaking his heart,” new hot tears squeeze from your eyes and Shouto pulls you into his chest, warm hand on your waist, much to Iida’s and Deku’s displeasure you curl into him.
“Shhhh,” he breathes, rubbing your back. “No they won’t, and if they do, they’re idiots.” You manage an almost laugh and he lights up at the minor success. You refuse to lift your face from his chest, until the car pulls up to the empty hero office building, it’s so late now that the only people present are the cleaning staff. Your office is small, but there are a few personal items and a fair amount of books to be boxed up. The three pro heroes make quick work of it, with Deku snatching the framed photo of you and Bakugou at graduation and placing it face down in the cardboard box. Shouto floats to you, resting a hand on the small of your back.
“I didn’t mean to imply,” he says quietly, “In the car, I didn’t mean to imply that you were wrong to trust your heart. I wasn’t suggesting alternative action.” You look up at him, suddenly feeling quite tired. “I was suggesting an alternative method of collecting data.” You nod slowly.
“So you weren’t chastising me for listening to my heart.” You reach up and take one of your last books off the office shelf.
“I was chastising you for ignoring your head.” He pats your back, taking the book from you and closing the box. “Is that the last of it?” He turns to the other two men, who nod. “You’re staying with me?” He says so smoothly the others barely notice it. “I assume that it might be awkward, after tonight to stay with Midoriya, and Iida’s all the way across town.”
“Thanks, Todoroki.” You say softly, before either of them can jump in. He nods, the smallest smile on his lips.
“Don’t mention it.”
“I’m gonna run to the bathroom,” you excuse yourself and the three men stand in awkward silence until the door closes behind you.
“What the hell are you doing?” Deku hisses.
“Inviting a beautiful woman to sleep in my guest room?” Shouto raises his eyebrows. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I mean I’ve already,” Deku blushes a little but plows forward, “I’ve already fucked her, so I sort of assumed that was me calling dibs I-”
“Absolutely not.” Iida interrupts. “Bakugou has also slept with her, and none of us respected that claim.” His words hang awkwardly in the room for a moment. “We can’t fight over our healer,” he says seriously, “It makes the most sense for both of you to get out of my way.”
“Out of your way?” Shouto says, eyebrows raised. “I don’t think I’ll be doing that.”
“You’re not emotionally intelligent enough to handle her,” Iida says, with a little shrug, “And you’re too emotional and committed to being the number one hero to spend enough time with her. I’m the obvious choice.”
“No?” Deku sputters. “No you’re not-” The door opens and you step back inside, looking a little puffier than you had when you’d left.
“Todoroki, can we go?” You say, eyelids drooping. “I really just want to be alone.” He nods, extending an arm for you to take like a regency era gentleman, and sweeping you out of the room. He calls a separate car in the elevator with just a few taps of his smartphone, swiping away his group chat messages from his angry hero partners.
Deku: seriously? I just assumed I had dibs.
Iida: never assume dibs.
Shouto: I thought dibs were “an antiquated form of dividing wealth”
Iida: I come from a long line of people who called dibs, we just never did it so colloquially.
Deku: we can’t let this be a problem.
Shouto: agreed, the two of you can fuck off.
Iida: I don’t think so.
Deku: I also don’t think that’s the solution.
Shouto: she’s had quite a day so I’m going to focus on her :) goodnight.
He pockets his phone, and feels a twinge of guilt at your red rimmed eyes, but it dissipates when you sigh and lean against him as you wait for the car. Neither of you speaks for most of the drive, the silence is surprisingly comfortable. He leads you through the building,and the elevator rockets you up to his penthouse, where he takes you by the hand and sits you on his dark leather couch, taking the throw blanket from the corner and tucking it around you.
“Sorry,” he says softly, “I have maybe an invasive question.” You blink up at him. “Have you ever, ah, I mean I don’t want to make assumptions about the nature of the activity earlier, but you’ve really folded in on yourself.” You nod, tucking your legs into your chest. “Have you, were you,” he stops himself, bringing some courage to the surface. “Was it particularly rough, generally, I-”
“Yes.” You blurt, and he frowns, darting to his kitchen and coming back with a cool glass of water that he sets on the coffee table in front of you, before sitting on the couch next to you. “And,” you mumble, “I feel so dumb.”
“May I touch you?” He asks, and you nod, sniffling. He sits down next to you and pulls your legs into his lap, tucking your head into his chest. “Is it incredibly rude of me to assume you subbed?” You laugh bitterly.
“No.” You close your eyes.
“Sub drops are uncomfortable but fairly common.” He presses his lips to the top of your head. “I’m sure you were very good,” he gives you a gentle squeeze, “Sure you were a good girl for them.” You sniff again, feeling your heart rate calm a bit. “Do you want to talk about what happened?” You shake your head, relaxing into him.
“I just wanna talk to K-katsuki.” You get out. “But he said not to call him, so I, I can’t do that.” Shouto flips his memory to the early days of therapy back when he was maybe, sixteen, finding an old rhythm.
“What would you want to say to him, if he were here?”
“That I don’t care,” your voice rises a bit, “Where I work, but I,” you squirm uncomfortably. It floats to Todoroki’s mind a second before it comes out of your mouth. “Did you like me, or did you need a healer at your agency?” Shouto squeezes you again. “And is that why you bet me?” Your voice gets small again, “B-because you already saw me like an object?”
“If I were Bakugou,” Shouto says, and then clears his throat, “I’d uh, I’d probably say something like I care for you, very much, but I’m not in a place emotionally to value you like you deserve to be valued.” You laugh lightly.
“He’d have sworn.”
“He would have.” Shouto agreed. “You know we get fined when we do that on broadcasts, so I’ve trained myself out of it for the most part.”
“You were the only one who cursed as much as him in school.” You snuggle against him, closing your eyes.
“You can sleep, but have a sip of water for me.” He says, reaching for the glass and bringing it to your lips, waiting until you’ve drunk at least half of it to set it back down, holding you tightly against his body. Your eyes flutter shut, but he can’t bring himself to stop talking to you. “Do you remember when we met?” he asks, and you think about it, so much of that day now was Katsuki, when he’d yelled at you and you’d surprised everyone, including yourself when you’d yelled back. The way Kirishima and Mina had spirited you off to their lunch table, how you’d spent the next four years living, and breathing, and studying with them. “You ah, you helped me with my wrists.” He offers and you nod, remembering.
“You were locking them when you were fighting,” you yawn, “Repetitive stress injury.” He nods, and you take his hand, running your fingers over the callouses. The cracked skin softens and heals in real time.
“You don’t have to do that.” He says quietly and you shrug.
“Consider that one on the house.” You yawn again and close your eyes, consciousness slipping from you like a wave back into the ocean. Shouto takes a minute before taking his phone out, scrolling through the group chat messages.
Shouto: I might not feel good about this.
Iida: so return her to me.
Shouto: no no I mean breaking bakugou and y/n up on purpose.
Deku: it’s what’s best for her!
Shouto: she’s quite upset.
Iida: so don’t sleep with her?
Shouto: I really want to though. Fuck I really want to.
Shouto: also I think she sub dropped deku way to fucking go
Deku: ooop I was concerned about that but she did also go through a breakup like,,, mid scene so I wasn’t sure how to proceed
Shouto: She’s sleeping in my lap.
Deku: okay so you’re welcome???
Deku: fucking her only made this worse she’s so sweet
Shouto traces your outline, and you let out the softest sound, snuggling into him. He doesn’t dare move, not when his stomach growls or when the light changes in the apartment. Eventually, when the clock blinks 12AM, he touches your shoulder softly, but doesn’t wake you all the way, just enough so that you’re semi conscious as he carries you down the hall to his guest room, laying you on the clean sheets and tucking the duvet around your body. He pauses for a moment, watching your chest rise and fall easily, the creases gone from your forehead. He wracks his brain, stepping outside the room, how long had he even been aware of you? From the first moment, he decides, from that first day, when you’d touched his arm and the pain had melted away you’d been, something to him. A friend, maybe, at first, and then, someone who was kind to him. Someone who didn’t treat him like a celebrity, or a pariah, or an object.
That’s what’s on his mind as he pads softly down the hallway, and looks out over the city. It would be cruel of him, he surmises, not to take care of you, when you spend so much time caring for everyone else.
_____ One Month Earlier: All Might Hero Agency
“Ugh,” Deku groans, rubbing his eyes and setting his phone on the table. “I can’t watch this.”
“What’s happening?” Iida says, looking up from his takeout container. The three of them were working a late night at the agency.
“I think y/n moved in with Bakugou.” Deku turns his phone around and shows the other two pro heroes. Iida sighs, and Todoroki frowns. “I just, okay.” He leans forward conspiratorially. “I’ve known him my whole life, right, and he’s better, a lot better than he was. But better, better isn’t that good, still.”
“I remember how he spoke to you our freshman year.” Iida says. “And then he had the audacity to fail the licensing exam anyway.” Todoroki clears his throat. “And you did as well, I remember.”
“Which one of us went rogue with intent to kill,” Shouto muses, “I can’t remember.”
“The point,” Deku says, “Is that she took his job offer, she’s moving in with him, she works for him, I mean, she’s our friend, it’s a conflict of interest, maybe we should say something.”
“Her friends should say something,” Iida couches, “Maybe Mina, or Kirishima, they both occasionally had level heads.”
“I’m sure he’s made her all kinds of promises,” Deku shakes his head, “I just feel like she doesn’t realize her own potential, or what she’s getting herself into working for him.”
“I heard,” Iida says, pausing to take a sip of his water, “I heard that she took his offer without reading it, Sero told Tokoyami who told me.”
“Without looking at it?” Shouto wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Does she know, I mean, she got other offers.” There’s a brief silence. “I know that once she started liking Bakugou she was essentially blind to anyone else,” he covers a laugh with a little cough, “Remember when Inasa met her, he,” the laugh escapes this time. “He kissed her hand and she just said, ‘Thank you’, and went to go check on us.”
“I do remember him being quite surprised at her indifference.” Iida smiles. “But yes, I always thought maybe it would pass but she seemed so blind to his flaws, I just assumed one of them would talk her out of it.” He frowns. “I hope, I hope he speaks to her more kindly than he did in class, at least when they’re alone.”
“Kacchan’s not a bad person,” Deku jumps in, “I don’t think he’d hurt her on purpose, but I mean, it feels, it feels wrong that we know he’s taking advantage of her liking him to get her to work at his agency.”
“Do we know that?” Todoroki asks. “Maybe he gave her a good offer.”
“He must have.” Iida couches. “I wonder,” he trails off, “Maybe we should check in. As friends, of course, I,” a slight blush creeps up on his cheeks, “She’s quite, ah, capable. I just think we should remind her that should this for some reason fall through, that she’s not an island, you know?”
“Yeah,” Deku nods quickly. “We could stop by, um for lunch or something, maybe bring them a housewarming gift.” He fidgets. “I, I could text Kacchan, and see what days work but, um, he might tell me to fuck off.”
“You’re the number one pro hero,” Iida rolls his eyes. “Just show up. She’ll be happy to see you.”
“I’ll come.” Todoroki jumps in. “If you don’t mind, I, it’s been a while since I’ve seen her, and I know I spent less time with her than you but we still were ah,” he thinks about the amount of vulnerability it took for him to be comfortable with even your gentle touch, how he’d started to miss it after graduation, how he’d found himself looking forward to seeing you after a hard fight, and remembering you wouldn’t be there.
“Ah,” Deku pauses, “I think um, we were close, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to see her on my own.” He laughs, “I mean, no one spent more time with her than I did.”
“It’s true.” Iida confirms, “Especially her first year, I had half a thought that they got us a healer specifically to keep your growth with One for All from stagnating due to your reckless nature.” Deku’s face colors. “No offense, obviously.” Iida says, looking distracted. “I did always wonder if you were ever jealous, since she was so focused on Bakugou despite how much time you spent together.”
“She um, she talked about him a lot, yeah.” Deku says, suddenly very interested in his takeout. “But it’s not like I didn’t get it, like I said I grew up with him. He’s a big personality.” The words hang in the silence.
“You, get it then?” Iida says, “What she sees in him, I mean, because I can’t for the life of me understand it. She’s so sweet, and gentle, and he’s loud and abrasive.” There’s a silence. Deku swallows a big bite of dinner.
“You’ll tell us then,” Todoroki says, “If you pop by their apartment, you’ll tell us how she is?”
“Sure.” Deku says, and Todoroki is struck for the first time in a long time with the reminder of how difficult it was to tell when Midoriya Izuku was lying.
___
Midoriya stands at your doorway, having rung the bell at a time he’s sure is too late for you to be at the office, but when he knows Bakugou is out on patrol. He only has to wait a moment before the door swings open and he’s rewarded with your presence, soft and sweet as you had been when you were in school.
“Oh!” Your eyes widen with surprise, adorable. “Deku, I’m so sorry, actually Bakugou’s not here,” you step aside to let him in without a second thought, of course you do. He’d only been the number one hero for a few months, it had actually taken longer than expected, but of course you trust him, everyone did.. He’s surprised, the place you’re sharing is modest, the view is nice but it’s a one bedroom with a small kitchen.
“I’m actually here to see you.” He says, and watches your reaction carefully. You don’t betray anything, giving him a confused smile.
“Are you injured?” You cock your head at him. “I can’t imagine anyone could land a punch on you.” He laughs.
“No, I mean, we spent a lot of time together in school and it just occurred to me that I haven’t seen you since graduation.” He flattens his palms on your countertop. “I wanted to catch up, if it’s a good time.”
“Well,” you take the teapot off the stove and fill it with water, when your back is to him his eyes flick to your ass, the curve of your hips in your jeans. “I can’t believe the number one hero made time for little old me.” You set it on the stove, turning the burner on.
“Please,” he says, “You know that without your help in school I wouldn’t be number one, hell, doubt I’d be top 50.” You shake your head, leaning against the counter next to the stove as he takes a seat at your island.
“You were always determined, there were just times that determination took a real toll on your corporeal form.” You shrug. “I put you back together and you’d hop right back out there, it’s an honor to be a footnote in your story.” You catch his eyes, they’re slightly narrowed, there’s something about the way Midoriya looks at you that makes you feel like you’re a molecule under a microscope.
“You really think of yourself like that?” He says softly, and he watches your eyes flick to your bedroom door, to the sweatshirt discarded on a chair that’s far too large to be yours. “You think of yourself like a footnote in someone else's story?” A sad little smile flashes across your face.
“Sorry, Deku, I won’t unload on you.” You turn away from him again, taking two mugs down from the cabinet and set them on the counter, carefully selecting a tea bag for each of them.
“Do you call Kacchan by his hero name,” He teases gently, “I’m Midoriya, c’mon, still the same idiot who broke every bone in his body at least once when he was in college.” That gets a laugh out of you.
“No, I don’t call Katsuki Dynamight when we're alone.” You set the tea in front of him, and Midoriya is grateful for the distraction, shocked at the way you casually drop his best friends first name.
“Katsuki,” He repeats, unable to stop himself, and his stomach twists as you fidget nervously.
“It’s new.” You admit. “But I like it, honestly it suits him.”
“Huh.” Midoriya blows on his tea. “You can, by the way, unload on me, I’m pretty strong or y’know,” he flashes you a sheepish grin, “That’s what they’re saying on the news these days.” You look at him, but he sees through your polite smile, you look exhausted. “What’s up, really?” He tries. You look back at the sweatshirt on the couch.
“He’s working hard.” You say, nearly whispering, like he can hear you. “But he’s frustrated, and I want to help and I don’t know how to get him to let me in.” You shrug. “You know this has been his dream his whole life, Midoriya, and I know he had a lot of growing up to do. Still does maybe.” You chew your lip. “I just wish he knew how much I believe in him.”
“Yeah?” Midoriya manages, bile rising in his throat.
“Yeah.” You sigh deeply. “Like, I know he can be a good hero, and I get that the red tape and performative shit is hard for him, but he’s so kind, deep down.” You light up, as if you’d just remembered something. “Promise not to tell him I told you about this?” He nods, and watches you flit to the refrigerator and take something out. “He’s been making me lunch every day. No matter when he gets back from patrol, when I get up there’s a bento for me.” You squirm, like the happiness inside you is fighting to get out. “He loses his temper, sometimes, but I do really believe he cares about me.”
“Does he lose his temper with you?” Midoriya asks, keeping his voice perfectly modulated, tinged with just the edge of concern.
“Not usually.” You press your lips together. “I know he’s frustrated.” You repeat, and shrug again. “I believe in him.”
“And what about you?” Midoriya presses, gently, strategically. You laugh at that, genuinely.
“What about me?” You repeat again, but continue, afraid of sounding like a parrot. “I mean, I can’t hold up a building, I can’t win a battle, pretty sure you could pin me in less than a second.” His muscles twitch at the invitation but he stays seated, sipping his tea. “I’m always going to be there when powerful people need me.” You couch. “But I’m not deluded enough to think that makes me powerful.”
“You’re not.” He sets the mug back on the table. “But you are important. I suppose there’s a difference, isn’t there?” You nod. “I can leap through walls, and fly, and fight, and win, but at the end of the day I need you,” he catches himself, “Or someone like you to keep me in condition to do it.” You nod slowly.
“You’re very kind to me.” You say eventually. “You always were, Midoriya.” His mouth goes dry. “I often felt alone, when we were in school. But you always took the time to talk to me, while I healed you. I appreciate that.”
“I consider you a friend.” He smiles at you. “Not just a healer.” He watches you process that information, watches your lips twitch downward. “What, what’s up?” He pushes, just a little harder now.
“I don’t think,” you muse, thinking out loud. “I don’t think Bakugou thought of me as a friend, until,” he watches you remember something that clearly embarasses you, “Until um,” you laugh, “Actually the story is funny, if you promise not to be weird about it I’ll tell you.” Midoriya forces a laugh, and smiles, holding out a pinky finger.
“Promise.”
“He um,” you lean forward conspiratorially, “I don’t think he saw me as more than the person who put him back together after a fight until he saw someone else flirt with me and decided he didn’t like it.” Midoriya rubs his chin.
“Oooh wait, what happened?” He keeps the excitement in his voice normal, modulated.
“It was at one of the interschool events,” you giggle, and he’s transported back in time,
He can see the way you used to hide behind your hair when you were nervous, the way you’d look after staying up all night studying, your smiling face in the stands at sports festivals. “Do you remember Shindou Yo?” Midoriya blinks, of course, of course he remembered Grand, his face was plastered all over the center of the city right now in some cologne ad.
“I do, yeah.” He leans forward, listening.
“While you were all competing, he sort of pulled me aside and he was asking me all these questions about my quirk, and healing, and what you were all like, and at first I thought he was sniffing around for information about his competition but then he um, he just rested a hand on the small of my back while we were talking and I realized I was being hit on.” You pause for dramatic effect. “Didn’t even take five seconds, Katsuki was there immediately, as angry as I’d ever seen him, dragging me back to the group.” You laugh. “And essentially he hasn’t taken his hands off of me since.”
“Really?” Midoriya shrugs. “And that doesn’t make you feel like, I dunno,” he pauses, searching for the right words, the ones that will sow the doubt he’s looking to nurture.
“It made me feel wanted.” You sip your tea. “And I’d be the first to admit he has some rough edges, and a fucking awful temper.” You shiver despite the warmth of the room and that’s it, that’s the thread Midoriya wants to pull.
“What do you mean?” He asks, knowing already.
“Oh,” you wrap an arm around your ribcage. “It’s hard for him to direct his anger at a source right, something goes poorly and if you’re standing too close you’ll get caught in the explosion, for lack of a better metaphor. He always apologizes though,” your smile gets a little wistful. “We’re working on it.”
“Uh huh.” Midoriya says. “Good for you.”
_____ Present
Shouto can’t sleep. It’s not natural for him, and he fumbles in his drawer for the little orange pill bottle he’d regularly relied on during school, taking one out and letting it dissolve on his tongue. He feels his heartbeat slow, remembering what his therapist said about panic, and about analysis when you were panicked. That when his body was in fight or flight mode, analysis was pointless. He breathes out slow, and wonders if you’re doing the same, if you’re dreaming of Bakugou, if you’re dreaming of the apartment you’d shared, of Shindou’s hands on your body, of Deku’s. He sits upright in bed, sweating, tossing his thin cotton pajama shirt on the ground before flopping backwards. Even in his medically induced sleep, his dreams keep him from true rest, he wanders through disaster zones, stumbles through fires, makes his way across ruined cities, all following the sound of your voice.
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i. LETS GO TO SHIZUOKA!
miya atsumu x f!reader
── next: ii. Just me & you | series masterlist
synopsis: What better way to de-stress post-semester than going on a trip with your close friends? It’d be nothing but smooth sailing if you weren’t wedging some distance between you, and a certain blonde. Though, whether you liked it or not, the universe had its ways.
chapter content warning: college au, fluff, a hint of angst if you squint, atsumu might be a dumbass, mutual pining, requited unrequited love, forced proximity, slow burn, my poor depiction of japanese geography, reader can’t ride a bike for the sake of plot, not beta read, a little tame for now!
word count: 3.8k
notes: divider: cafekitsune. weeeee first chapter :> !!
‘You never really know when you’ve fallen in love. One day you just wake up and realise that it’s more than just shallow feelings.’
A phrase you’ve heard countless times growing up. You never really understood it well as a believer of love at first sight, thinking that the cliché ‘time slowing down as you see your lover before you’ was all there was to it to fully grasp the concept of love.
Kind of like in romantic movies where the camera dramatically pans around the main character after seeing their love interest—every person around you disappearing until all there was left were the two of you, heart racing a little too fast, the nervousness settling in—the whole shebang.
Unfortunately for you, it wasn’t as climactic as they ought to be in movies—not one soul magically disappeared until it was just the two of you, the time did not, in fact, slow down. If anything, your heart stuttered like crazy, threatening to leap from your rib cage and onto his hands as if they were its home. At least the movies got that one thing right.
It was down right frustrating leading up to the feelings you now had for none other than Miya Atsumu.
Some days were filled with fluttering heart beats, and dreamy sighs—tucking your chin on your palm at the blissful feeling of being infatuated with the blonde. As if on cloud nine, drifting along the feathery scenery atop a huge ivory cloud, cupid’s bow comfortably pierced right through your heart.
Other days were extremely unbearable, plagued with the ache of yearning, and unwanted jealousy—painfully digging your nails into your palm at the sight of someone else shamelessly flirting with Atsumu. It almost felt like a curse weighed upon you the day you were born, being smitten with a ladies’ man. On days like these, cupid’s bow uncomfortably dug into your heart like a painful itch—awkwardly poking out from your chest like an unconcealed badge saying, ‘Hey, look at me! I have a crush on someone who doesn’t even like me back. How stupid of me!’
Never mind that because the day it finally settled uncomfortably in your bones—that your feelings weren’t mere infatuation—you felt like you were in deep, deep shit. Absolutely fucked with a capital ‘F’ because suddenly the way Atsumu’s laugh sounded was like a sweet, sweet melody; an external stimuli to get your heart racing. The way his eyes crinkled, lashes kissing his cheeks as he laughed at a funny joke, oh, you were weak in the knees.
Your lovesick gaze unceremoniously bore into his handsome face, blissfully unaware of your raging feelings for him. You knew right then and there that love was what you felt for your close friend.
An uncharted territory that you swore to never step foot on, until now.
“You brought your passport?” Kita stared at the mini scarlet document resting between Atsumu’s slender fingers, brows raised with slight amusement. His expressionless question halted the quiet conversation amongst your group, all turning to look at the flustered blonde—his face now matching the colour of the passport in his hand.
“Y-yeah? Are we not supposed ta or somethin’?” Atsumu looked around at the growing amusement between his friends, except for Kita who only closed his eyes in defeat. The former looked over to you for help, honeyed eyes projecting a mix of slight panic and embarrassment, you could only look away in second hand embarrassment, cheeks heating from the eye contact.
“It’s a domestic flight, dumbass!” Osamu lightly smacked his twin on the back of his head, clicking his tongue at the lack of common sense. Before the two could even start their endless bickering, the line moved, signalling the group’s turn. Kita pulled the latter away with him to the check-in counter, saving everyone else’s ears being talked off with the twin’s petty arguments.
Winter break, a convenient time for you and your friends to get together and de-stress from the pressure of university. If anything, it was a purely spontaneous getaway trip to Shizuoka. The trip included a little pit stop to Tokyo for some much needed splurging—totally not your idea—before taking the train back down for Shizuoka.
It all started in the group chat with a lone screenshot from Suna, an on-going deal of inexpensive domestic flights from Hyōgo to Tokyo. There wasn’t even a message attached to the picture, just a wordless tactic in hopes to get the group together for an exciting winter ahead. First to see it was Atsumu, who immediately approved of the idea with an unnecessary amount of exclamation marks tied to his message. Then, it became a domino effect where the rest of the group voiced their interests, including yourself.
Next thing you knew, the five of you were holed up in the twin’s apartment—you and Kita sat on the chairs while the rest hovered behind, laptop on the table with a tab of the itinerary opened, and affordable accomodations in Shizuoka. With a quick transfer of funds from one bank account to another, you all looked forward to spending 4 days outside Hyōgo, 379 kilometres away from home.
Now, the five of you stood in the domestic terminal during the early hours of 7 AM, bound for Haneda Airport. Albeit, a bit sleepy, you were excited, deeming this trip as a little treat for making it through a rather tedious semester.
Sitting in between Suna and Kita, who respectively sat in the window and aisle seats, you took a moment to close your eyes as a muffled announcement from the pilot filled the speakers, the deep hum of the plane’s engines roaring as it moved up the runway, preparing for takeoff. Low murmurs of passengers, and the twin’s deep chatter behind you filled your ears like white noise, focusing on calming your racing heart.
You recounted a few minutes ago where Atsumu had opted to sit next to you, preferably on the window seat before Suna beat him to it, telling the latter that they had designated seats on their ticket, a teasing tongue poking out. ‘Like that matters.’ The blonde muttered, followed by a string of silent curses aimed at his friend before being ushered onto the next row behind by Osamu.
It was always like that with Atsumu and his spontaneity—he had no qualms sitting a row behind when you all had booked your tickets, even saying that he didn’t care wherever he sat as long as he landed in Tokyo in one piece. What drove him to change his mind was beyond your understanding.
Though, you’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t grasp onto that little hope of possibly sitting next to Atsumu for the whole flight. To your dismay, it dissipated the second you held onto it—all thanks to Suna Rintarou. Nonetheless, you would’ve felt awkward anyway, now that your heart weighed heavy with the burden of being hopelessly in love, and shamelessly pining.
You wouldn’t know how you would’ve acted during the span of 1 hour and 10 minutes; arms touching one another, albeit, covered in thick layers to fend off cold, and knees dangerously close—your cheeks heated at the thought. Sure, it was nothing intimate but that was Atsumu’s effect on you, and it absolutely drove you up the wall.
It wasn’t like this before, and you felt pathetic.
Gone were the days where you could hold a solid conversation with Atsumu without stuttering, and fidgeting like an idiot—where you were able to freely speak to him without any inhibitions weighing your shoulders. Come to think of it, the last time this probably happened was way back in second-year highschool. You were in second-year college now.
If you were being completely honest, you caught yourself unintentionally placing some distance between you and Atsumu, just a tad bit for the sake of your sanity. Could you really blame yourself? With the way he has been acting indifferent, it did some damage to your poor, poor heart—everyone had their limits and you were bound to reach yours soon enough. Especially with the coming days ahead, seeing him after you wake up, and before going to sleep. All in his glory.
Heavens above, have mercy on your heart.
Suna nudged you awake, head resting on his shoulder for the duration of the flight. You muttered a small apology as he let out a small groan, fingers digging into his padded jacket to massage the tense muscles of his shoulder. “We’re in Tokyo, sleepy head.” Atsumu prodded a finger at your head, poking his tongue out as you turned to face him, as if on cue, your heart beat picked up, only able to playfully roll your eyes in response.
Disembarking the plane, and claiming luggages proceeded without a hitch; thankfully, all your hard suitcases were still intact, and not shattered from the rough handling in the airport. After conveniently hailing a jumbo taxi, you were on your way to the heart of Tokyo. Naturally, Kita sat at the front passenger seat, having no trouble exchanging polite conversation with the driver. You and Osamu sat in the middle row while Atsumu and Suna were at the back.
You had to stop yourself from climbing to the back right after Atsumu did so, letting the brunette happily go instead, earning furrowed brows from the former—one that you tried your best to ignore.
The sound of wheels rolling along concrete filled your ears, along with the hustling and bustling of Central Tokyo as the group searched for the nearest luggage storage. A sea of bodies clad in layers of business casual outfits, men and women alike hastily walked to their destinations. The beloved city was adorned with Christmas lights and decorations, radiant hues of red, green, and gold standing out against the dark winter coats locals donned.
That was to be expected, the start of winter break being only a day after Christmas. It always cheered you up in every sense, seeing all sorts of novel decorations put your mind in a better place.
“Alright! Now that’s done, let’s get somethin’ ta eat.” Osamu locked the storage behind him, quickly tucking his hands back inside his trench coat, puffs of white fog leaving his lips with every word spoken. This earned a handful of hums from the rest, without a doubt there were no arguing when it came to eating food.
Atsumu fell into a step beside you, letting out an exaggerated noise as he shuddered from Tokyo’s early morning winter breeze.
“Hey. Seems like I haven’t talked ta ya in forever. Y’ avoidin’ me or somethin’?”
The blonde teased, all smiles with a tinge of crimson painted on his nose, and cheeks—from the cold, you presumed. The lack of seriousness in his tone put you at a slight ease, at least you didn’t have to start explaining why you were kind of avoiding him.
You shook your head, a genuine laugh leaving your lips as his honeyed eyes met your own, “Me? Never.” This earned a proud smile from your friend, chest puffing in absolute pride underneath the thick layers of winter fabrics.
“Good. I dunno what I’ll do if ya start avoidin’ me.”
His saccharine gaze lingered on your own a little too long for your sanity, all you could do was blink in response, mind flying off into the unknown as your heart picked up its pace yet again. Atsumu’s velvety stare was intense, it was like standing under the blazing sun on a scorching summer day, making you feel all sorts of emotions from A to Z.
Suddenly, the cerulean scarf around your neck felt a tad too restricting, the puffer jacket you wore became awfully warm, and the crisp morning air of Tokyo seemed too thin. Everything felt weird all of a sudden—your skin prickled under his honeyed eyes, getting lost in them as each slow second passed.
“Oi! Are you two coming or not?” Suna’s voice sharply sliced through the enchanting trance you and Atsumu were under, jolting you both back into reality. The rest of them were already far ahead looking into shops for a quick bite, indicating that somewhere down the line, the two of you had stopped walking just to stare into each other’s eyes. How embarrassing.
The latter cleared his throat, embarrassment settling in upon realising the situation at hand. He muttered a quick ‘Let’s go’ before starting a slow jog over to the rest of the group, acting like he didn’t just stare into your soul for god knows how many seconds. Slapping your cheeks, and letting out a puff of breath, you headed towards your friends, navigating through the crowded footpath and making sure not to accidentally bump into anyone.
The next few hours consisted of wisely spending money—per Kita’s words—in the heart of Tokyo. Despite endlessly complaining at first, the twins and Suna were soon sucked into the shopping fever.
Though, the four of you had to worry about your luggages back at the storage, resulting in only buying items that you desperately wanted, and essentials. This unfortunately led to almost being late to the scheduled Shinkansen you all had previously booked, the only option was to quickly run back to the luggage storage, and up the train station just in time before the train departed.
Everyone did their best to keep their heavy breathing in check, trying not to come off as rude to other passengers as well as saving yourselves from the embarrassment of unsolicited stares. You relaxed on the azure seat beneath, situated between the window and Kita—who sat in between you and Atsumu, the other two were on the next row over.
Your gaze turned to the large window beside you, overlooking the opposing platform as the engine of the Shinkansen quietly whirred, signalling the impending departure. Due to the non-rush hour at the quiet time of 1:57 PM, it wasn’t packed at all, only a few commuters coming in and out of the station to get on with their day-to-day routine.
As the Shinkansen slowly advanced to full speed, the outside view quickly turned into a mix of blurred hues; tall buildings decorating Central Tokyo gradually turned into greenery and suburban areas.
The afternoon sun peeked from the winter ivory clouds, seeping into the window to cast a radiant, warm glow upon the three of you. A subtle reflection of Atsumu’s peaceful profile projected on the glassy panel, allowing you to carefully trace each and every detail of his handsome features—the slope of his nose, flaxen strands framing his face, and those rosy pink lips you’ve always longed to touch with your own.
Tucking your chin atop a palm, you shamelessly stared at your friend’s reflection through the window—you watched as his honeyed eyes focused on the scenery before him, angling his head your way to get a good look of the view. Atsumu’s lips ever so slightly pursed with pure fascination, his Adam's apple bobbing with awe, you presumed with the speed of the Shinkansen.
Oh, how wrong you were.
“Staring a little hard, aren’t we?”
You were met with Kita’s warm gaze as you whipped your head around, albeit, rather quickly as if caught doing something you shouldn’t be. His stare held a hint of mischief—something that rarely ever occurred which caused your cheeks to shamelessly heat up. The man wasn’t even fully teasing you or anything—not that he normally did so—but it roused quite a reaction from you: fidgeting at the hem of your jacket, gaze avoiding Kita’s expectant ones, the slight part of your lips, not to mention the small stutter your heart did but you weren’t going to let him know.
Absolutely not.
On the other hand, Atsumu stared out the same window, albeit, not directly at the view outside but rather at the reflection of your side profile on the glassy panel as you animatedly explained yourself to Kita. He couldn’t hear what the two of you were talking about as he resorted to using earbuds a few moments ago, blocking out the white noise.
Atsumu let out a small chuckle—one that was drowned by the hum of the Shinkansen—as he admired you from the window, a subtle smile involuntarily forming at the look of your flustered state. How adorable. Naturally, his eyes drifted down to your plush lips as it moved with every spoken word; Atsumu could only fantasise the feeling of it against his own.
The blonde swiped his tongue across his bottom lip before letting out a small huff, and closing his eyes shut—stubbornly depriving himself of your beauty.
More than a few times in the past, Atsumu has caught himself shamelessly wandering along the borders of ‘friends’ and ‘lovers’, brazenly walking along the fine line that split the two territories—as a matter of fact, in his eyes, the line was so damn thin that it almost appeared blurry. Dangerously blurry. But Atsumu was a thrill seeker, and would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t want to venture out into the uncharted territory called ‘lovers’.
For as long as he could remember, Atsumu has been patiently sitting by this uncharted territory—endlessly waiting for the day where he’d finally be able to cross that line without any hesitation in his bones. It was delusional of him, really, because at the very back of his mind—carefully tucked and hidden—Atsumu knew he probably didn’t stand a chance. That one day, he’d helplessly watch another man effortlessly cross the line.
He could only hope that was him.
Fortunately, the rest of the train ride was peaceful until Mount Fuji came into view from the distance; the stratovolcano proudly stood in all its icy glory, looking over Shizuoka and Yamanashi—its snow-capped tip slightly peeking from a blanket of clouds. The five of you didn’t hesitate to pull out your phones to start taking photos of the famed mountain, all amazed by its conical form.
After a few more clicks of the symbolic Fujisan, with selfies here and there, the train finally arrived in Shizuoka Station—greeted by the city’s skyline surrounded by impressive sights of nature. Hauling your respective mini luggages, and shopping bags from Tokyo, the five of you, surprisingly, made it to the hotel—located in the heart of Shizuoka—only a stone’s throw from the train station.
Greeted with a homey view, the hotel’s vast foyer was warmly lit, decorated with artificial plants here and there along with lots of comfortable spaces to sit on. Faint jazz music filled the rather deserted place, footsteps along its marbled ivory floors echoing loudly. Kita, and Osamu made their way to the counter—the latter only trailing behind to inquire about amenities—whereas Suna beelined for the nearest toilet, leaving you and Atsumu on luggage duty.
Great.
The blonde unceremoniously plopped down next to you, cream-coloured couch groaning beneath his weight as he yawned, pairing it with a full body stretch. How cute. It reminded you of a cat stretching right after waking up, face scrunched and all. Atsumu sat way too close for your liking, the heat of his right side spilling onto your left—it wasn’t even a comfortable kind of warmth, no, it mirrored the intensity of a hot, sunny day. Despite the lack of skin contact, his touch lit your body with a searing blaze. You scratched at your neck, the familiar prickling sensation coming back for the nth time.
It was awfully quiet, the crisp winter air turning thick, and awkward as each slow second passed. All of a sudden, the wooden coffee table before you looked rather interesting, eyes tracing its natural surface pattern. It didn’t look this cool a few seconds ago. The faint jazz music still played from the hotel speakers, a mocking symbol of the lack of conversation between you and Atsumu.
The latter awkwardly cleared his throat, hand coming up to rub at his nape—a nervous habit he’s picked up, and you knew that too. He turned his mind upside down, and inside out to think of anything just to clear the somewhat awkward air between the two of you but his thoughts fell short. For the first time in a while, Atsumu was rendered speechless. When did it get like this?
“We should do a bike tour. I saw an ad for one outside just before we came in.”
Suna strode over to the two of you, hands snug inside his pockets. What a life saver. “I think it's like a 3-hour tour, though.” He muttered before pulling his phone out, mindlessly scrolling on it.
“Won’t it be snowy?” Osamu replied from behind, Kita trailing closely, room keys and a pamphlet in hand. “Shizuoka has very little snowfall. I think we’ll be fine.” The ivory-haired male interjected, earning a hum from Suna. Before the group could further discuss today’s plans, you spoke up,
“I can’t even ride a bike.”
“Ditto.” Atsumu groaned.
“Well. Technically, I can. Jus’ a bad experience from childhood. Haven’t gotten on one since then and not about ta start now.” The male beside you shrugged whereas his twin chuckled at the recollection. Must’ve been quite a memory for the two, you presumed.
You shook your head, reassuring the group, “Don’t mind me. I can rest up a bit while you all go out.” It wasn’t much of a big deal, anyway. Plus, a good 3-hour nap sounded like absolute heaven to you right now, especially after waking up early this morning. It was only the first day of the trip, and there were more planned activities ahead with the group so you didn’t mind.
The door to the hotel room opened up to a cosy, expansive suite inspired by traditional tearoom elements in Japanese-style—gasping at the intricate vases and traditional scrolls that decorated the room. The suite included two Tatami rooms—excluding the small kitchen, and living room—adorned with cosy futons. Overlooking the vast city of Shizuoka, it gave a sense of luxury amongst the homey vibes of the room.
A few shuffling here, and there, the group agreed to part ways for a bit, and reconvene for dinner—Suna, Kita, and Osamu headed for the bike tour whereas you and Atsumu stayed behind for a much needed peaceful rest.
If peaceful was even the word to describe it.
“We’ll see ya at dinner. Have fun.” Osamu shot his brother a look, one that made you stop in your tracks. A subtle smirk plastered all over the former’s face which looked just like the usual expression Atsumu always wore, it didn’t help how Osamu looked exactly like him.
What the hell?
A resounding thud reverberated throughout the walls as the door shut behind the silver-haired male. There was a slight pause, a heartbeat of silence before Atsumu turned to you, hands on his hips, mirroring the smirk his brother gave just a few seconds ago. You gulped, meeting his honeyed gaze.
“Looks like it’s just me and ya with three hours ta spare, huh?”
Three hours with Miya Atsumu. Alone. How convenient.
—
taglist (open)
tags: @ushijimaschubbs @tsumudoll @starlitsawamura @littlemiyastars (kind reminder to turn your mentions on!)
© atsumou 2024 | don’t plagiarise, repost or steal my gif
Your life is about to blossom. Believe that.
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."
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
𝐀𝐍𝐔𝐁𝐈𝐒
𝐀𝐍𝐔𝐁𝐈𝐒 | 𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐉𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐅𝐈𝐀 𝐀𝐔 pairings: yandere mafia namjoon x barmaid f!reader genre: dark romance, smut, slight porn with plot, 90s word count: 19,7K beta read by @chaoticpuff17 (ily)
masterlist
summary: “You are something I can sin for” An anchor amidst the stormy seas of life — that’s what Namjoon is for you. But it wasn’t always like that. There was a time where you’ve resented Namjoon with every fibre of your being and every word that came out of his plump lips after what he had done to prove his power. Unfortunately, you will never know what life could be if Kim Namjoon was not in it.
warnings: minors dni 18+ | sexual tension, emotional distress, teasing, yandere behaviour, obsessive behaviour, manipulation, reader meets namjoon at 17, forced engagement, kidnapping, graphic violence, death, murder, blood, explicit language, misogyny, mentions of feminism, alcohol usage, mentions of religion and God, church smut, oral (f receiving), fingering, oppa-kink and so on (i'll add some if i'll forget)
disclaimer: this story is purely fictional, it does not depict real-life events or involve any actual members of BTS. This story will contain strong language, explicit content, obsessive behaviour, alcohol drinking, illegal activities, oppressiveness, which we do not condone.
a/n: So here we are! This is the story I've been thrilled to share as it unfolds almost simultaneously with Champagne Confetti. Y/N, alias Peaches, is my baby, and I cannot wait to write more for her and Namjoon after my current project wraps up, wink wink. I have drafts for other fics set in the same universe as my current work and the new one, Anubis. Step by step, my fairies ♥
I hope you will enjoy reading this piece I've kept to myself for a long time. The best thing about writing is that I get to build this world of imagination and live in it for months before it gets to you. Sooo, I'm very nervous and excited to push Anubis out as a second fic within this universe— which now I have decided is going to be called — 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝟏𝟗𝟗𝟔. Without further ado, enjoy, fairies! ♥
1996
There's a soft whisper in your bones, each time you wake up in the morning. As your eyes flutter open, the room is dimly lit, shadows dancing on the ceiling. All your demons are staring at you from above. They have been there when you went to sleep, and they are still there when you wake up. You know them all too well—regrets, doubts, fears—they've become familiar companions in the lonely hours of the night. They whisper tales of your failures, amplifying every mistake, every misstep, until they echo like thunder in your mind.
But would it be any different if your steps turned the other direction? Would the cosmos allow you to be? Possibly. You, however, will never know what life would be without blood flowing down the stream, dirty money from all the sins you've watched being committed.
You will never know what life could be if Kim Namjoon was not in it. But the thought is fleeting, for you know deep down that he is as much a part of your story as the demons that haunt you. His presence has shaped you in ways both profound and subtle, leaving an indelible mark on your soul and your body. The agonising pain within still remains and all you can think of is how did you get to this point in your story.
"Bitches come and go, Peaches—" you recalled those words like it was yesterday they were uttered.
"—but you and him, love, you be for life."
An anchor amidst the stormy seas of life — that's what Namjoon is for you. But it wasn't always like that. There was a time when you resented Namjoon and every word that came out of his plump lips.
Kim Namjoon was trouble and the whole Bronx knew so. Heck, even the whole state knew what kin he came from. You were no exception. But whatever you did, you never managed to put distance between you two.
The world seemed both infinitely vast and impossibly small when the streets of the Bronx were your stage. You were barely seventeen when you met Namjoon, a whirlwind of youthful energy and reckless abandon, there he is, so vivid in your memories.
Every time you'd help around Anubis, you could see his straying eyes. He had an aura of mischief that drew you in like a moth to a flame. You remember the way his gaze lingered on your skin, straying from the task at hand to fixate on you with a mixture of fascination.
Namjoon's reputation preceded him like a shadow cast by the noonday sun. Entirely impossible to overlook, yet you did. His name was whispered in hushed tones in the back alleys and dark corners where his influence held sway, and that was only the beginning. The magnitude he reached decades later is for another story.
You had heard the rumors—the tales of his involvement with the local gangs, the whispers of his connections to the underworld that lurked beneath the surface of the city. Certainly, you would have to be lying if you said that Anubis was completely legal. You were not that stupid. While it bore the façade of a legitimate establishment, its roots ran deep into the murky waters of the criminal underworld.
Mrs. Jung could smile as widely as she wanted and reassure you that all was fine and all was taken care of, but you couldn't ignore the whispers that circulated about Anubis. Yet she paid triple what you could get in any regular bar. Not like you could work at a regular bar at the time at your age. Survival often depended on turning a blind eye to the unsavory realities of life that you would never be able to face alone. Money was tight and you could not afford to lose such a good-paying job. Even if it took what it took.
"His eyes are hungry for you, Peaches—" said Mrs. Jung while toying with the little umbrella that was swimming in her Kamasutra drink you'd prepared just a few minutes ago. You envisioned your life in the city just like she had, Saint Laurent heels clicking loudly as you would walk down the streets of Manhattan. You admired your lady boss from her head to toes. Mrs. Jung was a symbol of pussy and power. Until she was not. The power was given to her and once she rejected to meet the expectations, it was taken from her.
"—But that's all he can do, at least for now."
She winked your way and then her attention turned to the approaching male figure. What she meant by that is loud and clear. You are underaged and Namjoon cannot make any move on you even if he wanted to. Although something tells you that this would be the least illegal thing he would’ve committed.
You’ve met Mark Tuan on occasion when he stopped by the bar. She was not Mrs Jung at the time, yet the notorious life of your lady boss, confused you even then. The way she and Mr Jung behaved around each other gave you the impression that he is her lover and not the tattooed boy that fucked the brains out of her in the office upstairs.
You felt the pain that was reflected on Jung Hoseok’s face when he asked where is she and you had to answer truthfully. The only thing you knew about Namjoon was that he and the Jungs ran way back. Their primary, and to the upper world’s eye, legal assets were the distilleries that distribute whiskey and brandy which you were serving each night till early hours of the morning.
The moment he particularly chose to visit the bar only those evenings you’ve been around was a louder hint shouted your way. As if you haven’t already figured. There was something intoxicating about the way he moved through the world and the way he moved you once your eyes locked.
The way he spoke to you, listened to you so attentively, gave advice on occasion and provided a shoulder to lean on, was all pulling you to him even more. It made you forget about all the skeletons that were in his closet.
The air crackled with anticipation as he walked through the room each night, straight to you, his gaze fixing on you with a mixture of fascination and desire. But amidst the heat of the moment, there was a shadow of doubt that lingered in the back of your mind.
Mrs. Jung's sudden disappearance, Namjoon taking over the day-to-day operations of Anubis—it all seemed too convenient, too perfect to be mere coincidence. It gave him the opportunity to watch you, enchant you. You were scared that he'd cut you off whenever you fucked up something. But he never did; rather the opposite, offering you a lifeline when you needed it most. There was a chemistry between you that defied explanation, a silent understanding that transcended words.
The way his muscular torso almost pressed against yours in the storage room took your breath away instantly. The faint scent of his cologne enveloped you as he leaned in closer, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine. Surrounded by crates and boxes of expensive alcoholic beverages, the world seemed to fade away. His hand brushed against yours while he was lifting it, sending a jolt of electricity coursing through your veins as you met his gaze. Reaching above your head to envelop his slender fingers around the throat of the bottle that you could not reach before, he slowly moved closer to hover above your lips. You trembled under his gaze on your lips that were slightly parted; you were panting at this point, reminding you of the dangers that lurked beneath the surface of your forbidden romance.
"Just a moment longer."
His voice was a low murmur, a seductive whisper that sent a thrill racing through your veins. Despite the warning bells that rang in the recesses of your mind, you couldn't deny the pull he had over you, the magnetic attraction that drew you closer with each passing moment, his presence overwhelming in the confined space of the storage room. You knew that this was wrong, and yet, as his breath ghosted over your skin, you couldn't bring yourself to pull away.
You would never deny it, but you could not accept it and return his affections the way he wished you would. This was temporary. You never planned to stay in Anubis for longer than needed. It was not where you belonged, and the criminal underbelly of the Bronx was not the life you had envisioned for yourself.
You could not understand what made him stay away from you for such a long time. But it certainly created an opening for you to re-think your next steps.
The twenty-first year of your life was dangerously close. You graduated from college that could be paid as your earnings in Anubis allowed so. Slowly, your little life in the farthest corner of Bronx would come to an end and you could move into the city. Get a job, maybe even a man and kids later. You wanted that white-picket-fence life and you knew that if you wanted to live it peacefully, staying here was not an option.
Your father was strongly against you leaving even though he never approved of the life you led in the dark of nights. He was not a saint either, his hands stained with the same sins that plagued the streets of the Bronx. There was no man in the whole New York City that would not know the name Kim Namjoon and your father was not an exception. Although, you never had the courage to mention his name and acknowledge that the man your father praises when he drinks his beer and plays poker with his drunkard old pals, is spending his evenings talking to you.
"I tell ya all, that Namjoon boy has got a head on his shoulders like no other," your father's voice boomed across the small kitchen.
"A real businessman, that one," a flicker of unease stirring in the pit of your stomach as you caught sight of the familiar glint of admiration in your step-father's eyes. Namjoon's name hung in the air between you, a silent reminder of the bond that had formed between you in the shadows of Anubis.
"I wouldn't be surprised if he ended up running this whole city someday, right, Peaches?" You forced a smile, a wave of uncertainty washing over you as you considered the implications of your father's words. Namjoon's ambitions were as vast as the city itself, his influence reaching far beyond the confines of Anubis and the criminal underworld it symbolized.
"That's Mr. Jung's place, dad," you shook your head disapprovingly but with a smile on your face. His comrades laughed and shared similar ideas as he did though.
"That would be a boy for your Peaches," one of his comrades chuckled, the sound echoing off the walls of the cramped kitchen as they continued to sing Namjoon's praises after you only silently smiled again and opted not to respond. Your father however scoffed. He praised him, yes. But would he approve of his only child being with such a man like Namjoon is?
"When are you leaving for the city, young Missy?" Old man whose name you've never known asked with a cigarette in his mouth, looking over his cards rather than your way.
"Don't even support her in that big apple bullshit." You felt a pang of disappointment at his lack of support, but you were not surprised. You glanced around the kitchen, meeting the eyes of the men gathered there, each one offering their own opinion on your future. Some nodded in agreement with your step-father, while others remained silent, their expressions unreadable.
"Don't listen to those old men, child—"
"You got dreams, girl. Don't let nobody hold you back from chasing 'em.”
Truth to be told. The job, white fence, man and kids were not your dreams. You did not really know what to dream of, being restricted in such a dark part of the world that Bronx was for many, you did not even know why you hate your home like that. And you certainly weren’t even sure what is it to have a dream. But you hoped you’ll create some once you step your foot down, somewhere else than here. It doesn’t have to be Manhattan in particular. Anywhere but here is fine.
"Peaches, love, be sweet and bring us another beer from the fridge on your way to work, would ya?"
The request snapped you out of your thoughts, bringing you back to the present moment. With a nod, you forced a smile, hiding the turmoil within as you moved to comply with his request. You were sure you'd be late to your shift at Anubis yet again, but you knew that Namjoon would turn a blind eye. He always did when it came to you.
But Namjoon was not present the moment you stepped into Anubis that night. As you made your way through the dimly lit interior of Anubis, a sense of foreboding settled over you like a heavy blanket. The usual hustle and bustle of the bar seemed muted, the air thick with tension as you approached the bar.
Mrs. Jung was still nowhere to be found and therefore, for a few months, Namjoon had replaced her. But tonight he was not here. He usually came around ten p.m. and stayed until you cleaned the very last table and closed the bar.
Taking a deep breath, you squared your shoulders and set about your duties, determined to carry on despite the growing sense of unease that lingered in the air. But as the night wore on, the feeling of dread only intensified, leaving you on edge as you awaited Namjoon's return.
You watched the sun rising through the large windows that let the light come into the bar that was still beaming with a significant number of people of various ages. Despite your efforts to focus on your tasks, your thoughts kept drifting back to him. Where could he be? Why hadn't he shown up as usual? The questions nagged at you, fueling the unease that had settled in your stomach like a lead weight.
"Peaches?!" You heard the voice of one of the local and returning customers from the other side of the dancing floor. He was a friend. Or so you thought. He raised two fingers into the air and in a second you were already pouring the brownish liquid of Jung's Whiskey into the crystal-clear glasses.
You walked over to the table he was sitting at alongside a face you'd never seen before. Thanking you for the drinks, he pointed his thumb to the man sitting next to him.
"Peaches, Jinyoung—"
"Jinyoung, Peaches."
You offered a polite smile, acknowledging the introduction as you set down the drinks on the table. The unfamiliar man, Jinyoung, returned the gesture with a nod, his expression unreadable.
"Nice to meet you, Jinyoung," you replied, your voice tinged with a hint of curiosity.
Jinyoung's gaze met yours, his eyes dark and probing as if searching for something within you. You couldn't help but feel a twinge of discomfort under his scrutiny, a feeling that only added to the unease already gnawing at your insides. Something about him set off alarm bells in your mind, a primal instinct warning you to tread carefully.
"What's a beauty like you doing tucked in Anubis?" Jinyoung asked, his voice smooth and velvety. You glanced around the dimly lit bar, suddenly aware of the eyes that seemed to linger on you from every corner, not understanding why.
"I... I work here," you said, a sudden shyness prevailing on the surface. You never really engaged with other men apart from Namjoon. For some reason, each time a man approached you, all of them quickly backed out, opting to not even look your way. For a long time, you did not know what you did wrong to chase them all away. But you got to know that night.
Jinyoung's lips quirked into a knowing smile, his gaze never leaving yours.
"I can offer you a better job, beauty," his words dripping with a seductive allure, and in that moment, you decided you needed to get back to work ASAP. He sounded like trouble you did not want on your last days here.
"I... I appreciate the offer, but I'm quite content here," you replied, trying to keep your voice steady.
"You sure? I could have good use of someone like you, Peaches." Your heart pounded in your chest as Jinyoung's words washed over you. He played with your name on his tongue, and you had a hint that the job he was offering you would be something much worse than working in Anubis.
"Easy, Jinyoung, that's Namjoon's girl you're talking to." Jackson finally spoke up as if he heard your little begging in your head, but this was not what you expected him to say. Were you Namjoon's girl? Years went by and he merely brushed upon your hand with his own. There was no attempt to woo you directly. So how come everyone saw it this way—you as Namjoon's girl?
"I'm not Namjoon's girl—" you said, standing your ground for once. You saw Jackson's eyes widen and Jinyoung smirk at your remark.
"I'm no one's girl—"
"Nonetheless, thanks for the offer but I have to decline." Jinyoung's smirk widened at your words, his gaze flickering with amusement as if he found your defiance entertaining. A second later you were on your way back to the bar. He was Jackson's friend, but he was crude and he did not understand he ought to fuck off. The grip you suddenly felt on your upper arm was painful enough to make you wince, yanking you back as you squinted your eyes from the pain of his touch.
"What makes you say no if you're no one's slu—" your ears picked up his words before they were silenced. Forever. His last words were cut off by a deafening gunshot, leaving you frozen in shock. The sound of it still ringing in your ears as you turned to see the source of the chaos. There, standing with a smoking gun in his hand, was Namjoon, his expression unreadable as he stared down at Jinyoung's lifeless form. One side of Jackson's face was covered in blood that was his friend's, his shock mirroring your own. And you were scared to even move an inch.
Namjoon had just killed a man in cold blood, he shot him right in front of you. Without mercy. Panic surged through you as you realized the gravity of what had just transpired. The grip he had on your upper arm weakened yet remained even after his head fell down. It was a clear shot to the side of his head.
By now, half of the bar emptied, only those underworld rats stayed unfazed. Namjoon was always so calm, so collected. But now, he looked like a completely different person. The bar had fallen into an eerie silence, broken only by the sound of your own ragged breathing. You wanted to run, but your legs failed you, unable to move as the reality of the situation sank in.
"What—" your heart hammered in your chest as you searched for something, anything, to say, but the words caught in your throat, choked by the weight of the moment. Your whole body trembled uncontrollably, your breaths coming in ragged gasps. You reached to pull your hand away from Jinyoung's lifeless grip and while you struggled to do so, the scenery before you was not helping you to calm down. The side of his head blown up, you could see parts of his brain, immediately making you empty your stomach on the floor. The fact that Namjoon hadn't said a word since he literally came out of nowhere was not contributing to the situation either.
You heard his smooth voice but it was too muffled at this point. He was giving orders to Jackson, but you did not understand a single word coming out of his mouth. Your head was spinning and the room felt like a carousel.
"Why would you—" you began to stutter, your voice barely a whisper. The question died on your lips, swallowed by the overwhelming sense of dread that hung heavy in the air. Namjoon had just committed an act of unspeakable violence, ending a man's life without a second thought. Nothing will be the same ever again. You stayed out of all the illegalness that surrounded Anubis on purpose. What eyes don't see, heart doesn't hurt. What you don't know, can't hurt you. But now you eye-witnessed such brutality and he won't let you walk away to the other end of the rainbow.
You did not expect him to hear you nor even answer your remark, but of course, Kim Namjoon was always here to listen to you.
"He touched you."
The words hit you like a physical blow, jolting you out of your stunned silence. He wasn't just stating a fact; he was issuing a warning, a chilling reminder of the consequences of crossing him. Looking him in the eye, he looked like a possessive maniac, like someone determined to protect what he perceived as his.
"He didn't—" you began, your voice faltering under the weight of Namjoon's scrutiny. Yet you stopped yourself to think whether Jinyoung's intentions were harmless or not. You remembered the way Jinyoung had leered at you, his touch lingering where it shouldn't have.
"No one can touch you, Peaches."
You felt a chill run down your spine as the weight of his words settled over you. It wasn't just a declaration; it was a promise, a vow to protect you at any cost. But beneath the surface, you sensed something darker, something primal and possessive that sent chills down your body.
You were paralyzed by the intensity of his gaze, unable to tear your eyes away from his. Your mind raced with a million thoughts and questions, but you knew better than to voice them.
That night you started to hate each and every gaze he threw your way when you were working, all the men running away after uttering a single word to you, and all the remarks about you being Namjoon's girl.
But were you ready to be Namjoon's girl? To be part of his world?
You sit up, the sheets clinging to your skin like a shroud, and confront the spectres that linger above. Even after some weeks, you still cannot shake off the tremor you've experienced that night.
"Peaches?!" You heard your father's voice. You were hidden in the confines of your small room for days now, coming out only to take a bottle of water, and even that you managed to minimize by taking the whole six-pack. You couldn't bring yourself to respond.
The look in Namjoon's eyes, the sound of the gunshot ringing in your ears, the sight of Jinyoung's lifeless body—all of it was seared into your mind, haunting you like a relentless spectre. You needed some time. But it was running out quickly.
Lost in the labyrinth of your thoughts, you remained silent, grappling with the weight of the choices that lay before you. You packed your bag last night, all the cash stuffed inside at various places, just to be turned right back on your heel by two muscular men you'd never met before. The color they wore was emerald green, and you quickly understood that those were Jung soldiers, if you could call them that.
Your father was similarly confused. His eyes were darting between you and the soldiers as he struggled to make sense of the situation. So here you are, awaiting when he will decide to collect you. What is he waiting for? You knew that your time was running out; you just didn't know exactly when it would run out.
In that moment that night, you missed the Namjoon you thought he was. All you could see was a stranger, a dangerous man whose actions had shattered your illusions and left you reeling in their wake. Yes, you knew his line of work, but you'd rather not see it with your own two eyes. You'd rather stay oblivious to who he really was just to keep the picture of the Namjoon you knew hanging a little bit longer.
"You can't hide there forever." And you certainly did not plan to, but coming out to see your father's worried face after he sees how disheveled you look could wait for another day or so. You did not know what Namjoon intended to achieve by making you a prisoner in your own home.
Every fiber of your being wanted to hate Namjoon, but you did not know whether that was even possible with how smart that man was with his mouth.
This cage of fear and uncertainty made you uneasy. The wind that forcefully closed your window awoke you from your thoughts. You lived on the second floor of an old block of apartments. You moved toward the old rusted window, cautiously pushing it open again. The cool night air rushed to meet your cheeks, and you closed your eyes to feel it.
Peering down, you assessed the drop. It wasn't too high, and the fire escape just below offered a feasible route. Why had it not occurred to you earlier?
"Peaches, please, talk to me. They've been saying that you can't go out and should wait for sajangnim Kim."
Your father's voice was strained, a mix of concern and frustration. You hesitated, torn between the urge to reassure him and the pressing need to just run for the hills before it was too late for you.
What you realized in the moment, listening to his muffled pleas, was that this might be the last time you'd see him. You couldn't come back to the Bronx ever again. Nor New York. You weren't sure exactly what the magnitude of Jung's power was that Namjoon shared, but you had the hunch that wherever you'd hide in this state, he would find you.
"Dad?" you said softly, your voice barely a whisper. You felt a lump in your throat, the weight of the impending goodbye pressing down on you. You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself.
"I'm here, Peaches," your father responded, his voice breaking slightly. "Please, come out. We'll figure this out." Tears welled up in your eyes as you clung to the closed door.
"It's no go, Dad."
"Please, just open the door." His voice was closer now, just outside the door.
You glanced around your room, grabbing your packed bag and slipping it over your shoulder.
"I love you, Dad. I'm sorry. Bye—"
With a final, sorrowful glance toward the door, you slipped out of the window, your feet finding purchase on the metal grating of the fire escape. You descended quickly, not daring to look back. The metal stairs creaked under your weight, each step taking you further from the life you knew. You needed to disappear.
You had no shoes on, and the white tank top clung to your skin, outlining your curves and breasts. The night air was cool against your exposed skin, a harsh contrast to the warmth of your tears. The metal of the stairs felt rough under your bare feet, but you pushed forward until you were all the way down.
Catching your breath and glancing around the dimly lit alleyway, the city felt oppressively silent, the only sound your own ragged breathing. As you took a step forward, a soft scoff resonated in your ears, leaving you standing there frozen. The man was totally invisible in the dark shadows of the alley between the buildings until he pulled out his zippo lighter to light a cigarette, illuminating his face. He exhaled a cloud of smoke, a smirk playing on his lips.
"Where are you headed, Peaches?"
The man who was casually leaning against the cold bricks wasn't unfamiliar to you. You, as a barmaid at Anubis, had the extravagant privilege to meet four out of the big seven. Kim Taehyung being one of them, standing here in front of you.
"Mr. Kim," you breathed, dread pooling in your stomach. You were on a first-name basis only with Namjoon even though they all scolded you, especially your lady boss, for being way too formal and polite, making them feel older than they actually are. Truth be told, you were putting some distance between them, but you utterly failed to do so with Namjoon, and here you are, on the run.
"I'm your family now, Peaches," Taehyung said, his voice dripping with mockery. "You should start getting used to that, so drop the mister finally."
You gritted your teeth, trying to steady your nerves as you faced Taehyung. "Taehyung," you corrected yourself, though the informal address felt wrong on your tongue.
"That's better, what a good girl you can be," he said with a smirk, taking a step closer. His presence felt suffocating, a reminder of the dangerous world you had stumbled into.
"Why are you here, Taehyung?" you asked, your voice trembling slightly.
"Why are you here, Peaches?" Taehyung countered, his tone filled with amusement. You bit the inside of your mouth, feeling the nerves tighten their grip on you.
"Getting some fresh air," you replied, trying to sound casual despite the knot of anxiety tightening in your chest.
Taehyung raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. "Ah, yes, because nothing says 'fresh air' like sneaking out of your window in the dead of night," he quipped, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his scrutiny bearing down on you. "I just needed to clear my head," you said, hoping he would buy your flimsy excuse.
"You are not planning to do anything stupid now, Peaches, right?" You paused, considering your response carefully. Taehyung's tone, though casual, carried a hint of warning that sent a shiver down your spine. You slightly shook your head to show dismissal.
"Namjoon-hyung said you looked pretty shaken up that night." You couldn't help but tense at Taehyung's mention of Namjoon, a surge of apprehension coursing through you. You had tried to bury the memories of that night deep within you, but they continued to resurface, haunting your every thought.
"I'm fine," you replied, forcing a tight smile. "Just had a rough night, that's all."
"It looks like you're about to have another one to me." Your heart skipped a beat at Taehyung's ominous remark, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. Despite his casual demeanor, there was an underlying tension in the air that sent a shiver down your spine.
"I don't know what you're talking about," you said, trying to keep your voice steady despite the rising sense of unease.
"Unzipped duffle bag, dollar bills fell from it while you were going down, that looks like you were very eager to get that fresh air."
"I... I was just going for a walk," you stammered, scrambling for an excuse. Taehyung raised an eyebrow, his gaze unwavering.
"Without putting your shoes on?"
You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of Taehyung's scrutiny bearing down on you. "I couldn't sleep," you admitted, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I needed some fresh air to clear my head.” You repeat yourself, but you know that you can’t fool him no matter what.
Taehyung's gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before he shrugged, as if dismissing the matter altogether. "Well, you certainly know how to make an exit," he remarked, his smirk never faltering.
You forced a weak smile, trying to mask the unease bubbling inside you. "Guess I've always had a flair for the dramatic," you quipped, though the words rang hollow in your ears.
Taehyung chuckled, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. "That you do, Peaches. That you do," he said cryptically, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of amusement and something else you couldn't quite decipher.
"You know, Namjoon doesn't like it when his... family goes missing," he said, the emphasis on 'family' making you flinch. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling the smoke in a lazy stream.
You clenched your fists, feeling trapped. "I'm not missing," you said, your voice firmer than before. "I'm right here."
"I'd probably get a head start if I were you." Taehyung nodded slowly, as if considering your words.
Your heart pounded in your chest. "A head start?"
He took another drag, the smirk never leaving his lips. "I'm not a monster, Peaches. I'll give you a five-minute head start before I come after you."
The realization hit you like a ton of bricks. He was actually giving you a chance to run, but this time you would know someone was after you. You glanced around, calculating your options. The streets were empty, but you knew they wouldn't stay that way for long.
"Five minutes, Peaches. Starting now."
You turned and ran, your bare feet slapping against the pavement. The adrenaline coursed through your veins as you sprinted down the alley, knowing that Taehyung's smirk was etched in your mind.
You didn't know where you were going, but you knew you had to get as far away as possible. Everything blurred as you pushed yourself to run faster, the sound of your heartbeat drowning out everything else.
If you hide well, he can't find you, can he? You just have to find yourself a place to hide until morning and then you can wait till sunrise, get to the airport and fly to the first destination that will pop up.
You could feel the cold concrete scraping your feet, but the pain was a distant echo compared to the urgency of escape. You glanced over your shoulder, half-expecting to see Taehyung's figure emerging from the shadows, but for now, you were alone.
You could feel the cold concrete scraping your feet, but the pain was a distant echo compared to the urgency of escape. You glanced over your shoulder, half-expecting to see Taehyung's figure emerging from the shadows, but for now, you were alone.
The five minutes neared their end, and you knew you couldn't stay hidden forever. You had to keep moving, keep putting distance between you and Taehyung. Peering through the leaves, you scanned the area, your mind racing through possible routes and hiding spots.
"If I don’t bring you back, he'll come instead, Peaches!" Taehyung's voice echoed through, taunting you.
"You don't want to anger him, do you now?"
You needed a plan, and fast. Glancing around, you noticed a narrow passageway between two buildings, just wide enough for you to squeeze through. It might lead you to a different part of the neighborhood, giving you a chance to lose Taehyung in the labyrinth of backstreets.
You bolted towards the passageway, your bare feet slapping against the cold pavement. The alley was narrow and dark, but you pushed forward, heart pounding in your chest. Every shadow seemed to move, every sound amplified in the stillness of the night.
"They all run at first, Peaches—" Taehyung's voice echoed, closer now. "You're cute thinking you have a chance to get away."
It was way too narrow even if you put your bag down from your shoulder and dragged it as you tried to squeeze through. Every shadow seemed to move, every sound amplified in the stillness of the night, and you were scared that he would get to you soon. You knew he was out there, somewhere, searching for you.
"Although, my mind is troubled. Why, out of all of them, do you run?" There was a pause, then a chuckle.
You pushed yourself harder, feeling the rough brick walls scrape against your skin. You needed to keep moving, but you also needed a moment to think. The airport was too far, especially when they were already looking for you. You thought you were clever to disappear through the window as if you were in some cheesy cliché movie.
"Namjoon-hyung was always good to you, wasn't he?" He was. Until the moment someone else's brain was blown up by him right in front of you, simply because of his possessiveness while he never made you two exclusive. Or at least you thought so, as it showed—you were claimed by him sooner than you actually realized. You felt the panic rising in your chest, threatening to overwhelm you.
"You have no reason to run, Peaches," Taehyung's voice was taunting, echoing off the walls. "Namjoon-hyung will be so disappointed when he finds out how far you've gone." You ignored the majority of his words, focusing on finding a way out.
You closed your eyes and tried to think harder this time. The old train yard—bingo—it was on the outskirts of the city. It was abandoned, a place where few people ventured. If you could make it there, you might be able to find a boxcar to hide in until morning.
"Family doesn't abandon family, Peaches!" You heard his voice again, this time more distant.
Emerging from the passageway, you found yourself in a small courtyard. It was littered with old furniture and discarded trash; the smell was awful, but you didn't have time to dwell on that.
You listened intently, straining to hear any sign of Taehyung. The silence was deafening, broken only by the distant hum of traffic and the occasional bark of a dog.
You stuck to the shadows, moving as quietly as possible. The train yard was a long way off, but it was your best shot at staying out of immediate reach. Or so you thought.
You couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. Every rustle of leaves, every distant footstep made you jump. You forced yourself to stay calm, to focus on the path ahead. Panicking would only slow you down.
The city's edge came into view, the silhouette of the train yard looming in the distance. You quickened your pace, the sight of your potential sanctuary giving you a burst of energy. You crossed the threshold into the yard, the rusted tracks and abandoned cars offering a twisted sense of comfort.
An old boxcar with the door slightly ajar beckoned to you. You slipped inside, the smell of rust and decay filling your nostrils. You closed the door behind you, plunging the space into darkness. It was cramped and musty, but it was hidden.
Sinking to the floor, you allowed yourself a moment to breathe. Your body ached, your feet throbbed, but you had made it. For now, you were safe. You could only hope that Taehyung would give up the chase, or at least lose your trail long enough for you to figure out your next move.
The sound of gravel crunching outside the boxcar woke you up and consequently made your heart jump into your throat. You held your breath, straining to listen. The footsteps were deliberate and slow, echoing through the stillness of the night.
You held your breath, trying to remain as quiet as possible. The footsteps drew closer, each crunch of gravel sending a shockwave through your body. Your mind raced with possibilities. Was it Taehyung? Or perhaps someone else stumbling upon your hiding spot?
"I seriously don't understand why you didn't throw her over your shoulder and take her back to her room." The older male shot him a glare.
"Oh come the fuck on, you're one to talk." It was Taehyung's voice, laced with frustration and annoyance.
“I did not lose her, I gave her choice and she chose wrong, she’ll be back though, in no time.” The younger one scoffed and Taehyung quirked his brows, evidently amused by his brother.
"Well, at least that was my woman I lost and not our Hyung's." The tattooed heartthrob spat his friend's way when he heard his scoff.
"This isn't really my job. I'm only doing this because Namjoon cares about her too much to leave someone incompetent to watch her until he'll come back."
“Or you’re the only one without a woman, Tae.” You heard a little thump as if he jokingly punched him and the other voice chuckled. But first and foremost –
Namjoon's away. He did not come for you as he's away, and if away means out of the state, you have a bigger chance to make an exit than you originally thought.
Seeing him would only make things worse. Listening to his sweet melodies of words would make you doubt what Taehyung initiated—you have no reason to run. Apart from that, you do. He was deeply entrenched in the world of organized crime, his life a constant dance between power and peril. While his charming demeanor and enigmatic presence had drawn you in, you knew that his lifestyle came with its own set of risks and consequences.
He operated in the shadows, his actions dictated by a code of loyalty to his comrades and ruthlessness towards his enemies. At least that's what you heard people talk about the Jungs and their family man.
You didn't think there was room for innocence. But were you innocent? You had blood on your hands. Jinyoung's. You had been complicit in his demise. While it wasn't you who pulled the trigger, you were the motive.
As the voices grew louder, you strained to make out what they were saying. The sound of footsteps approached the boxcar, each one sending a jolt of fear through you. Were they getting closer? Were they about to open the door and drag you out into the open?
"I did not expect her to play the game that well, I have to give her that," Taehyung remarked, his voice tinged with admiration. Your heart raced as you listened to their conversation.
"Smart, just like he is."
The footsteps came to a stop just outside the boxcar, and you braced yourself for the door to swing open at any moment. Every nerve in your body was on edge, ready to flee at the first sign of danger.
But instead of the door creaking open, the voices began to fade away, the gravel crunching underfoot growing softer as they moved further away. Relief washed over you in waves, but you remained cautious, waiting until the sound of their footsteps had disappeared entirely before allowing yourself to relax.
You stayed hidden in the darkness of the boxcar, unsure of how much time had passed. Eventually, the adrenaline began to ebb, leaving you exhausted and drained. You were scared that they were waiting outside and the moment you decided to move places would be fatal for you.
The growl in your stomach was loud, echoing in the empty boxcar. You hadn't eaten in what felt like an eternity, and the gnawing hunger was beginning to take its toll. Despite the fear that they might be lying in wait, you knew you couldn't stay here forever or you'd die of hunger very soon.
Despite the fear that they might be lying in wait, you knew you couldn't stay here forever. Peeking through the small gap, you scanned the area. The night was still, and there was no sign of Taehyung or anyone else.
Slipping out of the boxcar, you kept to the shadows, moving quietly and quickly. You needed to find food, but more importantly, you needed to find a safer place to hide. If you couldn't reach the airport, you'd have to wait somewhere until you were considered off the radar. Would Namjoon lose his interest if he knew you were gone for good? You hoped so, but you also strongly doubted that. The man had had his eyes set on you for three years or so, without ever losing interest in you.
The city was vast, with many nooks and crannies where you could potentially evade capture, but you moved in the dead of the night cautiously. Slowly closing the distance between the convenience store at least ten blocks from your home, its lights were still on and you thanked the almighty, or more so the 24 hour market in front of you.
The store seemed deserted, only a shabby-looking man in his mid-thirties sitting behind the counter, half asleep. You slipped inside, quickly grabbing some food and water before leaving to pay at the counter. When the doorbell rang indicating that a customer entered the small store, you froze in place.
You ducked behind a shelf, hoping the dim lighting and cluttered aisles would conceal you. Peering through a gap between products, you saw a figure enter. You may be paranoid but you wouldn't take the risk when you had managed to not be caught for what seemed like hours. You knew better.
Your heart pounded in your chest, the sound of your heartbeat almost louder than the growling stomach from earlier. You clutched the food tightly, muscles tense, waiting for the perfect moment to quickly throw the few bucks on the counter and make your leave. You straightened a little.
It wasn't him. It was just a person that resembled him. With a rush of relief, you moved to the counter. The shabby-looking clerk barely glanced up as you placed your items down and reached into your pocket for the money. Just as you were about to pay, a hand slammed the money down on the counter in front of you. Your heart skipped a beat and your eyes widened.
You looked up slowly, dread pooling in your stomach. Taehyung stood beside you, his eyes locking onto yours with a cold, triumphant smile.
"My treat," he said smoothly, his voice dripping with mock politeness. You froze, your breath catching in your throat. The clerk, oblivious to the tension, lazily rang up the items and handed the change to Taehyung. He pocketed it without breaking eye contact with you.
You acted rather quickly after you regained your senses, but the exit was blocked by the man you saw earlier. How could you not recognize the famous heartthrob of this decade, Jeon Jungkook? Only a few people knew of his connection to the Jungs, Kims, and Parks.
"Going somewhere?" Jungkook's voice was smooth and exactly identical to the one you heard outside of the boxcar, but there was an edge to it that sent chills down your spine. He leaned casually against the doorframe, his dark eyes fixed on you with a predatory gleam.
Panic surged through you as you realized your escape route was cut off. You glanced around the store, searching for another way out, but Taehyung's hand clamped down on your arm, his grip firm and unyielding.
The clerk did not care to intervene; he knew their faces and what they represented. One girl was not worth the trouble for him.
"Let's go," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. You had no choice but to follow, your mind racing with thoughts of escape. As you stepped out of the store, the chilly night air hit you, a stark contrast to the suffocating presence of Taehyung beside you. You scanned the street for any potential way out, but Taehyung's grip on your arm tightened, steering you toward a nearby alley.
You stumbled slightly, trying to keep pace with him. The alley was dark and narrow, the perfect place for someone to disappear. Desperation surged through you, fueling your determination. You had to find a way out of this.
"You lasted more than I expected, Peaches. I have to give you that." You fought to suppress the shiver that threatened to run down your spine. Taehyung's voice, usually smooth and melodic, now held an edge of something darker, something sinister.
"But it's time to go home."
The weight of his intentions pressed down on you like a heavy stone. You did not know what home he was speaking of. Your home? Namjoon's home? You'd never been there; you couldn't know what home he meant. But something told you that wherever he'd take you, "home" would be a gilded cage, a place of confinement disguised as comfort.
You remained silent, your jaw clenched in defiance as you continued to walk, your eyes darting around the alley for any sign of escape. But every corner seemed to lead to another dead end, and the walls closed in around you like a vice.
Tears welled up in your eyes as the desperation hit your nerves. Taehyung's grip tightened slightly, as if warning you against any further attempts at escape.
"There was no need to run, Peaches." Wasn't there? You stopped to think for a minute. You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart.
With a sudden burst of strength, you twisted out of Taehyung's grip and bolted. The sound of his shout echoed behind you, but you didn't look back. You darted through the maze of backstreets, your only goal to put as much distance between you and Taehyung as possible.
Reaching a dead end, you spotted a fire escape ladder. Without a second thought, you began climbing, your fingers slipping on the cold metal. You reached the rooftop, not daring to look back as you sprinted across the gravel. The cityscape stretched before you, a chaotic playground of rooftops and danger.
You leaped from one building to the next, each landing jarring your bones, but you couldn't stop. You heard Taehyung's voice calling your name, a mix of frustration and anger, but you didn't dare slow down. You reached the edge of a particularly wide gap between buildings and hesitated, just a split second too long.
A strong arm wrapped around your waist, yanking you back. You thrashed, but the grip was unyielding. Jungkook's face came into view, his expression grim. He was faster than Taehyung, and you knew your chances to outrun him were slight, but you still hoped.
"You can't run forever, Peaches," he said quietly, almost regretfully. You could hear Taehyung's leather boots stomping against the roof's concrete and his ragged breath in unison.
You struggled, kicking and clawing, but he held firm. Your heart sank as the reality of the situation set in. Just then, you heard the uncomfortable digital sound of the Motorola flip phone that was in Taehyung's hand once he stopped in front of you.
"Hmm?" Taehyung answered the phone and ended the gut-wrenching sound. You knew who was on the other side of the line. Jungkook still held you securely, his eyes never leaving yours.
There was a pause, and then he handed you the phone.
"Your Mr. Man wants to speak to you."
You hesitated for a moment, the weight of the phone heavy in your hand. With a deep breath, you brought it to your ear, steeling yourself for the inevitable confrontation with Namjoon.
"Hello?" Your voice trembled slightly, betraying the fear and uncertainty swirling within you.
"You're losing sleep, love," he said, his tone smooth but laced with a menacing undertone. You took a shaky breath.
"S-so are you." He chuckled. You bit the inside of your lip out of nerves.
"I'd sleep better if you came back to me like the good girl I know you are."
The mixture of his charm and underlying threat was intoxicating and terrifying.
"I can't, Namjoon," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "I can't live like this anymore. I never wanted to live like this, and you knew that."
"Life is just about to begin for you, love—" he replied, a hint of amusement in his voice.
"Our life," he added, and your grip tightened around the phone.
"What does that even mean?" you demanded, a mix of anger and desperation coloring your words.
"It means," he began, his voice smooth yet chilling, "that whatever you fear, we'll figure this out together."
"Please, Namjoon," you begged, your voice barely a whisper. "Let me go. I can't. I just can't," you cried out.
There was a long pause on the other end of the line, and you held your breath, hoping against hope that he might relent. Your heart pounded with a mix of fear and helplessness.
"Freedom is an illusion, love," he said, almost gently. "The only freedom you'll ever have is with me. Now, come back. We'll talk this through, and I promise you, everything will be fine. Just trust me."
"Namjoon—"
"Peaches—" he quickly interrupted your attempt to plead again.
"Don't make me take harsher measures to ensure you'll come back to me." His tone grew colder, the underlying threat unmistakable.
"Wh-what are you talking about?" you asked, a tremor in your voice.
"You know what I can do. It would be a shame if the same thing happened to someone else you care about." His words hung in the air, heavy with menace.
You looked at Jungkook and Taehyung, their faces impassive yet resolute. They were ready to enforce Namjoon's will, no matter the cost.
"Why are you doing this to me?" you asked, voice quivering.
"We can talk about that once you come home," Namjoon replied, his voice smooth but unyielding.
"Namjoon, please..." you started, desperation lacing your words.
"Enough, Peaches," he cut you off sharply. "You know what's at stake. I expect you back within an hour. Hand the phone to Taehyung."
With a heavy heart, you handed the phone back to Taehyung. He took it, his eyes filled with a mix of pity, but you didn't think it was genuine. You felt Jungkook's grip loosen slightly, but not enough to let you go.
Taehyung listened to Namjoon for a moment, then nodded. "Understood," he said before hanging up. He looked at you, his expression resigned.
"Let's go," he said softly.
You don't even know how you managed to fall asleep in the car. They took your bag, draped a warm blanket over you, and sat you down on the back seat. You did not protest anymore, even though the thought of jumping out of the car went through your head briefly.
You thought of your father, your friends, and everyone you ever met and cared for when he took the ultimate move that would make you leave everything in a heartbeat. You don't want more blood on your hands.
At the same time, you could not understand why Namjoon would take such harsh measures. This wasn't the Namjoon you knew—heck, you don't even know if you ever knew that man.
The lavish room surrounding you was magnificent and screaming one name: Namjoon. Even his scent was clinging to every single piece of the room. The silk sheets clung to your skin, and you couldn't help but close your eyes again. The morning light filtered through the heavy curtains, casting a golden hue across the room.
You could hear the audible difference in your surroundings. The Bronx had a distinctive hum, a chaotic symphony of life and struggle. But this—this was different. The sounds outside the open window were unmistakably Manhattan. The distant buzz of traffic, the occasional honk of a horn, and the muffled chatter of people far below created a stark contrast to the quiet tension inside.
You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. Every moment spent here felt like a betrayal to the life you once knew, the people you once loved. But escape wasn't just about physical freedom—it was about breaking free from the psychological chains Namjoon had wrapped around you.
You did not know whether you weren't running for the hills now because this oddly feels like you are meant to be here or because you don't know if you should. You spent a lot of time rolling around and thinking about this. You had not come to a conclusion yet. You'd only decided that you would give him the courtesy to talk after all the years that he and his family supported you by giving you a job.
With that resolve, you climbed out of bed, feeling the weight of silk sheets slipping away. The cold floor sent a shiver up your spine, bringing you fully awake. You made your way to the bathroom, the reflection in the mirror staring back at you. You need a haircut, maybe even a new hair color.
The shower's hot water provided a temporary refuge, washing away the grime and tension of the past few days. After drying off, you dressed in clothes Namjoon had laid out for you—an unspoken reminder of his control.
You entered the kitchen, where the aroma of breakfast hung in the air. The scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the rich aroma of bacon and eggs, momentarily distracting you. You were starving.
As you moved further into the room, a sudden noise made you jump. Startled, you turned to see a figure in a white chef's uniform bustling about the kitchen. He looked up, his eyes widening in surprise as he saw you.
"Good morning, Misses Kim," he said with a polite nod. "I didn't expect you to be up so early.” The title he used sent a shiver down your spine. Misses Kim. It was as if the walls were closing in, suffocating you with the weight of an identity that wasn’t yours to claim. You overlooked yourself and your attire.
You could see your bra-less breasts and perky nipples through that white tanktop, but the chef was trained well enough to not look that way. He would most likely be beheaded by Namjoon if he would dare to look that way.
"Good morning," you replied, your voice tinged with a mix of nerves and hunger. You forced a small smile.
The chef, a middle-aged man with kind eyes, set down the spatula he was holding and wiped his hands on a towel. "My name is Seo Kang-joon, Misses Kim. I'm Sajangnim's private chef—" you figured that much. Of course that man has a private chef when he cannot boil a potato for the love of God.
"He tasked me to make you some breakfast and tell you he'll be with you shortly," he explained, gesturing to the array of food laid out on the counter.
You nodded, taking a seat at the kitchen island. Your stomach growled audibly, and despite the chaos in your mind, the food before you was an undeniable lure. You picked up a piece of toast, buttering it slowly as Kang-joon resumed his work.
"How long have you been working for Namjoon?" you asked, trying to fill the silence with something other than your own anxious thoughts.
Kang-joon glanced up from the stove, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "About three years now," he replied. "I've switched with my Appa; he was working for the Kims for two generations and now it's my turn—"
"That's a long time," you said, taking a bite of the toast, the warmth of the food providing a small comfort.
"Yes, it is," he agreed, his voice gentle. "Namjoon is a good employer, he's always treated us fairly. And he cares about you a great deal—"
"I've seen you before, didn't I?" you interrupted, suddenly recalling a moment that had slipped through your mind like sand.
"At the private party last month. You were serving food, right?"
Kang-joon nodded, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Yes, that was me. I remember seeing you there, although you were quite busy too—"
You were supposed to be waitressing the tables, plural, yet you only waitressed one table that night. As per usual.
"Yep, that was my reality, I guess," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "Before all of this."
Kang-joon's expression turned somber, and he stopped cooking momentarily.
"Namjoon doesn't let anyone near you, but I've seen how happy you make him. He's different around you." Of course he thinks so. You don't blame him for his inability to see through this. It's not his place.
You fell silent, pondering his words. The chaos of Namjoon's life and the dark undercurrents that surrounded him felt suffocating. "But at what cost?" you whispered, more to yourself than to him.
"He means well—" he paused his thought and got silent, and you knew that means only one thing.
"I appreciate your loyalty to him," you said, forcing a smile that felt brittle on your lips.
"Good morning, love," he said, his voice deep and commanding. His eyes darted between you and Kang-joon, who stood with a spatula in hand, caught in the moment. "I hope you're both having a pleasant chat."
Kang-joon bowed slightly, and you could see the way he was careful to keep his composure, even as the atmosphere shifted with Namjoon's presence. "I was just finishing up breakfast, Sajangnim," he said politely. "Miss Kim and I were discussing your—"
"Thank you, Kang-joon," Namjoon interrupted, his tone suggesting a mixture of gratitude and an underlying tension. "I can take it from here."
The air felt thick, heavy with unspoken words. You looked at him, wanting to scream, wanting to run, wanting to demand answers.
"Did you sleep well?" Namjoon asked, his voice softer now, as if he was trying to breach the walls that had begun to rise between you.
You nursed your coffee in the black ceramic mug while you shrugged, keeping the answer with spice in it for yourself just yet. His brow furrowed, and for a moment, you could see the cracks in his façade when you didn't answer.
"I see... silent treatment," he gulped down, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. Pouring himself a cup of coffee too, he leaned on the counter right in front of you. You took his appearance in. He got a buzz cut, creamy satin shirt tucked in leather pants. A few of the buttons were undone, giving you a perfect view of his toned chest.
"Is that really how you want to start the day?" he provoked. You set the mug down, the clink of ceramic against marble echoing in the tension-filled kitchen.
"Did you ask yourself the same question when you threatened me?" you shot back, your voice rising slightly as the memories flooded back. The anger surged within you, igniting a fire that had been smoldering since the moment you woke up in his penthouse.
Namjoon's expression shifted, the warmth in his eyes replaced by a flicker of defensiveness.
"Well, you for some reason seemed too adamant that you needed to patrol the streets of Bronx by running away from me. I know you too damn well, Peaches; I know where you were headed."
The words stung, each syllable laced with accusation and an unsettling truth. Your heart raced, the anger bubbling just below the surface.
"You know fucking shit, Namjoon—"
"Oppa," he jumped in, his voice firm, yet tinged with a note of caution.
You inhaled sharply, the familiar term slicing through the tension like a knife. It reminded you of the intimate moments you once shared. "You've lost that honorific the moment you decided to threaten me and kill that man right in front of my eyes!"
Namjoon's jaw clenched, and you could see the conflict brewing beneath his composed exterior.
"You don't understand the kind of world I'm in. We protect ours."
"Protect?" you spat, feeling the heat of betrayal wash over you.
"I'm a person who deserves to make her own choices—" He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing.
"What choices are you making? Running off into the night like it's some kind of adventure? You think that's brave? I refuse to let you get hurt because you're unhappy with my decisions."
"Oh yeah, like something would happen to me—"
"You are my woman, and people know that you are, Peaches!" he declared, his voice rising with intensity, as if the weight of his words was meant to command respect from the universe itself.
Your heart raced at his proclamation, a mix of anger and something softer twisting in your gut.
"The fuck you're talking about, Namjoon?" You snapped, your voice echoing off the sleek kitchen walls. Anger surged within you, fueled by the sheer audacity of his claim.
"Not fucking once did you say that we ought to be official one day—" you shot back, your voice dripping with disbelief.
"You act like I'm some sort of possession, something you can just claim without any conversation or commitment!" Namjoon's expression hardened, a flicker of frustration flashing in his eyes.
"You need to stop pretending like we don't have a future because you're scared of the past," he said, smashing the mug down on the counter. Namjoon's jaw tightened, and the conflict in his eyes was palpable.
"Since I was seventeen, not fucking once have you made your intentions strictly clear, Namjoon! The fuck am I doing here then?!" The words burst from your lips, raw and unfiltered, echoing in the tense space between you.
He ran a hand over his face, visibly struggling to keep his composure.
"I thought you knew. I thought you felt it too," he replied, his voice softer now, almost pleading. "I thought it was understood that it was a matter of time."
"Understood?" you scoffed, incredulity seeping into your tone. "You think that just because you've made me a part of your life, I should automatically know my place? That's not how it works!"
"I was waiting till you turned twenty-one—"
"Age of consent is eighteen in this state, Namjoon, keep that bullshit to yourself." Namjoon's expression darkened at your words, and you could see the frustration simmering beneath the surface.
"So you would rather have me taking you as wife and putting a baby into you the moment you turned eighteen, am I right?"
The air crackled with tension as Namjoon's words hung in the space between you, a provocation that sent shockwaves through your body. You felt your breath hitch, a mixture of shock and anger coursing through you.
"So that's the plan now?" you lowered your voice.
His expression softened for a moment, and you could see the conflict etched across his features. "I thought you'd want that kind of future with me, Peaches. I thought we were on the same page from day one."
Despite Namjoon's willingness to talk, the remnants of fear and frustration churned within you, threatening to spill over. You took a deep breath, trying to ground yourself. Your heart raced, the urge to flee growing stronger. He reached out, grabbing your wrist gently but firmly.
"I love you, baby."
Your heart pounded in your chest at his words, a tumultuous blend of emotions crashing over you. You stood up from the stool you were sitting at, calmly aiming for the door. You didn't know what you were doing with this lame attempt to flee.
"Hey—" he shouted, but you did not stop. You could feel Namjoon's gaze burning into your back as you moved toward the door, his loud steps right behind you making you speed up the process.
You couldn't stop. The need to escape overwhelmed you, propelling you forward. You flung the door open, the sharp sound echoing in the silence that followed.
"Peaches!" he shouted again, his voice rising with urgency and desperation. The door rattled on its hinges as he leaned against it, trying to process what had just happened.
"Damn it!" he cursed under his breath, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on him. He knew he had pushed too hard, but he couldn't help it.
You trembled under him, still facing the door while his arm was outstretched, palms on the door, blocking you from opening it again. Your breath quickened as you stood there, the cool metal of the doorknob biting into your palm. You could feel Namjoon's presence behind you.
"Let me go, Namjoon," you demanded, your voice steady but wavering just slightly. The pounding of your heart felt like a war drum, urging you to flee, to escape this suffocating moment.
"You would come back to me nonetheless." You turned around to face him, your expression a blend of defiance and vulnerability.
"What makes you think I would?" you shot back, turning slightly to glance over your shoulder at him. The intensity in his eyes made your pulse quicken, a mixture of anger and confusion swirling within you.
"Because you love me back—" He leaned down, not giving you time to argue, and seized the chance to crash his lips down on yours for the first time.
His hands grabbed onto your hips, pulling you closer, the heat from his body seeping into yours. Your heart raced, the adrenaline coursing through your veins as his tongue danced with yours in a heated embrace.
Namjoon's fingers dug into your skin, his grip firm yet tender, as if he was trying to brand you as his own. The kiss was raw, primal, and all-consuming, leaving you both breathless and wanting more.
Namjoon's eyes locked onto yours, the fire within them burning brighter than ever before. With a low growl, he pulled you close again, his lips crashing down on yours once more as the world around you continued to spin.
As the kiss broke, Namjoon pulled away, his eyes burning with intensity.
"I'm not done being angry," you said, your voice low but unwavering. You could feel the heat radiating off him, and it both thrilled and terrified you.
Namjoon's brow furrowed slightly, surprise mingling with the intensity in his gaze. "I know that," he replied, his tone shifting, becoming more serious.
"Good," you spoke right to his lips, your heart still racing from the kiss. The mix of confusion and desire swirled within you, and you struggled to keep your composure.
The cognac brown couch was very comfortable, its soft cushions inviting you to sink in and relax. A glass coffee table with sleek chrome legs stood in front of it, its surface adorned with a stack of art books, a few scattered magazines, and a vintage crystal ashtray. So Namjoon.
A large, floor-to-ceiling window occupied one side of the room, offering a breathtaking view of the city skyline. A Persian rug, with intricate patterns in deep reds and blues, covered the polished hardwood floor, adding a touch of warmth and history to the contemporary space. Again, so Namjoon.
He was crouched down by the fireplace that dominated the place, his back to you. The fire cast a warm, flickering glow across the room, its light dancing over Namjoon's broad shoulders. He started the fire because he saw you shivering. But that had nothing to do with you being cold, and deep down he knew that too. He seemed lost in thought, his fingers idly tracing patterns on the floor as he stared into the flames.
You walked over to him, your footsteps silent on the plush rug. As you approached, Namjoon turned slightly, his eyes meeting yours. You sat down next to him.
"So, how do you imagine all this working?" you asked, your voice gentle yet tinged with the underlying frustration you felt.
Namjoon sighed, rubbing his temples with his fingers. "Just like it did till now."
You frowned slightly, shaking your head.
"So I'm gonna go back to working in Anubis and you are going to keep shooting everyone who gets closer to me?!" you said, a bit harsher than you intended. Namjoon's eyes flashed with a mix of frustration.
"You are not coming back to work in Anubis, let's start with that," he said firmly, his tone brooking no argument.
"My oh my, now you want to take the source of my income too." Namjoon shifted slightly, his gaze locked onto yours with an intensity that made your heart race. There was a flicker of something deeper in his eyes.
"You're my woman, Peaches. You don't need to work for money anymore," he started, his voice steady and filled with conviction.
You raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "You can't be serious."
"Women in our clan don't work for decades, my woman is not gonna work either. At least not like that—" You narrowed your eyes, feeling a mixture of disbelief and intrigue at his declaration.
"That's not who I am, Namjoon." He leaned in closer, the firelight casting a warm glow over his chiseled features.
"Baby, I'm not asking you. I'm offering you the life you always deserved." He sighed, running a hand through his hair, frustration evident on his face.
"I've always been able to take care of myself."
“So now let me take care of you, sweetling.”
Your mind raced as you considered his words. The allure of a life without the constant threat of violence, without the stress of making ends meet, was tempting. But was it worth giving up your autonomy?
“You can still pursue your passions. I’m not taking that away from you,—” Namjoon paused, his expression softening.
“But no Anubis,” he took your hands into his.
“What do you want?” You asked quietly. He held your gaze, the firelight flickering across his face, illuminating the resolve etched in his features.
“I think I made my intentions strictly clear today.” He chuckled and exhaled slowly, his breath warm against your skin.
“I’m not just talking about safety and comfort, Peaches. I’m talking about us. About building a life together.”
You searched his eyes for any sign of insincerity, but all you found was determination.
“You want me to be your… what, exactly?” You knew, you just still didn’t want to believe it.
Namjoon leaned back slightly, still holding your hands, his thumb brushing against your skin in a soothing rhythm. “I want you to be mine—”
“Mind and body, heart and soul.” Namjoon's voice was low and earnest, each word weighted with sincerity.
You swallowed hard, trying to process the depth of what he was asking. “You mean… you want me to commit completely? To be yours in every sense?”
“And I’ll be yours.” He nodded, his eyes unwavering, filled with a mixture of affection and intensity. You felt a rush of emotions—a blend of excitement and fear.
“I can give you a life where you don’t have to look over your shoulder, where you can focus on what truly matters to you—your dreams, your passions, us.”
The promise of safety and love hung heavy in the air between you, and while the thought was tempting, a part of you still clung to your independence. It would be nice not to work long night hours in a bar full of drunk people to make ends meet. Not walking home with keys in your hand in case someone would jump you over or worse. Not living in a small old rusty apartment with your father who barely brought any income home.
The fire crackled softly, and you could feel the warmth radiating from it, mirroring the warmth blooming in your chest.
“I need time.” Namjoon’s expression shifted, his jaw tightening slightly as he processed your words. But he didn’t let go of your hands. Instead, he brought them to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles, his gaze unwavering.
“Time,” he echoed, the word almost foreign as it left his mouth. “You already had plenty of time.” The firelight cast shadows across his face, emphasizing the intensity etched into every line.
“You think time will change how you feel? Or how much I want you?” You felt a tremor run through you at the weight of his words. It was suffocating and yet strangely comforting, like a trap laced with silk, binding you softly but securely.
“No, Namjoon, I’m just—” Namjoon’s fingers brushed along your jawline, tipping your face up so that you met his gaze directly.
“I get that this must be overwhelming for you, but the time you are asking for is already up and done—”
“I didn’t know it was ticking,” you began, voice barely more than a whisper. Namjoon tilted his head, studying you, his lips quirking into a small, almost understanding smile.
“No more hidden exits, no more plans to escape. I want you here, with me, committed… without looking for a way out. And in return, I’ll take care of you and your father. That’s my promise to you.”
The warmth in his eyes almost made you believe that he meant well, that beneath the possessive intensity was a genuine desire to protect and love. Yet a lingering voice inside you warned that this love would be an all-consuming fire—one that would consume every part of you until there was nothing left to call your own.
Your mind was racing for the answer. If you say yes, you may as well forget who you were, but perhaps you will find yourself where you always wanted to be. Someone. But what if you say no?
“What if I won’t agree, Namjoon?” You asked, scared for the answer. Namjoon’s gaze darkened, the softness slipping away as his grip tightened just enough for you to feel the control he had over the situation. He leaned in, his lips grazing your ear, his voice a low murmur that sent a shiver down your spine.
"Peaches, let's not pretend that you really have a choice here." His tone was calm, as if explaining something simple, obvious, like the inevitability of night following day.
"Your father," he began slowly, each word dripping with calculated weight, "he's in no position to take care of himself, is he? Without you, what would he do? You've been carrying his burden for years, haven't you? Always working to support him, protecting him, making sure he's safe…"
His voice lowered, softening almost to a whisper, but it was filled with a quiet menace. "But if you refuse me… well, who do you think is going to keep him safe then?"
You felt your heart hammer in your chest, dread creeping into every corner of your mind as you took in his words. This was the second time he was threatening your father.
"What is wrong with you?" You said coldly, staring daggers at his pretty face.
"What's wrong with me?" he echoed, voice laced with a faint, mocking laugh. "I'm doing what needs to be done, Peaches. I'm making sure you understand the lengths I'm willing to go to keep you by my side. You think I'd just stand by and watch you slip away? Again?"
He reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch featherlight but loaded with a silent threat. "I know you love your father," he murmured, voice a dangerous purr. "And that's why I'm reminding you of what's at stake."
You felt anger and fear twist inside you. He let his hand fall, watching your reaction with unsettling calmness, as if daring you to resist. Namjoon had you cornered, and he knew it. Every ounce of control you'd thought you held slipped further from your grasp, his quiet threats carving invisible chains around you.
"Why would you put me in this position?" He sighed, his lips curving into a faint, almost pitying smile as he tilted his head, studying you.
"Because I've been loving you for years, and when I can finally have you, you are trying toplay feminist."
The words hit you like a slap, raw and stinging. You swallowed, unable to look away from the intensity in his eyes. That faint smile on his lips held no warmth; it was twisted with something darker, something possessive.
"Play feminist?" you echoed, your voice wavering with anger and disbelief. "Namjoon, wanting to make my own choices doesn't mean I'm defying you or 'playing' anything. It means I'm a person, with my own will—"
He cut you off, a low chuckle escaping his lips as he shook his head slowly, almost as if you'd amused him.
“Peaches, you still don’t understand, do you? I’m offering you a world where you’re safe, where you don’t have to fight every day to survive. You’d rather keep struggling, keep pretending you’re content living in that cramped one bedroom apartment while your father brings home beer money when you are fighting off every hardship, and here I am, ready to give you the life you deserve.”
His fingers gripped your chin firmly, forcing you to meet his gaze as he leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper but laced with conviction.
“You think you want freedom, independence. But freedom isn’t safe, Peaches. Freedom won’t love you like I do. It won’t sacrifice or protect. It won’t give you everything at the cost of its own soul.”
He released you, letting his hand fall away, his gaze darkening. “This isn’t some game, and it isn’t about principles. It’s about us. And if that means you have to surrender some of that so-called independence, then so be it. I know what’s best for you, Peaches. You just need to stop fighting and see that.”
Namjoon’s gaze shifted to something darker, more resolute, as he reached into his pocket, pulling out a small velvet box. The firelight glinted off the soft pink morganite stone, antique piece that must have been in his kin for decades, its delicate beauty a stark contrast to the intensity in his eyes. He held it up, his jaw set, the unspoken command clear in the way he presented it to you.
“Peaches,” he murmured, his voice dangerously calm, “will you marry me?”
Before you could even think to pull away, he took your hand firmly, holding it in place as he slid the ring onto your finger. It was cold against your skin, the weight of it foreign and heavy.
“Say yes.” His voice was low, steady, a dangerous edge lurking beneath the calm exterior. His eyes bore into yours, unwavering, challenging you to defy him. “Say it, Peaches. Agree to be mine, completely, or I’ll make sure you lose everything you’ve been holding onto.”
You felt trapped, his hand tightening around yours as if to remind you of his control over the situation. Your heart raced, your throat dry, as the words hovered on the edge of your lips, unable to escape. But he didn’t let go, his fingers pressing into your skin with an unyielding determination.
“Say it,” he repeated, his voice firmer this time, the softness slipping into something harder, more commanding.
Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, a feeling of resignation sinking deep into your chest as you stared at the ring, its delicate beauty now a symbol of your surrender.
“Yes,” you whispered, the word barely escaping your lips.
A smile spread across Namjoon’s face, slow and triumphant, as he released your hand, the weight of the ring now settling fully onto your finger. He cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tear that had slipped free, his touch gentle yet possessive.
“There,” he murmured, his voice soft but laced with satisfaction.
“That’s my good girl.”
"Where's my bag?" you start sharply the moment Namjoon walks in, shrugging off the coat from his so-called 'business meeting.' You were obviously not allowed to sit in because women here do not work once they have a ring on their finger. Not like you are dying to be a part of a criminal syndicate that has its roots deeply set in this society. The air between you two is thick, a palpable tension that crackles like static before a storm.
"I looked everywhere, but I cannot seem to find it—"
Successful distilleries may be carrying the Jung name, yet other family members have their own shares of the money capital of the clan, Namjoon not being an exception. His name is presented on each brandy bottle you have had the chance to pour from. But what actually lies under the façade of crystal-clear bottles of whiskey and brandy remains unknown to the upper world.
When you met Namjoon, you didn't see a crime lord. You saw a man with ambition, with a drive that matched yours. But somewhere along the line, his ambition became chains around your wrists, tying you to a life you never chose. That's when you decided that working in Anubis would be only a "college" solution before you would leave the city.
He raises an eyebrow, his expression a mix of surprise and annoyance. "What bag?"
"You know exactly which bag," you snap, stepping closer. Namjoon's eyes darken, his jaw tightening.
"How about we start on lunch?" he suggests, trying to ignore your pleas.
"No," you insist, voice trembling with anger. "I want my bag. I want my money."
"I thought we had settled this last night, didn't we?" he says, his voice low and dangerous.
Your blood boils at his dismissive tone. "Settled? You think you can just placate me and everything will be fine? That money is mine, Namjoon. I earned it."
He steps closer, his presence intimidating but you hold your ground. "Peaches, you ought to be my wife, what's mine is yours. You don't need that money."
You stand firm, not backing down. "Need it or not, it's mine. I worked for it, Namjoon."
Namjoon's eyes narrow, a dangerous glint in them. "You think you can just walk out with that money? You think you can use it to just leave?"
"No, I—" Namjoon steps forward, his eyes cold and calculating. You feel a surge of anger, your hands clenching into fists. "I earned that money, and I deserve to use it as I see fit."
"If you want to spend money, we can go shopping—" His presence overwhelming and oppressive. His words angering you even more.
"SHOPPING?! Are you fucking serious? This isn't about buying things, Namjoon. This is about my life, my choices."
Before you can continue your rambling, he grabs your wrist and pulls you close, his grip like iron. His lips crash onto yours in a bruising, dominating kiss, meant to remind you of his power over you. You struggle, but his hold is unyielding, leaving you breathless and dizzy.
"If you're gonna drop that honorific one more time—" Namjoon's eyes blaze with fury as he keeps you close, his grip almost painful.
"I won't—" you spit out, defiance still burning in your eyes despite the fear gnawing at your insides. "If you give me my money back. I have a right to it." Namjoon laughs coldly, shaking his head.
"Let's just have lunch, Peaches, before I lose my patience completely—" he says, his voice dripping with condescension. You glare at him, refusing to back down.
"Not until you give me my money back." His expression hardens, the cold amusement vanishing.
"You really want to push this, don't you?"
"Yes," you say, your voice unwavering. "Favor for favor, isn't it the mantra y'all go by?" A smirk playing on his lips when you finish the sentence.
"Everything you need, I provide." You take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart.
"I worked for that money, Namjoon. I deserve to have control over it."
He steps closer again, his eyes dancing with amusement as he looks down at you. "Control? You want control? Fine," he says, his voice dripping with condescension.
"I've deposited them into an account I opened in your name, joint with mine, naturally," he says, his words carrying that same cool, possessive edge.
"What?" you gasp, your disbelief palpable. "You what?"
"I will give you your black card," he repeats, his lips curling into a taunting smile "—once you prove not to be a flight risk, baby." Namjoon tilts his head, the smirk never fading. This, in essence, means that every single transaction will be noticed. You will withdraw the money from the card—he will know. You will attempt to transfer them to a different account? He will fucking know. The implications hitting you like a gut punch. Your blood runs cold as his words sink in.
"I'm not stupid, Peaches. I know that we gotta work on our relationship." He steps even closer, his gaze intense, pinning you in place. "Let's work on that trust first, and then you can have money at your disposal."
Your heart beats in your throat, the frustration boiling beneath the surface. Trust? The word feels like a cruel joke coming from him.Trust?
"I'm not one of your assets, Namjoon," you spit out, your voice thick with defiance. "And I won't be treated like one." His towering form casting a shadow over you, and for a moment, his eyes soften, as if he's pitying you.
"You don't have a choice, baby." His tone shifts again, dripping with that same chilling calm.
"When you prove you can stay and play nice, then maybe, just maybe, I'll let you have some freedom with your own damn money." And just like that, he's already begun dictating the terms of your life again, his grip on you tighter than ever before.
The missing duffle bag with your money was among the least of your worries when you realized what else the duffle bag possessed.
"You have my passport, Namjoon, how can I run away?" Namjoon's eyes flicker, the amusement fading slightly, but his smirk doesn't falter. He's been expecting this—he always expects everything.
Namjoon's smile is slow, deliberate, almost cruel. "I've taken what I need to keep you close." Namjoon leans in, his breath warm against your ear, his voice low and dangerous.
"But I am not underestimating your spirit."
You're nauseous, the implication of his words settling over you like a weight you can't shake off. He is holding the strings to everything, but that only made you realize that you had a hell of a lot of thinking and plotting to do to get out of here. And the most intrusive thought back in your head, where you consider staying here and embracing this finally official relationship, has to go—quickly.
"So, what now?" you ask, voice trembling despite your best effort to keep it steady. "You plan on keeping me locked up forever, Namjoon-oppa?" Namjoon only smiles, cold and confident.
"No baby. But I will keep you very close, until I can trust you." Your skin prickles where his fingers brush, but you don't pull away. You can't. The need to stay composed, to not give him the satisfaction of seeing you break, fights against the rising tide of rage and fear in your chest.
"And what do you want me to do to earn it, Namjoon?" you ask, your voice steady despite the turmoil roiling inside you. "Beg? Crawl? Pretend everything is fine when it's not?" He tilts his head, studying you like a puzzle he's piecing together in real time. The silence that follows is thick with tension. He stands so close now that you can feel the heat of his body against yours.
"So, lunch it is then?"
His tone is mockingly light, but there's a sharp edge beneath it when he tries to abandon the conversation, the kind that makes you feel trapped.
The black Mercedes hums smoothly along the Bronx streets, its sleek exterior reflecting the gray clouds above. It's going to snow any day now. Inside, the air is thick with tension, an unspoken understanding between the two passengers.
You sit in the backseat, your fingers nervously gripping the edge of your dress, the smooth fabric barely registering under your touch. Your sunglasses hide the unease in your eyes, but the tightness in your chest is something you can't disguise.
Today feels different.
Namjoon sits beside you in the backseat, his gaze fixed ahead, while his hand is warm on your thigh. You are staring at your shoes. Isn't this what you wanted? To ride in an expensive car, wearing Saint Laurent pointy-toed heels? A form-fitting dress with a high neck reveals your figure subtly, and the hungry look Namjoon gave you when you stepped out of the wardrobe did not go unnoticed. Something feels different, as if you're playing dress-up. The allure of the life Namjoon offers, it all feels strangely distant.
You eye him carefully—his black turtleneck is tailored to fit perfectly, sleek and minimalistic. Over it, a black suit jacket, structured but not overly stiff, gives him a commanding presence. His black slacks match the simplicity and power of his look, polished and clean.
The cold air bites against your skin, and you instinctively pull your coat tighter around your shoulders, trying to shield yourself from the chill that seems to creep through the thin fabric of your dress.
"Thank you for letting me see my father," you whisper, your voice barely audible, yet heavy with meaning.
"You don't have to thank me—" he says quietly, his voice low, almost intimate. His gaze doesn't soften, but there's something in the way he stands, commanding yet calm, that makes your heart race. The chill of the early morning seems to deepen, pressing in on you, yet you're acutely aware of the warmth of his presence, the heat of his body just a little too close.
"I couldn't have kept you from seeing him," Namjoon continues, his tone flat, as if he's simply stating a fact.
"But keep in mind that this is a privilege—you misbehave, you won't see him." His eyes lock with yours, not with malice, but with a cold certainty that makes your heart flutter uncomfortably in your chest. The last thing you want now is to provoke him further, to find out just how far his power reaches.
"Engaged?!" disbelief and shock etched into the features of your father when you sat down at the kitchen table after you collected some of the things you wished to take with you. You nod, your heart racing.
"Yes, Dad. It just happened. I wanted you to know first." Your father's gaze shifts to Namjoon, his face a storm of emotions—anger, disbelief, worry.
"Peaches, do you know what you're doing? This man is nearly a decade older than you," he whispers your way, his voice trembling with concern.
You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. "I know, Dad. It's a lot to take in, but Namjoon and I—we're serious about this." You never knew how good you were at lying until today. Your father's eyes narrow, his gaze flicking between you and Namjoon.
"When did this relationship even happen? Is he holding you against your will?!" he demands, his tone a mix of frustration and disbelief. Your smile freezes for a moment, and you try your best not to give yourself away.
"No, Dad, that happens only in movies," you reply, attempting a light-hearted tone to deflect his suspicion. Maybe this is what Namjoon meant by earning trust.
Your father's gaze remains hard, but he doesn't push further. Instead, he turns to Namjoon, his voice cold and edged with protectiveness. "You better take care of her, Namjoon. If anything happens to her, I won't forgive you."
Namjoon smiles proudly at you, almost missing your father's harsh words. His confidence in you seems unshaken.
"You have my word," he replies simply, and you take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, staring at the shiny peachy morganite.
You were never religious enough to step foot in a church after you were christened as a baby. Your parents were indifferent to faith, more focused on the struggles of daily life than spiritual obligations. But your now husband-to-be came from very religious kin, and he himself was a God's worshipper. Ironic enough when he managed to break the Ten Commandments before sipping his morning coffee.
His family, deeply rooted in tradition and devout faith, expected nothing less than a grand celebration steeped in religious customs. The thought of walking down an aisle, flanked by stained glass and the scent of incense, felt foreign and overwhelming.
The morning sun poured into the grand church, illuminating the ornate stained glass that depicted scenes of devotion and reverence. As you and Namjoon stepped through the heavy wooden doors, a wave of warmth enveloped you, mingling with the scent of polished wood and candle wax. It felt like stepping into another world, one where faith and family intertwined seamlessly.
You could see familiar faces sitting on the wooden benches. Kim Taehyung smirking your way when he glanced at your hand interlocked with Namjoon's. He was sitting next to Mr. Jung, whom you recognized by his mullet, and the next seat was occupied by the one and only Mrs. Jung, whom you hadn't seen for a good amount of time. There were also some faces that you did not recognize, yet they still felt familiar to you. You couldn't help but notice the way the Kims and Jungs interacted, the warmth of their bonds evident in the way they smiled, laughed, and shared stories during the prayers. Their camaraderie was infectious, and for a fleeting moment, you found yourself longing for that sense of belonging.
As the service began, the congregation settled into a peaceful quiet, the sounds of rustling papers and shifting bodies fading into the background. The priest took his place at the altar, his voice echoing through the high ceilings as he began to speak about love, commitment, and the sacred bonds of marriage. Each word resonated deeply within you, pulling at your heartstrings as you thought of your impending union. As it was explained to you, this Mass was held as the announcement of your engagement—one of many traditions they had.
Namjoon sat beside you, his presence a constant reminder of the promise you had made. You could feel his gaze on you, intense and unwavering, as if he were silently urging you to embrace this new chapter of your life. But the weight of that ring on your finger felt heavier than ever in this moment.
"Love is not merely a feeling; it's a choice," the priest's voice boomed, and you glanced at Namjoon, catching the flicker of expectation in his eyes. "It's a daily commitment to one another, a promise to uphold each other through trials and triumphs alike."
You shifted in your seat, feeling the heat of his gaze on you like a physical presence. You wondered if love really was a choice—or if, in your case, it was a bargain made under duress. Namjoon's grip on your hand tightened ever so slightly, a subtle reminder of the hold he had over your life.
This was the first time he took you out of the penthouse since the day you woke up in his bed for the first time. He simply did not trust you enough to go out in public with you just yet. Hence, his hand remained on yours in a very obsessive manner, as if you were to fly away at any moment.
The priest continued, "Marriage is a sacred bond, one that should be approached with reverence and care. It's not merely about sharing a life together but about supporting and uplifting one another, about being the anchor when the storms come." He paused, letting his words sink in.
Your mind wandered back to your father, the struggles he faced, and how Namjoon had used that vulnerability to secure your loyalty. The contrast between the priest's idealistic views on love and your reality felt stark. How could you ever find true happiness in a union that felt more like a transaction than a partnership? You were feeling heavy.
"And today," the priest announced, raising his voice slightly to draw everyone's attention, "we gather not only to worship but to celebrate the union of two souls destined to walk together."
Your breath caught in your throat, and a mix of emotions surged through you. Murmurs of congratulations rippled through the congregation, and you felt the weight of countless eyes on you, some filled with excitement, others with curiosity. Namjoon's grip on your hand tightened, his eyes gleaming with pride.
You could feel your cheeks flush as the reality of your situation sank in deeper. The ring on your finger felt like a shackle, the promises made a binding contract that left little room for your own desires.
"I—" you started, but the words felt stuck in your throat. "I need to go to the restroom, Namjoon."
His expression shifted, a flicker of concern crossing his face. "Now?" he asked, voice low enough that only you could hear, but firm enough to convey his displeasure. "We're in the middle of the service."
Namjoon hesitated, weighing your request against the backdrop of the ceremony. Finally, he released your hand but leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear. "Make it quick, baby."
You nodded, grateful for the small bit of freedom. Your Louboutin heels clicked against the marble floor, each step echoing like a drumbeat in the otherwise quiet sanctuary. The sound felt amplified in your ears, a reminder of the attention you were drawing as you navigated through the rows of wooden pews. You could feel the weight of curious gazes following you, some filled with anticipation, others with judgment. It was as if the congregation sensed the tension between you and Namjoon, the unspoken power dynamics playing out in real time.
You pushed open the restroom door and stepped inside. The fluorescent lights cast a stark glare, highlighting the contrast between the serenity of the service and the storm swirling within you.
Leaning against the sink, you took a moment to catch your breath. The reflection staring back at you was a mixture of uncertainty and defiance, a girl caught between two worlds.
"Why am I still here?" you whispered to your reflection, the question echoing back at you. You thought of the life you had envisioned for yourself, one filled with love, laughter, and independence, not one governed by fear and obligation.
"I fucked up." After a few deep breaths, you steadied yourself. You needed to return before he would throw a tantrum, as he loved to do whenever you were away from him for longer than ten minutes. Paranoid bastard. You glanced at your watch and noted that only a few minutes had passed. With a resigned sigh, you turned to leave, determination flooding your veins.
As you exited the restroom, you found Namjoon leaning against the wall outside, arms crossed and an expression that mixed concern and annoyance. His posture was protective, yet the underlying tension in his demeanor sent a shiver down your spine. He pushed himself from the wall only to walk towards you, making you take a few steps back into the restroom. His eyes never left yours even when he closed the door and locked it from inside, the sound echoing ominously in the small space.
The reality of your situation pressed down on you, an oppressive weight that made it hard to breathe. He moved closer, his eyes dark and intent.
"I just wanted to make sure you were okay," he replied when you asked him why he wasn't upstairs, his tone both soothing and authoritative.
"You know how important this day is, right? I can't have you slipping away from me."
You swallowed hard, trying to maintain your composure. "I'm fine. I just needed a moment," you insisted, but the way he watched you made it clear he wasn't convinced.
"You can be honest, Peaches," he said, his voice dropping to a lower, more serious tone. "You're in a room full of people celebrating our engagement, and yet you're out here trying to escape."
His words struck a nerve, and you crossed your arms defensively. "I'm not trying to escape," you shot back, though the lie tasted bitter on your tongue.
"Okay," he said calmly, staring intensely into your eyes, as if he was trying to read you. A small smirk played at the corners of his lips, but the tension in the air remained thick. You did not expect him to drop the topic that quickly.
"I just needed to collect my thoughts," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.
"Okay," he murmured again. He stepped closer, closing the distance between you even more, his body radiating warmth that both comforted and unsettled you. He was standing there, inches away from you, yet he was not taking any action.
"W-why are you so calm, what are you doing, Namjoon?" you asked, trying to grasp his demeanor which you yet again did not understand.
"Waiting—"
"Can we just go back to the ceremony?" you whispered, your voice barely audible. Namjoon's smirk widened, and he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear.
"Not yet, my love," he whispered back, his voice low and husky. Namjoon's fingers traced the curve of your neck, sending shivers down your spine. "I longed to show you just who you belong to for years."
"You're fucking stunning, Peaches," he murmured, his lips brushing against your earlobe. Namjoon's fingers trailed down your chest, stopping just above your breasts. You felt a jolt of electricity run through your body, and you knew that you were in trouble.
"Namjoon," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "We can't do this here, we're in a church." You tried to push him away.
"You are something I can sin for," he whispered back, his voice low and seductive. You tried to pull away, but Namjoon held you firm, his grip unyielding.
"Namjoon, please," you whispered, your voice trembling with desire and apprehension.
But Namjoon was relentless, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin that left you quivering with pleasure. "You're mine, Peaches," he murmured, his lips trailing down your neck.
"And I'll do whatever it takes to keep it that way."
Namjoon's lips found yours, and he kissed you with a passion that left you breathless. His tongue danced with yours, and you felt your body respond to his every touch. As you kissed, Namjoon's hand slid between your legs, and he began to caress you through your dress. You gasped softly, your body arching into his touch, trembling with the sudden pleasure.
"Namjoon," you whispered urgently, "we have to stop." Your breath hitched as he pressed you against the mirror after he lifted you onto the counter, plunging himself between your legs.
"No, we don't," he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear. "Not until I've claimed you as mine."
The church's silence seemed to amplify the intensity of the moment, and you felt like you were teetering on the edge of a cliff. His fingers traced the contours of your body, exploring every curve and crevice.
"What if someone hears?" you breathed again, desperation lacing your voice.
His lips paused just above your collarbone, and you could feel the heat radiating from him. As if the universe was playing by his rules, the choir started to sing. He chuckled.
"You're mine, Peaches. I won't let anyone take you away from me—not today, not ever." He captured your lips again, his kiss deepening with a fervor that ignited every nerve ending in your body.
His hands were exploring the curves of your thighs, lifting the hem of your dress higher as he pressed you firmly against the cold surface of the counter.
"Namjoon," you breathed, a mix of excitement and fear knotting in your stomach. "We can't…" you continued your protests.
"But we will." His fingers danced dangerously close to your most sensitive spots, teasing you with the promise of pleasure. You felt your resolve begin to crumble under his touch.
"I've waited too long for this," he murmured, voice a velvet whisper that wrapped around you like a lover's embrace.
"Namjoon," you gasped against his lips, torn between the heady rush of desire and the urgent need to pull back. But with each kiss, each exploration of his hands, your inhibitions began to melt away, surrendering to the intoxicating pull he had over you.
"Just let go," he urged, a soft growl escaping his lips as he pressed his body into yours, making you acutely aware of the hard length that pressed against your core.
"Trust me."
A wild, reckless part of you craved this intimacy, this connection that felt both exhilarating and terrifying. Your mind took you back to all those moments you shared that made your heart flutter and belly tight when you did not know why he made you feel that way.
You hesitated for a heartbeat, the weight of your reality pressing heavily on your conscience. His fingers found their way beneath your dress, inching higher until they brushed against your most sensitive skin. You gasped, arching your back involuntarily as pleasure surged through you, igniting a fire in your belly.
"Namjoon!" you cried out, a mixture of pleasure and panic lacing your voice.
"Shh, baby," he whispered, his lips trailing down your neck as he continued his teasing exploration. With a deft motion, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your underwear, sliding them down your legs and tossing them aside as if they were nothing more than an afterthought. The cool air kissed your exposed skin, heightening your senses and making your breath hitch in your throat.
The air in the restroom felt thick with anticipation, each breath you took mingling with the scent of sandalwood and the faint musk of his skin.
“You’re breath-taking,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with desire.
His fingertips traced closer to where you needed him most, teasing you with the lightest of touches. You bit your lip, trying to suppress a moan that threatened to escape, the heat pooling deep within you almost overwhelming.
“Namjoon…” you whispered, half warning, half plea, torn between your desire for him and the reality of your surroundings.
“—and so wet for me.” He breathed against your skin, his breath sending sparks dancing along your nerves. His tongue danced with yours, a heated exploration that deepened your need for him. The world outside faded away, leaving just the two of you and the intoxicating chemistry that crackled between your bodies.
His fingers pressed against you, expertly coaxing soft moans from your lips as he slid one finger inside, filling you completely. You bit down on your lip to stifle your cries, but the pleasure was overwhelming, radiating out from the point of contact and pooling low in your stomach.
His eyes sparkled with a predatory intensity, relishing in your reaction. He watched you as if he were savouring a fine wine, taking his time to appreciate every detail of your response.
“Namjoon,” you gasped, your voice a fragile whisper, barely able to maintain any semblance of restraint.
“Oppa.” He growled. The way he said it—deep, possessive—made your heart race faster, each beat echoing in the stillness of the restroom. Namjoon’s fingers moved with a deliberate rhythm, curling inside you in a way that sent your mind spiralling.
“Tell me how good it feels,” he commanded, his tone a mix of sultry and demanding, eyes never leaving yours as he watched you unravel under his touch.
You hesitated for a moment, your breath coming in quick gasps as pleasure washed over you. “It feels… amazing,” you managed to whisper, the confession slipping past your lips like a sweet secret. You can regret this later.
“Good,” he murmured, the smirk on his face growing wider. “I want to hear every sound you make.”
His fingers moved faster, building the tension to a near unbearable level, each thrust sending you closer to the brink. The world around you faded completely, leaving just the two of you entwined in this stolen moment of passion, lost in the depths of one another.
“Namjoon. I can’t—” his hand smacked your ass and he deliberately slowed down.
“It’s oppa for you. Don’t make me repeat it again.”
The playful sting of his hand against your skin sent a rush of warmth coursing through you, mingling with the heat pooling low in your belly. His voice was firm, but beneath that authority was a hint of something deeper—a promise that ignited a wild excitement within you.
“Oppa,” you whispered breathlessly, the word slipping from your lips like a spell meant just for him.
He smiled, satisfied, and resumed his movements, fingers working expertly inside you again. The pressure built anew, the delightful tension sending electric shocks through your body.
“Good girl,” he praised, his breath hot against your ear. “I want to hear you, Peaches. Let me know how much you need me.”
With that, he quickened his pace, thrusting his fingers deeper, curling them just right. The overwhelming pleasure began to blur the edges of your consciousness, leaving only the sensations that centred on where he was buried within you. The heat intensified, building towards a sweet, dizzying peak, and you couldn’t help but surrender to it.
With a final flick of his fingers, he found that sweet spot inside you, driving you wild. Your body responded in kind, the sensations intertwining with your every thought. You could feel the tightening in your core, the unmistakable signal that you were teetering on the edge of bliss.
“Namjoon-oppa, I—” you gasped, words failing you as the pleasure escalated.
“Shh, just let it happen,” he murmured, his voice deep and soothing, anchoring you in the moment. His lips met yours in a heated kiss, swallowing your cries as the waves of ecstasy crashed over you.
"Oppa!" you cried against his mouth, unable to contain the raw need bursting forth from within. Your body trembled, the climax washing over you in a torrent of sensations, enveloping you completely as you surrendered to the bliss. The choir's distant hymns created an almost surreal backdrop to this heated encounter, mixing innocence with your burgeoning desire.
As the pleasure receded, leaving you breathless and dazed, Namjoon held you close, his arms encircling you like a protective cocoon. You leaned into him, heart racing and body tingling, reveling in the aftershocks of your release.
"See? That wasn't so hard, was it?" he teased, his voice low and playful, a wicked grin spreading across his lips. "To be mine."
Your blurry eyes lifted to look at him, taking him in while you were still panting from the rollercoaster of emotions he made you feel. Flickering down to his bulge covered by the fabric of his black suit pants from Ralph Lauren, your breath hitched again. Enough for him to move his hands to his belt, being absolutely ready to take you. Finally free of his belt, he pulled down his zipper. The fabric of his pants fell open, revealing the outline of his desire, bold and unmistakable.
The urgency of the moment wrapped around you like a tight embrace, making it hard to think straight. You glanced around, the restroom feeling impossibly small, every sound amplified.
"Oppa, please…" you breathed, your heart racing as you tried to pull away, but the undeniable hunger in his gaze anchored you in place. You could see the determination etched on his face, the way his jaw tightened with lust. He had a plan, and it made your pulse quicken. You were not sure what you were begging for—to stop or to continue?
If not for the soft knock on the door, he would have taken you right there, on the church's restroom counter. It jolted you both, pulling you back to the reality of your surroundings. A rush of panic surged through you, and you instinctively glanced around the cramped restroom, your heart pounding in your chest.
"Oppa," you whispered again, this time a plea laced with desire and uncertainty.
He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear. "Just a little longer," he promised, his fingers finding their way back to your thighs, gripping you tightly as if to keep you anchored to the moment.
"Just one more time," he urged, his voice thick with need. "I need to feel you—"
"Hyung, I know you will kill me for this, but you need to come back upstairs." The voice—familiar and insistent—cut through the haze of desire that had enveloped you both.
Namjoon's expression flickered from lust to annoyance, his grip on you tightening slightly as if to remind you that this moment was still theirs, even if the world outside was intruding.
"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, his frustration palpable. The intensity in his gaze shifted, but it didn't fade. Instead, it turned into something more predatory, a simmering heat that promised this wasn't over.
"We'll be right there!" He shouted back to the voice behind the door. His eyes slowly returned to watch you and your disheveled form after he fingered the fuck out of you.
He leaned in, his lips capturing yours once more, and it felt like time stood still. The world around you blurred, and for that moment, it was just the two of you—lost in a whirlwind of passion that defied the reality waiting outside the door.
His forehead remained pressed on yours when he whispered to your lips. “Next time, we won’t be so rushed, I promise.” Pecking your lips, he quickly pulled his pants back up, securing his belt with a swift motion, yet the heat of the moment lingered between you both.
The calm shattered in an instant.
The heavy church door burst open with a deafening crash. Armed men in tactical gear stormed in with raised weapons, their shouts filling the air. Namjoon immediately pushed you behind him, his eyes scanning the chaotic scene with deadly focus.
The thunderous crack of gunfire echoed off the stone walls as the air filled with the acrid smell of gunpowder. Namjoon drew a gun from beneath his jacket—like several other family men in attendance—his movements swift and practiced. He returned fire, the muzzle flash illuminating his determined face in bursts of light.
Your heart pounded in your chest like a drum of terror and adrenaline. Huddled behind an overturned pew, you clutched your ears against the deafening noise, eyes wide with shock and fear. Namjoon, breathing heavily, scanned the room one final time before turning to you, his eyes softening for a moment.
"Stay down!" he shouted, his voice barely audible above the chaos.
"Jungkook, get them out!" Namjoon barked, his eyes fixed on the fight.
He reached your side, pulling you up by the arm. Jungkook's grip was firm yet reassuring.
"Come on," he urged, his voice a steady anchor amid the storm of violence. He led you through the chaos, his body shielding you from the worst of the gunfire.
Just as you neared the side door, a sharp pain exploded in your side. You stumbled, a cry of agony escaping your lips. The world seemed to slow, the sounds of battle muffled by the roaring in your ears. Looking down, you saw blood spreading across your dress, the pain intensifying with each heartbeat.
"Peaches!"
.
.
.
.
.
𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐞𝐝
©pennyellee. please do not repost
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Don't be a silent reader, let's be friends chummers! ♥
see you next time, love, p.
[♡] #4 ERECTILE DYSFUNCTION !
![[♡] #4 ERECTILE DYSFUNCTION !](https://64.media.tumblr.com/1e68644c3f9711d4fc5f84d6b4fe2dad/2033c36a1461fd0c-a6/s1280x1920/d54d70e4b847d8b3ddd1cb6798b933d278237bda.png)
![[♡] #4 ERECTILE DYSFUNCTION !](https://64.media.tumblr.com/fef4677d3bd4f55b22cf915e4644511e/2033c36a1461fd0c-c3/s1280x1920/80f5a9ab755943c115267f8d0cd9498f79bdff0d.png)
![[♡] #4 ERECTILE DYSFUNCTION !](https://64.media.tumblr.com/8761131e46bfc884afe578d17e573769/2033c36a1461fd0c-a4/s1280x1920/88879ff299e2b907a43bb359797cbd8e6a184265.png)
![[♡] #4 ERECTILE DYSFUNCTION !](https://64.media.tumblr.com/593997d4db68cd5dc922ccfc1138032d/2033c36a1461fd0c-32/s1280x1920/db62542604915be3462a8cdf12ae74881bfc1875.png)
![[♡] #4 ERECTILE DYSFUNCTION !](https://64.media.tumblr.com/bbe67e414ed5ccf7bbceb142ae406863/2033c36a1461fd0c-56/s1280x1920/63dbc55eaa88f081a351f94308ec4157231ef59f.png)
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[♡] DIRECTOR’S CUT !
— kenma calls them all by their first names which i think is cool (if he didn't in the previous chapters, yes he did)
— terushima and kuroo were poking fun at each other's sex lives because they are the prominent whores of the group. teru started the inside joke that kuroo has erectile dysfunction which he obviously don't and their sarcasm was so on point that bokuto started believing it. pls he was just so confused it slipped unintentionally and it started a very quick lived rumor which may or may not be revived.
— kuroo added hearts to bokuto's contact name after this conversation.
lovesick (I)
— pairing: yandere ot7 x (f) reader — word count: 5.9k — warnings: yandere, stalking, obsessive behaviour, harrassment, mention of violence/bodily harm, 18+ — summary: You dreamed of the day you would get your very own soulmark. Though, you didn’t expect to wake up to a searing hurt in your arm, the phantom pain of your shoulder being dislocated and your forearm fractured. As if dealing with the worst possible soulmark ever wasn’t bad enough, you also have to come to terms with the fact that you’re being stalked. When the letters and gifts you receive begin to escalate and the police offers no help, you have no other option than to figure out who’s behind it yourself – and hopefully before it’s too late. — amazing cover by @leithold!
Next
Your foot is throbbing – again.
You fall back into bed, lifting your leg up to rest it over your knee. You wince as you examine the damage, purple and yellow bruising covering your swollen ankle. Lightly pressing around the area, you’re relieved to find that it only seems to be slightly sprained.
You glance over at your bedside table as your alarm goes off again, the framed picture next to your phone catching your attention as you silence the shrill sound. It’s a photo of you and Heejun, your next-door neighbour turned best friend. This particular one was taken on the night before he turned eighteen, your grinning faces showing off the pure excitement you both felt at the time.
Ever since you were little, even before you met Heejun, you’ve always dreamed about meeting your soulmate. You’ve lost count of the endless nights you stayed up imagining what kind of mark you would find once you woke up on your 18th birthday. Your favourite was always discovering a note written on your arm – the same as your parents. A close runner-up was the countdown mark Heejun had, you always made sure to check in with him every day to watch as the time suddenly decreased or increased. You’ll never forget the day he called you, voice choked up with tears and joy as he told you he had finally bumped into his soulmate.
With thousands of different variants of soulmarks and new ones being reported every day, you always thought you would end up with something sweet, something fitting to the fairy tale you always wanted. You certainly weren’t expecting to wake up to a searing hurt in your arm, the phantom pain of a dislocated shoulder and forearm fracture sticking with you for weeks afterwards.
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fracture IV
ran x reader w bonten sprankled in
summary: bonten attempts to earn your trust. you learn a bit more about ran's philosophy on life, and he rails you into oblivion.
cw - drugs, smut, guns, murder, praise, degradation, dub!con, reader is a sex worker w a sick brother. ran likes you!!! likes you a lot!! too much probably, probably far too much. a/n extra long because i made you wait.
minors dni
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Ran doesn’t stir with you tucked against him, doesn’t dream. Not with your head on his chest, your breathing soft, your arms wrapped around him. Even if you wanted to, you don’t dare move, your fingers laced with his. He sleeps through the night, and you notice, as your pain pokes through your own slumber and wakes you, that he stays fully in place until midday, when his phone nearly vibrates itself off his nightstand. He groans loudly, picking it up without opening his eyes and throwing it hard across the room. You watch the screen shatter and the contact picture light up.
“It’s Mikey.” You whisper.
“Don’t care.” He mumbles, rolling onto his side and nestling you into his chest. “Too comfortable.” His chest is bare, his skin warm from being under the blankets, and you press your lips to his collarbone. He runs his hands down your body and you realize for the first time the pain doesn’t make tears spring to your eyes. He hums again, a soft, deep sound, pressing his lips to your cheek. “Wanna get high?”
“Mhm.” You breathe, not able to imagine any sweeter bliss than being able to escape your body for a moment, or several hours.
“Drawer on the right,” He yawns, “Roll me something, sweetheart.” You struggle your way out from under him and scoot across the soft sheets, digging in the drawer for ziplock baggie and a tin. It’s already ground, of course it is, and you painstakingly arrange it on the expensive looking lavender rolling paper. Ran wraps his arms needily around your waist, it’s raining outside, the water hitting the paynes of glass in his bedroom window distort the image of the city. You gingerly roll it up, licking the paper and setting it on the bed, before taking his heavy silver lighter from the drawer. He releases you and flops on his back. You struggle with the lighter mechanism, though, and after a few futile flicks he snatches it from your clumsy hands and lights it himself, holding the flame to the end of the joint, the smell of weed, smoke, and lavender filling the air. He inhales, and holds it, tossing the lighter on the bed with the cap on, and pulling the joint from his lips, beckoning you downward.
You know what he’s asking for, and you kiss him, getting a lungful of smoke as he breathes out into you, his free hand holding your face in place, thumb sinking into the plush of your cheek as dizziness overtakes you. He holds you there for a few seconds, and then pulls away, watching you hold it as long as you’re able to, before you cough the lightly floral smoke out and he laughs, running his fingers through his hair.
“You have to relax,” he coaches, picking the lighter back up and taking another hit, “Try again.” You watch him hold the smoke in his lungs again, completely maintaining eye contact with you, as his consciousness gets light and floaty he starts to get distracted by details of your beauty, the curve of your jaw, the shadow your eyelashes cast on your cheek. He holds the joint between two fingers and takes your face with both hands, kissing you hard as he blows the smoke into your mouth. He watches your eyes water, and lets his own flutter shut. “Good girl,” he murmurs, watching you struggle to hold it, but reads the desperation to please in your eyes. “Let it out slow,” he murmurs, mouth finding the valley of your collarbones, he tosses the joint on the floor, and you have one panicked moment about the rug before his teeth sink into your skin and you gasp in surprise, then cough. “Shhhhh,” he breathes, feeling the way your chest spasms and sputters, “Shhh, baby.” He kisses up your jaw.
“Sir,” you get out, the word breathy and spent, and he chuckles, you feel the vibrations of his voice on your skin.
“Nah,” he manages. “Something else, somethin’ else right now.” His mind is spinning, it’s been ages since he’s had time to relax like this, to spend the morning in bed with someone, to put his guard down. He feels your back arch up off the mattress and slips a hand underneath it, wanting to encourage the posture, and feels that some of your swelling has gone down around your ribs. His lips find yours, heavy lidded and with clumsy hands you kiss like teenagers, the occasional click of teeth, the pulling away when you’re breathless.
“Please,” you try, body warm and tingly, arching your back up off the mattress, grinding your hips against his.
“Hmm,” he hums against your lips, pushing a leg in between yours, feeling you grind against it. “Try again.”
“Please,” you think as hard as you’re capable of, rifling through titles, he was so formal, he slept in designer underwear, it couldn’t be-, “Daddy,” the word slips from your mouth and he lets out a low growl, squaring his weight above your own, hands in your hair.
“That’s my girl.” He kisses you again, in no rush, lips trailing down your body, pulling the t-shirt he’d lent you up over your tits, burying his face in between them with a loud groan, before kissing up to your nipple, taking it in his mouth, letting you feel the flash of pain with his teeth before the soothing flick of his tongue. You reach for him but he shakes his head. “Stay still.” he orders softly, and you obey, trying your hardest not squirm as he kisses your stomach, the inside of your thighs, licking a stripe right up your core. He hums softly, and you feel his breath on your skin before you feel his tongue, nudging your clit out of its hood, starting with the most gentle stimulation you’ve ever felt.
You’ve been eaten out before but this, this is different, his violet eyes locked to yours as he teases you, providing just enough pleasure to make your back arch up, to change the rhythm of your breathing. He moves so slowly, so deftly, pushing one finger inside you, then two, that you can’t believe how quickly the pleasure starts to become overwhelming, starts to have you moaning loudly, squirming despite his orders, grabbing fistfuls of the sheets.
“I’m gonna,” you choke out, before realizinig, “I mean, please, please can I, daddy, I need to-”
“M mm,” he shakes his head, the vibrations from his voice sending you up into a dizzying high, “You cum on my cock,” he lifts his head, but keeps fingering you, you whimper at the loss of stimulation, “Nowhere else, understand?” You whimper an affirmation and he chuckles, wiping his face and climbing on top of you. He kicks his briefs off, and you have exactly one second of apprehension when you feel him press the head of his cock to your swollen and throbbing clit. He hums again, watching the thoughts melt from your brain as he eases inside, ready to tease you before he feels the way your softness is wrapping around him. “Fuck,” he breathes, shocked, looking down at you.
“W-what?” You manage, staring up at him, and he doesn’t respond, just slams his hips against yours, filling you so quickly it’s like the air is crushed from your lungs, your vision completely whites out.
“Feel so good, baby,” he growls, at odds with his previously lightly stoned blissed out demeanor, no, now he’s kissing you hungrily, groaning every time he bottoms out inside you, pinning your wrists to the bed as he pulls sharp music from your lips with every thrust.
The heavy slap of his body against yours is a steady rhythm, and his hand moves from your wrists to lace his fingers with yours, it’s oddly intimate even as your mind floats outside of your body, the sound of his groans becoming deadened by the pleasurable, blissful high. You hear something, after a few minutes, and Ran must too because his hips stutter, and he swears under his breath.
“Fuck off,” he calls loudly and then leans down, kissing you softly, pressing his forehead to yours with his eyes closed.
“Oh god,” you murmur, “M’so close, I’m so, please, please can I come, daddy,” you suck in a sharp breath,
“Shhhhhh,” He breathes, “Shh baby, be quiet and ‘n cum for me,” you let go of your orgasm like you’ve been released from a teather, flying forward as you hear him groan in your ear, feel his lips on your cheek, when you hear the sound again, raised voices in the living room. Before you can do anything, Ran pins you to the bed, one fist closing around your neck almost lazily as the door to his bedroom swings open and his brother physically recoils.
“Jesus christ,” Rindou swears, covering his eyes.
“I know that when we lived together you’d knock,” Ran drawls, but there’s a dark undercurrent to his tone as you struggle underneath him, he’s choking you in earnest as you cum beneath him, evidently far more affected by the weed than he was. “Maybe I should forcefully reacquaint you with the habit?”
“Maybe you should let her breathe?” Rindou snaps, but Ran only tightens his grip, reducing your gasps beneath him to gurgles.
“She breathes when you tell me why the fuck you’re here?” He says coolly.
“Shions dead!” Rindou blurts angrily, “Mikey’s been calling you all morning.” Ran releases your throat and you suck in a deep breath, hyperventilating to catch up, still only mostly aware of what’s happening around you.
“Get the fuck out of my room.” Ran says, but there’s less of an edge to it. “I’ll be out in a sec.” Rindou nods, and Ran pulls back from you, dazed and dizzy on the mattress. You’re still catching your breath and he spares you a glance as he reflects. “Sorry, baby,” He says after a moment, gathering you in his arms, sitting you up against his chest. “Daddy got angry at Rin and he took it out on you, he’s sorry.” You whimper softly, pressing your face against his chest. “Do you forgive me?” He asks, and instead of the low voice, laced with a threat that you were used to, it sounds almost, vulnerable. You nod immediately and he presses his lips to your forehead. “Sweet girl.” He murmurs.
“Did you know him well?” You ask, and Ran gives you a gentle squeeze before standing, and yanking on a pair of pants, muttering about blue balls, before turning to you like he’d barely heard your question, you watch him process your question in real time.
“Yeah.” Ran says, he sounds a bit distracted but you watch him physically shake it off, “Get dressed honey, big day for us.” You rub your eyes.
“I’m so high.” You mutter, and it’s the closest thing he’s heard to a complaint since he picked you up off the floor of your bedroom in the brothel.
“C’mon dummy,” he throws something at you and you realize it’s a dress, “I had them getcha some shit.” It’s white, and it doesn’t dip too low between your breasts, but as you wriggle into it you see that it’s not exactly modest or warm, cutting squarely across the top of your chest and ending mid thigh. It’s tight, but you can move in it.
“Do I get a gun?” You ask, and he considers, toothbrush hanging out of his mouth and garbling his speech.
“I’ll think about it.” He yanks you into his bathroom and passes you a bottle. “Wash your face and put sunscreen on.” He orders, before spitting his toothpaste in the sink. He hurries you through a morning routine, smoothing your zipper in the back of your dress before pulling you out into his living room. Rindou is standing with his arms crossed, Yuuta and Isami are waiting for you.
“Mikey’s pissed.” Rindou says, but Ran doesn’t look concerned, his shattered phone now in his suit pocket.
“Mikey’s always pissed,” Ran rolls his eyes, and you follow the two of them through the building, down in the elevator and out into a sleek black escalade that Isami drives. They wait to discuss details, bickering until the car door closes and the engine hums to life. “So what happened?” Rindou sighs.
“Went looking for Daito, found Shion.”
“Fuck.” Ran pulls his Juul out of his pocket and takes a puff. “You don’t think Daito had shit with Shion, right?”
“I dunno,” Rindou shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I got a tip from someone by the docks, coulda been a bad one.”
“If Shion’s dead it’s more likely the tip was a trap.” Ran decides, resting one hand on your bare thigh, squeezing it.”You find the guy who gave it to you?”
“Nah, he’s in the wind.” Rindou scowls, looking out the window. “Message wasn’t to us by the way, written in blood over Shions head it was, “More to come, Mikey-kun.’”
“Mikey-kun,” Ran repeats, blowing out a puff of cotton candy scented smoke. “Who the fuck calls Sano Manjiro Mikey-kun.”
“Not me.” Rindou shivers, and you feel his eyes flick to you. “Any chance that’s what he likes to be called in bed?” You shake your head.
“God.” You confirm. “The girls I knew who’ve slept with him called him God.” Ran chokes on his own spit, coughing in the seat.
“Shit, that’s hilarious, of course he does.” He shakes his head. “Nah, good to know it’s not just us, interesting that when one of them got to her they threatened me, though,” he rubs his chin again, “I gotta dig into this myself, fuck, I fucking hate actually havin’ to do work.”
“We know.” Rindou says dryly. “There’s a meeting when we get to the offices, you gotta leave her outside.”
“All good,” Ran puts his Juul away, “She wants to nap anyway,” he reaches over and boops your nose, “She did like two hits and suddenly she’s an invalid.” You pout, unable to control your reactions, you were used to alcohol, and the prescription drugs had made you so out of it that you’d completely folded in on yourself. It had been ages since you’d smoked weed, and the lightness of your head was making the fast paced conversation grating. “Adorable.” Ran gives you a squeeze and light pain blooms in your chest, a reminder that you’re still recovering.
You tune out the rest of their conversation, fiddling with your phone, texting your brother that you love him and then burying your face in Ran’s arm, he stops mid sentence to look down at you.
“C’mon,” he says, glancing at Rin, “You don’t want something like this?” Rindou sighs.
“I don’t want to talk about this with you.” He says, pointedly looking out the window. “What I like is-”
“Stupid.” Ran cuts him off, a huge grin on his face. “You want someone who pushes you around-”
“I do.” Rindou says coldly. “I’m sure you’ll come calling when she gets tired of you and you’re too soft to put her in her place.”
“I don’t need to spank baby,” Ran coos, cupping your face in two huge hands like you’re some kind of doll. “She’s so good for me, isn’t she?” You pout further and nod. Rindou rolls his eyes.
“I’m not going to let you mock me for this.” Rindou says stiffly. “You want to care for something helpless,” You frown at that, burying deeper into Ran, who chuckles, “And I’m sure that’s admirable on some level but I’m not interested in that.”
“Are you helpless,” Ran elbows you, still baby talking, “Or did you shoot two grown men through the heart in cold blood a few days ago?” You wince, but he just smirks.
“I’ll believe that when I see it.” Rindou says, as the car pulls to a stop in front of the offices. You hide behind Ran, who leaves you somewhat reluctantly with Isami and Yuuta in his office, before striding into the conference room where everyone is waiting for him. Mikey looks thunderous but Ran ignores him.
“Haitani.” Mikey’s eyes narrow.
“Sano.” Ran quips, flopping heavily in a chair. “Have I ever answered a phone call before 11AM?” There’s a silence. “Ever, in the history of the organization, anyone, anyone who’s called me, have I picked up the phone between the hours of 4AM and 11AM?”
“No.” Sanzu answers, as if he’s just come to this realization.
“You need to answer your phone.” Mikey snaps, eyes narrowed and bloodshot. “The girl is a distraction.”
“With all due respect,” Ran says, absolutely neutral, ice cold, “I’ve done more work since acquiring the girl than I’ve done in months.” He cracks a grin then. “Think she’s motivating.”
“You need to answer your phone.” Mikey repeats, but he just sounds tired, letting Ran off the hook, changing the subject. “Kakucho, what do we know?”
“Group formed at the docks, around thirty men tops, no international connections, calls themselves the silver dragons.” Kakucho says, and the meeting moves forward, with Kakucho walking through the known members and identities, until Ran clears his throat.
“Should we ask her if any of these guys were the one who tried to kill her?” He reaches over and takes a sip of Kokonoi’s coffee and makes a face. “Why is there so much fuckin’ cream in here jesus Koko?” Kokonoi swipes the cup back and scowls.
“Get your own fucking coffee.” He snaps. “It’s your own fault you showed up late and it’s cold.”
“Actually,” Mikey says, cutting in, “We have to talk to you about the girl.”
“Shoot.” Ran says, leaning back in his chair and lacing his fingers behind his head.
“She’s loyal to you,” Mikey explains, “But we need her to be loyal to us.” He scoots forward, resting his elbows on the table. “She’s killed for us, which means she’s earned her tattoo but I don’t want to give it to her until she’s really a part of this.” Ran’s brow furrows, he nods slowly.
“You wanna do a traditional initiation?” He asks, and then answers his own question. “I dunno,” he rubs his chin. “She’s wily, but I think any guy we put up against her would put her back in the hospital. She was barely alive for the first few days after that guy broke into her place. Plus she’s still got broken ribs, not to mention any man who lays a hand on her I’m probably gonna maim, I’m old fashioned like that,” he drawls, and Sanzu glances at him but Ran doesn’t turn to meet his eyes, “Depending on how I’m feelin’ that day.” Mikey waves the idea away.
“I don’t think a traditional initiation fight would be productive for her. Kokonoi had another idea about how to ‘earn’ her loyalty.” Mikey pauses, studying the executive who remains unreadable. “You know the new group cutting in on our arms sales in the south of the city.” Ran nods.
“Small time problem, big time headache.” He says, shrugging. “I’m familiar.”
“We need to draw them out,” Mikey explains, “Koko suggested we use her as bait, and then rescue her.” He keeps his eyes on Ran, who doesn’t react. After a moment, he stretches, yawning.
“Well, if you were waitin’ to see if I’d betray my brothers for a bitch I just met you’ve got your answer.” He says, pulling his Juul out of his pocket. “Where does she have to be, and what time am I picking baby up?”
“Actually,” Rindou pipes up. “We think she’s plenty loyal to you. We think it might be better to have one of us who is less familiar with her execute the rescue.” Ran doesn’t balk, shrugging.
“Cool.” A little smirk flits across his lips. “Probably shouldn’t be Kokonoi, though.”
“No,” Mikey agrees, and then his eyes narrow, “Wait, we were thinking I’d do it, or Kakucho would, but why not Kokonoi?”
“Oooh,” Ran’s smirk widens, “You wanna tell ‘em why she might not want to trust you?”
“She offered.” Kokonoi says stiffly, looking away.
“He put a cigarette out on her hand.” Ran blows out a cloud of cotton candy scented smoke. “So I think that ship’s sailed.”
“She offered.” Kokonoi crosses his arms over his chest, most of the executives don’t react but Mikey’s eyes narrow a single degree.
“Does this mean I stop getting shit for fucking her while she-” Sanzu starts.
“No.” Ran and Mikey say at the same time, then Mikey scowls, and clears his throat.
“No.” Mikey repeats, rubbing his eyes. “Listen,” he eyes the group, “You’re all used to treating women like they're disposable, and you can’t,” He pinches the bridge of his nose, “She isn’t. All you have to do,” he turns to Ran, “Is bring her with you down to investigate the docks, you’ll get separated and I think I should be the one to,” he catches Ran’s expression and trails off.
“Rin should lose her.” He says, leaning forward, “She wouldn’t believe that I’d let her go, I’ve been carrying her everywhere for a few days, plus there’s a chance she gets my gun and shoots whoever tries to pull us apart, less of a chance of that with Rin ‘cause she doesn’t know where he keeps his.” Mikey turns to Rindou who shrugs.
“Fine.” He says, and Ran stands.
“I’ll grab her?” He says.
“Go ahead.” Ran strides out into the hallway, heart beating uncomfortably as the door closes behind him, but shoves the feelings down as he goes to his office. You’re nestled on the couch, wrapped in his suit jacket as you sleep on the bed. He touches your shoulder and you blink up at him. “You got work to do sweetheart,” he grins. “Can’t just lie on your back all day anymore.” You groan softly, but stand, grateful to be in the light dress and shoes he’d given you instead of virtually naked in his shirt as you follow him down the hallway. He opens the door to the office and you feel all of their eyes on you immediately. Your palms break into a sweat but you maintain composure.
“Do you recognize any of these men?” Kakucho asks you, handing you his phone. “You can flip through the pictures.” You scroll through his phone, pausing on one.
“He came to see me pretty regularly,” You hand the phone back to Kakucho, showing him a broad man with blue in his hair. Kakucho sits straight up in his chair, snatching the phone from you and putting it straight up on the table. “Maybe um, once a week?” Your hand drifts towards Ran, who takes it, rubbing circles in your palm. “But he’s not the person who um, who I stabbed.”
“We know him.” Kakucho said, brow furrowing. “That’s Taiju Shiba.” You nod. “You saw him regularly?” You shiver.
“None of um, none of the other girls could,” you pause, choosing your words carefully. “He was particular, and after he’d always lose his temper, half with me, half with himself, but he never hurt any of us badly enough to get kicked out.”
“How the fuck is Taiju Shiba getting in and out of a place I’m in charge of without anyone calling me,” Ran snaps, already pulling his phone out of his pocket, “I’m breaking someone’s knees.” Mikey nods, and you can practically feel the waves of malevolence rolling off of him.
“Sounds like you know what you’re doing today,” He says, and Ran nods, already pulling his phone out and starting for the hallway.
“You’re with Rin.” Ran says quickly, giving you a quick pat on the head before disappearing around the corner, his voice carries, his tone is pure ice. “Yeah, hi this is Haitani Ran, I need to speak with whoever the fuck thinks they’re running this place.” A few men stand, Rindou included. He gestures towards the door.
“Hope you’re not too used to being carried everywhere.” He says gruffly, and you shake your head, nearly sober, dutifully and silently following him out. You can hear Ran when you pass his office, but barely. He’s not shouting, he sounds so calm that a shiver runs up your spine. You hold your head up, following Rindou out of the restaurant, and into a car.
“Where are Yuuta and Isami?” You ask finally, when the two of you slide into the backseat and Rindou starts checking his email on his phone.
“Busy.” Rindou says without looking at you. You don’t speak again for another fifteen minutes, a light snow starts to fall outside the car. You’re stuck in traffic. Rindou clears his throat. “How’s your brother?”
“Oh.” Your head snaps to his, attempting to gauge the sincerity of his request. “I um, we texted this morning.” You let out a little breath. “Chemo sucks.” Rindou nods.
“So I’ve heard.” You turn away from him again, staring out the window at the little white clumps falling from the sky when he speaks again. “You don’t, you don’t really understand what’s happening to you, do you?”
“A lot of things have happened to me.” You don’t turn to him, still watching the snow. “I either land on my feet or I don’t. So far I’ve been lucky.”
“Look at me when I speak to you.” He says sharply, and you immediately turn around, eyes wide, holding his gaze. “Thank you.” He says more stiffly, “And I mean, you don’t understand who we are, and what we do.”
“Your brother moves product into the country, manages illegal brothels,” You shrug, “He covered up murders.” Rindou nods. “So I have an inkling, I’m not a fawn in the woods.” He sighs and rubs his eyes. You realize he looks exhausted. “Can I,” you cock your head at him, “Can I do anything for you?” He blinks at you, you tentatively reach across the seat, moving quite slowly, slow enough so that if he wants to bat your hand away or tell you to fuck off that he can. “It’s,” you pick up one of his hands, it’s large enough to swallow your own, so you take it with both of yours. “It’s alright, you’re doing your best.” The words are empty, meaningless, but he softens anyway.
“Is that what you’d do for men?” He asks, examining your hands wrapped around his. “Validate them?” You don’t answer his question, scooting closer to him on the seat, following your instincts.
“Do you dislike it?” You ask, and he sighs again, leaning against you. He squeezes your hands, letting his eyes close.
“Just stay where you are.” He murmurs, and it’s about a minute before you feel him fully relax against you. His breathing is soft and even, and he’s heavy and warm in a way that’s comforting and not overwhelming. You drive like that, with him sleeping on your shoulder for nearly half an hour longer, he wakes when the car pulls to a stop. He jerks his hand out of yours, not looking at you as he hops out of the car and holds the door.
“What are we doing here?” You ask, shivering, Ran’s suit jacket was large but not quite warm enough for the winter weather.
“I have a meeting.” Rindou says, without looking at you. It’s not a nice neighborhood, with uneven sidewalks and sloping cracked streets, covered in dead weeds that must have fought their way to the sun during the summer only to be choked by the frost. The warehouse you’re in front of seems fully functional, with smoke billowing from a chimney. “We’re meeting Mikey after.” You nod, moving carefully behind him. He pushes the huge metal door open and you’re hit with a familiar smell, the salt, the sea, and fish. You wrinkle your nose as you step inside the small fishpacking plant, and then jump at the heavy thud of someone slicing right through a frozen fish with a cleaver. Rindou frowns at you, offering you his arm. “Does it bother you?” He asks quietly, leading you through the side of the warehouse, “The blood?” You look at the concrete floor, stained with red.
“Yes.” You say as quietly as possible, well aware of the stares the two of you are drawing. He doesn’t respond, leading you up a metal staircase to a small upper bridge where there are a few offices. You hear the heavy slap of fish hitting the conveyor belt, and shrink a little into Rindou, who stiffens.
“Needy.” He mumbles, and you swallow, looking away. He knocks on one of the office doors and a man in a suit opens it.
“Leave your bitch outside.” He growls, looking over at you, eyes dark and beady. Rindou sighs.
“I’d hate to think you’d insult someone so high up in our organization.” His eyes flash. “Care to try again.”
“Bitch waits outside.” The man says. “S’Chome’s orders.” Rindou raises his eyes and you read a micro expression of genuine surprise on his face. He sighs.
“She doesn’t like the blood,” He explains impatiently, “Is there another room for her?” You wonder why they’re suddenly making allowances for you, and wonder if what Rindou had said was true, were you now high up in a criminal organization, high enough up to deserve respect? You find out a second later when the man steps out of the room, nodding and grabbing your arm.
“Don’t touch her,” Rindou hisses, ice in his tone. “She belongs to Bonten.”
“Whatever.” The man jerks you towards him, you crash hard against his chest and bite back a cry of pain. Rindou pulls his gun like lightning, there are shouts on the floor below.
“Return her.” Rindou says, hand steady. “Or I’ll shoot you.”
“Fuck off.” The man snarls, and you’re completely blindsided by a loud crack as Rindou fires his weapon. The man stumbles backwards, blood pooling at his shoulder.
“C’mon,” Rindou grunts, grabbing your wrist and yanking you down the stairs. You follow, glancing over your shoulder as there are shouts on the factory floor. He starts sprinting, holding onto you tightly. You clatter down the stairs, and make a break for the exit.
“Why,” you get out, “Why did you-”
“Don’t fucking talk to me when we’re running!” He says, pulling his phone out of his pocket, elbowing the heavy metal door open just as the men chasing you catch up. One of them goes to grab you, and Rindou drops his phone, fist connecting with the man's jaw, you hear a sickening crunch. You squeak and dash past him out the open door, and the second you’re outside you hear a gun fire several times, and Rindou comes tearing out of the building, somehow looking calm. “What the hell are you doing,” he rolls his eyes, plucking you off your feet and taking off running with your body cradled to his chest, “I let you go, you were supposed to run?”
“I wasn’t going to leave you!” You cry out, and for one moment, for one split second, he’s not there, running through with warehouse district carrying some prostitute. He’s sixteen, and it’s summer, he’s standing in an alley behind a convenience store.
“I,” the girl in front of him is fidgeting, “I brought you this.” She’s small, smaller than him, and shy, she passes him a package of band aids. “I see you around, and sometimes, um, you’re a bit banged up, and I thought, um,” she takes a step backwards from him. “I thought you could use these.” He quirks an eyebrow. “I’m um, I’m gonna go-” She’d said, and re remembers now that she’d tripped, and he’d caught her, dropping the bandages on the ground as his hands had flown to her waist, righting her body.
“Do you want,” he’d said, unable to think of anything else. “Do you want to ride on my bike?”
He remembers now, the feeling of something small, and vulnerable, the feeling of protecting someone, of having something worth protecting, had it really been since that summer that he’d felt this feeling? He tightens his grip on your body, ducking behind a dumpster, hearing gunshots ping against the metal. He sets you on the ground, reloading his gun.
“You should have,” He says curtly, lifting his head up and firing a couple rounds before ducking back down, “You should have run away, and hid somewhere. That would have been normal,” He grunts, firing just once this time before returning his attention to you, measuring your sincerity to the best of his ability. He’d checked up on your story, out of an abundance of caution, while you were asleep on his couch, and paid off your medical debts personally when it turned out you’d been telling the truth. Still, it had been hard to imagine the way you’d been clinging to Ran wasn’t theatrical, despite the circumstances. Here, in this moment, as little white tufts of snow begin to fall from the sky, he sees what Ran sees when he looks at you. Your eyes are wide, and he watches you inhale before taking a step forward, and somehow, later he’d claim you must have been filled with adrenaline, you reach out and knock him behind you, snatching the gun from his hand and firing three times in quick succession. Rindou rips his gun back from you and swears violently. All three of the men who’d been chasing you are lying on the asphalt.
“I got their legs,” you say urgently, and Rindou detects a slight self congratulatory note in your voice.
“I liked this gun,” He grumbles, “C’mon.” He pulls you forward and the two of you run through the warehouse district, well aware that essentially nothing had gone as planned when by some miracle, a huge black escalade pulls up in front of you just as you hear the shouts in the distance getting closer, and sirens. The door opens and Mikey hops out, not giving you time to get in, throwing you over his shoulder and getting back in, barely letting Rindou leap in after you before the tires squeal on the pavement and the car starts to tear out of there.
“What the hell happened,” Mikey slides you off his shoulder, holding you partially on his lap as you squirm.
“You tell him.” Rindou’s already pulling his Juul out of his pocket. “I’m fucking exhausted.”
“One,” you manage, “One of them grabbed me, Rindou um, Rindou shot them and then we ran.”
“No,” Rindou says sharply, “That is not what happened.” He blows out a cloud of cucumber melon scented smoke, Mikey’s hand drifts a little lower on your hip. “What happened is I let her run, and she didn’t fucking run.”
“I wasn’t going to leave you.” You repeat, and feel the Bonten leader’s grip on you tighten. “I, I’m not sure you even told me to go.”
“I didn’t think I had to,” Rindou says, exasperated. “They were shooting and you didnt have a fucking gun.”
“I never would have left you there.” You say, and it’s the closest any of them have heard to you raising your voice since they’ve met you. There’s a beat of stunned silence, you nearly vibrate with fear, realizing you’d just snapped at a man, who not only has a gun, was clearly keen on using it.
“Don’t talk to him like that.” Mikey says softly, adjusting the way you’re half in his lap so tha you can look him in the eyes. “Do you understand?” You nod, swallowing. “I want you to say out loud that you understand,” and fear erases all your indignation.
“Yes god,” you whisper, and Mikey breaks into a wide smile. “I understand.”
“Jesus.” Rindou takes another puff on the juul. “I’m gonna tall Ran his bitch bites.” Your eyes shoot open.
“Please,” you beg him, twisting in Mikey’s lap, “I’m so sorry, I just, I would never ever,” you take a deep breath, “I would never ever leave you behind.” Rindou reaches out, patting the top of your head, remembering the girl with the band aids.
“Yeah, yeah you’re a good girl.” He shakes his head, watching you brush off the praise. Mikey gives you a squeeze, tucking you into his chest, and giving Rindou a confused look, asking him to elaborate. Rindou shrugs, and then glances meaningfully at you. You stay tense, ears ringing, disliking how you were starting to get used to the gunfire.
“Are you afraid?” Mikey tries, trying to see what of his plan could be salvaged. You shake your head.
“No.” You mumble, then lift your head. “Not now.”
“Good.” Mikey presses his lips to the top of your head. “Good.” Rindou pulls his phone out of his pocket, wincing at the shattered screen.
Ran: she okay?
Rindou: yeah.
Rindou: you give a shit if Mikey’s got his hands all over her?
Ran: depends
Ran: does it seem like she likes it?
Rindou resists the urge to sigh out loud, and effortlessly maintains a blank expression as he inspects you, the way you’re not holding Mikey back, the way your eyes keep flicking to the door.
Rindou: Nah
Ran: that’s my girl.
Rindou: I’d be a shitty brother if I didn’t say if Mikey wants her she’s Mikeys
Ran: Mikey only wants her ‘cause she’s new
Ran: he’ll get bored
Rindou: and you?
Ran: baby needs me.
Rindou: and you like that, to be needed.
Ran: yeah it’s validating. You don’t feel the same way?
Rindou: I get it, it’s not for me.
Ran: lame
Ran: baby’s gonna cook for me, and clean, and hide a glock in the rice sack in the pantry.
Ran: the perfect woman does exist.
Rindou: *can be bought
Ran: same difference. I’m not gonna let anyone else have her.
Mikey rubs your back, the three of you ride in silence across the city. He taps the bridge of your nose when you start nodding off, producing something from his pocket, a small blue pill.
“Open.” He orders, and you do, letting him place it on your tongue. He looks down at you, not understanding why you’re still looking up at him, tongue out, and then realizing you’re waiting for him to tell you, “Close.” He murmurs and you do, burying your head in his chest as it dissolves, a heavy warmth washing over your body. You’re in and out for the rest of the drive, unaware until you feel the blistering cold, the day darkened in twilight, as Mikey carries you upstairs. You wait to be deposited with Ran, but instead find yourself alone in what you imagine is Mikey’s office. It’s cold, and you’re so high the world blurs, you can’t focus on the map on his wall, on the dark wood of his desk, on the snow falling outside his window. You take a fistful of his soft shirt for stability and feel his lips on your head again.
“God,” you murmur, and he responds.
“Hm?”
“Is um,” you blink up at him, “Am I in trouble?” He shakes his head, not all had gone as planned, he thinks, but he’d rescued you and you’d wounded the enemy. “Can I ask you for something?” He hesitates, wondering if it’ll be money, revenge, a purse, if you’ll show your true colors now when your vulnerable, he wants to smack himself, of course Haitani wouldn’t notice if you were a gold digger he- “I want to move my brother to a hospital in Tokyo.” His head stops spinning, and you droop a little. “He’s at one in Hyogo,” you mumble, no longer able to maintain eye contact, focusing on the pattern on the rug.
“I can have someone look into it.” He says. “Why haven’t you done this yourself?” You swallow.
“I couldn’t afford it.” You whisper. “No matter how much I worked.” Several things click into place in that moment, the way you’d take Taiju as a client even if the other girls were scared of him, how much you’d naturally deferred to them, desperate for approval, all of it to earn more money for your brother, none of it for you. And more troublingly, none of it out of a sense of loyalty to Bonten.
“So that’s why,” he says, moving you, so that you have to hold eye contact with him, he sees how dilated your pupils are. “That’s why you’re so good for us, hm? For your brother?” He watches you struggle, and then shake your head.
“I’m,” you swallow, clearly struggling to for sentences, but when you speak you reframe it a bit. “I’m good for you because you’re good to me. I um,” you rub your eyes, trying to focus, remembering something you’d heard years ago. “I think it’s about what we owe to each other.” He nods, processing slowly, rubbing your back.
“We’ll take care of it.” He says, deciding in the moment. “I assume you’ll want to move him yourself, one of the executives can take you when we have business in Hyogo.” You reach up and wrap your arms around his neck, letting out a long breath.
“Thank you,” you manage, “Thank you so, so much.”
“You belong to us now.” He says, and feels you nod. “Do you have any tattoos?” He asks, and it takes you a beat, mind still moving slowly, before you realize why he asked.
“No,” You whisper, not moving. He hums softly in response. You’re not sure how long he holds you on his lap, working quietly. You don’t feel like you can ask about Ran, not when Mikey’s agreed to give you this, but you find your mind wandering to him, wondering if he knows where you are, if he’s worried. It’s late when you squirm eventually, drawing Mikey’s attention from his computer.
“I’m supposed to,” you sigh, “I’m supposed to be accompanying Mr. Haitani to his meeting.” Mikey balks internally, but isn’t quite ready to spread his cards on the table.
“Go.” He says, letting you get up and stumble to the hallway, legs pins and needles. Your chest still aches, your face still throbs, but for the first time in a few days you feel like movement isn’t an ordeal. The hallways are empty, you pad across the soft carpeting, pausing at Ran’s door, knocking softly against the glass panel.
“Come in.” You hear, and push it open just enough to fit your body through, closing it behind you. Something in his chest warms as he watches your face light up at the sight of him, and his lips curl into a little smile. “Hey, sweetheart.”
“Hi.” You walk quickly over to him and then hover at the side of his desk, unsure where you should sit, he watches you decide between climbing in his lap and pulling a chair out, one hand hovering above the back of his leather backed guest chair, sitting at a slight angle next to his desk, your eyes flicking around nervously. “I,” you say, sitting quickly, having made up your mind. “You have a dinner appointment.”
“That I do.” He says, standing. “Heard you were a bit of trouble.” He watches the fear flood your face and chuckles. “Relax, I think it’s funny that you snapped at Rin.” He adjusts his suit jacket, today it’s a pale blue, “Besides, we’ll need to get you cleaned up a little,” he smirks, “Can’t take you anywhere, can I?” He reaches out and cups your face, you feel him rubbing at something and when he pulls his hand away you see the blood staining his fingers. “We’ve got time,” he strides towards the door, “C’mon, dinner’s at 11.”
You’re whisked back to the apartment, Isami and Yuuta are back with little explanation, Yuuta driving you home, Isami grunting a half greeting to you as he holds the car door. Ran scrolls through his phone, keeping one hand on your bare thigh, glancing at you. You’d volunteered less information than he’d hoped for, even given his brothers reassurance. He waits until you’re alone to question you, until Isami is standing outside his penthouse door, and Yuuta is leaning against the cabinet in the kitchen. He’s patient enough to wait until the second the bedroom door closes, and not an inch more.
“How was your day?” He asks, and you don’t catch the edge to his tone with your mind, it doesn’t arouse suspicion, but something deep in your emotional instincts bristles without interpreting the feeling.
“Ah,” you start, and then decide it was better to tell the truth. “I was afraid.” You look down at your hands, Ran stops unbuttoning his shirt long enough to catch the genuine expression on your face. It’s dark in his room, the sun had set quickly behind the clouds, he leans over and flicks the light on, but it only means your face is set in deeper contrast, the shadow of your form more stark on his white wall. He watches you fidget, and then look at him again, and resists the urge to comfort you, to wrap you up in his arms. No, you needed to choose him, and he needed to condition you to do it as much as possible. “I was glad Rindou was there.” You say eventually.
“And Mikey?” Ran says, nearly too quickly, just controlled enough to keep the tone casual. You shrug.
“Mikey’s been very kind to me.” And that’s it, that’s when you reach for him, right on fucking schedule, he accepts, taking your hand and gently holding you against his chest, “But I just feel safer with you.” You mumble, and fuck, he has to remind himself that you’re not lying that he knows you’re not lying, that he’s seen you broken, and drunk, and high, and even at your most vulnerable you kept reaching for him. He rubs your back. “If that’s okay to say, I don’t want to get you in trouble.” You feel his lips on the top of your head.
“We can just keep that between us for now,” he gives you a squeeze and you wince, he ignores it. “Our little secret.” You nod. “C’mon. Let’s shower.”
_____
“You were supposed to lose her,” Mikey snaps, pacing in front of Rindou. They’re still at the office and Rindou is draped over a chair while Sanzu arranges neat lines of cocaine on the coffee table.
“I mean, you got what you wanted?” Rindou shrugs. “Seems like she trusts you a fuckton more now, you saved her, shame we didn’t get to spend more time in the office before that guy got aggro with me-”
“Didn’t he get aggro with her?” Sanzu pipes up and Rindou shakes his head.
“Nah, he was pushing me around. He was just using her.” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Listen, Mikey, you’re not gonna get her attached to all of us the way she’s attached to my brother overnight.” Mikey stops pacing, his shoulders drooping a degree. “We don’t need her that bad,” Rindou continues, “She’s a nice to have. Not a need. In time, she’ll trust us. Ran was the person who picked her up when she was fully dissasociated and broken, twice, and I mean that literally. I’m sure there’s some chemical shit to traumabonding.”
“Trauma bonds are weak.” Mikey mutters. “Temporary. I’d know.” Rindou wonders if he’s thinking of Izana, of Shinchiro, or someone else he’d lost. “Fine, you’re right though. She’s a nice to have. Get her tattooed and figure out which one of us should help her move her brother down to Tokyo.”
“Will do,” Rindou stands, and stretches. “Can I,” he stops himself. “Mikey if you wanna fuck her you can fuck her. It’s just a cunt, you can afford it.” Mikey presses his lips together, Sanzu watches with eyes like saucers. “What you can’t do, is fuck her when she gets serious with my brother.” Rindou says, eyes darkening a little.
“I know.” Mikey says, meeting his gaze.
“For the good of this family,” Rindou says, shrugging. “That’s what you told her, that her and her brother are family now.”
“I know.” Mikey repeats, fumbling in his pocket for cigarettes. “Get out.”
“Cool.” Rindou says, flashing his palms and walking out of the room. Sanzu waits until the door closes to giggle.
“He’s wrong,” Sanzu laughs, “You can fuck her whenever.” Mikey shakes his head.
“I can’t.”
“Why?” Sanzu shrugs. “It’s good pussy for sure.” Mikey sighs.
“I want her to want it.” He rubs his eyes, “It’s fucking me in the head, I want her to want it so fucking bad.” Sanzu shrugs before leaning forward and doing a line.
“When I want something,” he says, panting, wiping his nose. “I just take it, you know?”
“I know.” Mikey repeats for a third time, and Sanzu keeps talking but Mikey’s mind is gone, reaching within his ribcage for the last soft parts of himself, trying to remember what he’d been like when he’d been able to make girls like you blush and giggle, and not cower in fear.
“I mean,” Sanzu says. “You could just kill Haitani.” There’s a pause. Mikey’s back is to Sanzu, facing the city, glimmering in the darkness.
“No,” Mikey sighs. “No I couldn’t.”
___
You and Ran are in the car, speeding across the city when his phone rings. The screen’s still shattered, it matches Rindou’s now, but when his brother’s face flashes across the screen he picks up.
“Hey, dummy.” Ran says, slipping an arm around your waist. “Someone else get shot?” Rindou shakes his head, alone in his office with the door closed.
“Does it ever bother you?” Rindou asks, watching his brother take a puff on his juul. “Taking orders from Mikey?” Ran doesn’t miss a beat.
“Not at all.” He shrugs. “What’s up?”
“I’m asking because I feel it sometimes,” Rindou stumbles his way through the sentence clumsily, “Feel like that instinctual fuck you, who the fuck are you to tell me what to do? I mean, we used to run shit, we didn’t take orders from anyone.” Ran shakes his head.
“That’s cuck shit, anway.” He straightens his shoulders. “Listen, I already did what Mikey’s doing, we already did it. And we did it without guns, without a gang, without makin’ too many threats.” A ghoulish smile flickers on his face, you shiver next to him. “And it was work, it was hard, and I thought to myself, after all that shit with Izana, how can I hold onto the parts of this I like, and get rid of the shit I don’t. Now, I follow Mikey, he tells me what he wants me to do, but I get rich, I get high, and I get the girl.” He shrugs. “What’s to dislike?”
“You think leadership is cuck shit?” Rindou practically sputters. Ran gives you a squeeze.
“All I know is I woke up in bed with a beautiful woman, spent the morning gettin’ high with her, and then fucked her brains out. Mikey hasn’t gone to bed since last night at least, maybe longer,” Ran glances out the window at the snowy city. “And he started his day at his desk, worried about a dead body in a warehouse. There’s nothin’ there for me, or you, to be jealous of.” In his office, Rindou rakes his fingers through his hair.
“You’re so fucking confusing sometimes.” Rindou mutters, shaking his head and Ran laughs lightly.
“Listen,” he says, “Kakucho said this shit to me once, that the only things in life that matter are the things that bring you happiness. I like the girl, so I’m keeping the girl.” A small spark burns in your chest as he speaks. “I like Mcallan 25 so I drink Mcallan 25. I like my Bentley, I like my penthouse, I like workin’ hard but not too hard. Youover complicate things,” he wrinkles his nose at the very idea of it. “You,” he says, “Get stuck between duty, and happiness, and expectation, which, is a fuckin’ minefield considering our line of work.” Ran shrugs. “Me, I just go with the flow.” The car slows to a stop. “I gotta go have dinner with a beautiful woman and talk a bit about drugs over the best bolognese in the city. Try not to get your panties in an existential twist, maybe try finding some of that bratty pussy you like so much.”
“Ugh.” Rindou groans. “Call me when you’re done.”
“I won’t.” Ran grins, reaching for the door. “But you can call me. You can always call me.” Years flash in Rindou’s eyes, Izana, Juvie, their last halcyon days in Roppongi.
“I know.” Rindou says. “I know I can.”
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