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Love & War (m)

warnings: vèry lóng, híghly 18+ thèmès, èxplïcït smüt/sèx, únprótèctèd sèx, chèátíng, górè, múrdèr, prègnáncy, lônlíness, èxplïcït víölèncè, blóód, yándèrè cháràctès, bördèrlínè cóffèè àddïctïön, dàrk jüngkóók.

pairing: yandere police officer jungkook x fem!Barista reader

genre: strictly 18+ killer fic, rated M, Gore, thriller and erotica

word count: 6,000

note. My fingers have been hurting so much these days because I’ve been dedicating a lot of time to writing this. I started this draft on October 14 and now I have finally finished it today and I wanted to publish this because I have worked hard on this so much I’ve done a lot of extensive research so please guys like it and re-blog it. This is worth a read I promise please please send feedback and let me know what you think because I really need it.

•••

This case in particular is brutal.

As Jungkook sits in his office space, he’s looking at the latest crime scene pictures. And they are brutal, the man’s throat is literally spilling out, tongue cut off.

There’s so much blood.

Seodaemun-gu is particularly cold, and he’s been working overtime, as an inspector he’s been pretty busy thanks to a psychotic serial killer who’s been targeting a lot of men lately

This is the 17th victim.

Jungkooks been trying to piece the puzzle together, he picks up the warm cup of coffee and gulps down another sip, his furrows his eyebrows, he knows that it’s just one person doing all of these killings.

The pattern of killing is too similar, the gore, the marks, the method.

There is a familiar drug found in every single one of the victims bodies.

“Fuck.” He curses as he drops the pictures on the table, he needs to catch the killer before it’s too late, it is too late anyways.

October isn’t so kind this year, it is harshly cold. And this case has his whole attention. “I’ll catch you, psycho.” He mutters under his breath.

He will catch the psycho before Halloween.

Jungkooks grip on his cup tightens. He will make this killer pay. Just as he’s staring at the pictures again, his phone rings.

He sighs, averting his gaze to his phone as he picks it up, a small smile playing on his face. “Hey baby!!!” He grins speaking into the phone.

He loves his girlfriend so much. She’s the only thing that is making him happy these days.

“Hey koo!” as she greets him back, he cannot stop smiling, “ahh so are we still on for tonight?” He asks slyly, she makes him so happy.

There is a silence for a few seconds, but he waits patiently for her response, Jungkook holds the phone up his ear, waiting.

“Oh… sorry baby but no, I’m kinda busy tonight. You know this assignment is keeping me up all night. I can’t I’m so sorry.”

His smile falters.

“U-Uh..”

This is the third time.

“Umm it’s okay.” he replies, playing it cool but honestly, he’s a little upset because she’s been doing everything but spending time with him and he’s the one trying to solve a fucking murder case.

“Don’t be upset koo… I swear I’ll make it up to you.” He sighs. “It’s okay baby. I…understand.” Jungkook knows there’s no point in arguing.

He just misses her.

After talking to her for a few minutes, he finally ends the call. It’s time he refocuses on the case.

What he should be focusing on right now is catching the killer

And not the fact that his girlfriend is literally ignoring him for the past days, he’s barely seen her face this month, it’s bothering him, but he cannot afford to be distracted right now.

There cannot be an 18th victim.

He won’t let it happen.

•••

It’s lonely

But at least now he gets to go to his favorite coffee shop and drink, coffee in peace while staring out at the view, honestly speaking the view isn’t that special but jungkook likes to have some free time to himself just so he can reconnect with the world.

he enters the coffee shop, the bells above jingle as the door opens, it’s not too crowded today which is a good thing because the less the crowd the more he can focus and think.

Only a handful of people who are drinking and waiting for their orders as he approaches his table. Jungkook sits down on it, taking the chair out.

He scans the area. He likes how peaceful it is here because his job is not peaceful or neither cute, he has just come back from seeing a gruesome murder scene and this is exactly the detox He needs right now.

“Hey!!! Mr Jeon?” his snap of his thoughts when the barista calls out his name, he turns to look ahead, and smiles seeing the familiar face.

“Hey Ms yn! How’s it going? I think I’m just gonna have the regular.” He tells, looking at you, and you nod, you’re a sweet girl.

You’ve been serving him coffee for the past year almost, “well got it! Maybe I should get you some brownie too; of course courtesy of me.” You laugh, “looks like you really could use some sweetness in your life since you work so hard”

He laughs a little, shaking his head. “yeah you’re right. It’s been quite bitter these days.” He mutters to himself almost.

You walk away. impatiently, he waits for his coffee.. He might have an addiction, but it’s OK. Caffeine is necessary when you’re a police officer.

Sometime later you come back with his order. And he looks at you, thanking you.. “thank you Ms yn. Appreciate you for putting up with me.” he jokes, you give him a kind smile, “oh Mr Jeon how about you Just call me yn?” You insist and he almost blushes.

“Ahhh sure sure I will but only if you call me by my first name too.” He waves his hand, picking up his coffee to take a sip, and the smell of the brownie just fills his nostrils and he hums in delight

“The brownie smells so good and this coffee is awesome. Thank you so much.”

You wink in return, which has his cheeks actually burning up

You’re bold and you’re confident and that he appreciates about you because maybe you like him a little and you don’t really make an effort to hide the fact

“Okay.. I’ll go now have fun” he watches as you go away.

And he can’t help but feel his heart flutter in his chest.

•••

A few days later, his same routine just goes on and on, but there is not a single point that he has been able to catch, which could help him actually lead to the killer

And his days are only getting worse. There’s an emptiness that he’s starting to feel. Honestly, he feels like a failure.

A failure of a boyfriend and a failure of an inspector.

Jungkook steps into his dimly lit apartment, shrugging off his rain-soaked jacket. The warmth of the place feels hollow, as if reflecting the emptiness creeping into his chest. He slumps onto the couch, running his hands through his damp hair. His mind is a mess, caught between the horrifying images of the latest crime scene, Mina’s growing distance, and the subtle comfort he finds in your quiet presence at the café.

He pulls out his phone and stares at Mina’s name in his contacts. Something in him snaps, and before he can overthink it, he presses “Call.”

It rings longer than it should.

“Hello?” Her voice is clipped, impatient.

“Mina. Can you come over?” he asks out of desperation because he so lonely, and he needs to feel her love and her warmth.

“It’s late, Jungkook. I’m busy.” he understands it. She’s been busy, but it’s been so long since he’s been with her physically and she keeps on being distant.

He’s starting to break, his face falls, and his voice hardens at her sudden coldness.

“Busy with what?” he demands, the sharpness in his voice surprising even himself. he gripped the phone tighter and waits for her response with a thumping heartbeat.

There’s a pause, long enough for unease to settle in his gut. “Work,” she finally says, but the word feels rehearsed, flat.

“Bullshit.” He stands, pacing the small living room. “You’re lying to me.” he knows that she’s lying. Does she really think that he’s that stupid?

“Excuse me?” Her tone hardens, defensive.

“You’ve been distant for weeks,” he says, his voice rising. “The late nights, the dodged questions, the way you look at me like I’m a stranger. If there’s something you’re hiding, Mina, I deserve to know.”

She exhales sharply, a sound halfway between frustration and guilt. “You’re paranoid, Jungkook. You’re always at work, always chasing some killer. Maybe the problem isn’t me—it’s you.”

“That’s not an answer,” he snaps. “You think I don’t notice the way you’re pulling away? The phone calls you don’t take around me? If you don’t want to be with me, just say it.”

Her silence cuts deeper than any words could.

“You’re impossible,” she finally says, her voice trembling with suppressed anger. “You think everything revolves around you and your job, but you don’t even see what’s right in front of you. Maybe I have been distant, Jungkook, but can you blame me? You’re so wrapped up in your case that there’s no room for anything—or anyone—else.”

He clenches his fists, his nails digging into his palms. “You’re deflecting. Just tell me the truth, Mina. Are you seeing someone else?”

Her sharp intake of breath tells him everything he needs to know.

“Mina,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous.

“I’m not doing this,” she says, and the line goes dead.

Jungkook stares at his phone, his breath coming in ragged bursts. The quiet of the apartment feels suffocating, pressing in on him from all sides. He throws his phone onto the couch and grabs his keys, his mind a whirlwind of anger, betrayal, and something he can’t quite name.

But for a fact, he knows that he’s lost Mina forever. And the realization dawns on him as he stares at his phone screen. He’s alone once again like he has been for a month.

But maybe this time, forever

And it doesn’t take him long to break down in his apartment. He’s so alone and maybe he will be forever. Why can nobody ever love him?

Is he not deserving of love?

•••

The coffee shop is dark except for the faint glow of a single lamp by the counter. You’re wiping down the tables, your movements unhurried, as if you have all the time in the world. The sight of you—calm, grounded—makes something in Jungkook loosen, just slightly.

You look up as he enters, the chime of the bell breaking the silence.

“Jungkook?” you say, surprised. “It’s late. What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, just walks over to the counter and leans against it. “I needed to get out of my head.”

You study him, noting the tension in his jaw, the shadows under his eyes. “Rough day?”

He laughs bitterly. “You could say that.”

The way you look at him, makes his heart flutter in an abnormal way, maybe it’s the loneliness that he’s making behave like this but you’re gaze actually drives him crazy

You hesitate for a moment before stepping around the counter, standing a little closer to him. “Want to talk about it?”

“No,” he says quickly, then softens. “I just… I don’t know. Everything feels like it’s falling apart.”

You nod, not pushing him for details. Instead, you reach for the bottle of whiskey you keep hidden behind the counter for nights like this. You pour him a glass and slide it across the table.

“Here,” you say. “On the house.”

He takes a sip, the burn in his throat a welcome distraction from the turmoil in his mind. “Thanks.”

You sit down beside him, the two of you falling into a comfortable silence. But you can feel his eyes on you, heavy and searching.

“You’re always here,” he says suddenly, his voice soft.

“Someone has to be,” you reply, your lips quirking into a small smile.

“You know Y/N? I’m so fucking alone. My girlfriend is probably cheating on me. She doesn’t care about me…. No one cares about me.” His voice breaks on the last sentence.

You look at him with pity and something deeper swimming in your gaze, but he doesn’t know how to pinpoint it, you urge him to continue so he does.

He chuckles, but it’s humorless. “It’s more than that. You don’t know what it means to me, Y/N. Just… knowing there’s someone who gives a damn.”

Your heart skips a beat, but you play it cool. “Well, you look like you could use someone in your corner.”

He turns to you then, his gaze intense, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. The air between you feels charged, electric

“Why do you care so much?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

You hesitate, your pulse racing. “Maybe I just like seeing you smile.”

You’re the first person who has ever said that to him, and in that moment, he realizes that your silence is the only silence that doesn’t feel suffocating.

You look at him with such a deep emotion that it makes him go crazy, what are you doing to him? Why do you care about him so much?

You’ve been there for him since day one. You’re so comforting so kind and so nonjudgmental.

You listen to him rant, Complain, but you don’t say anything every time.

The more he looks at you, the more his heart keeps on thumping, inside his chest and alcohol just rushes through his body, and suddenly his pants feel so achingly tight.

The silence between you both is charged with tension, a tension that makes shivers go down his spine, you’re looking at him in a way that has him hallucinating that you want to lure him in.

He just wants to drown in your embrace, feel you in a way that no one has ever, he just wants to bury himself to hilt inside of you so maybe he can feel wanted again, and maybe he will feel safe for once.

His breath hitches, and before either of you can think better of it, his lips crash into yours.

•••

The back room of the café becomes a blur of heat and desperation as you both stumble in while he’s busy, shoving his tongue on your throat. It’s not tender—it’s raw, messy, driven by an ache neither of you can name. He breaks the kiss after it feels like hours, and he dips his head low and you feel his hot wet lips on your neck, His hands are rough against your skin, his lips leaving trails of bruises along your neck.

“Jungkook,” you whisper, your voice breaking as his hands grip your hips. It feels so fucking good. The desperation and the need is driving you insane.

You can feel his muscular body, he’s so perfect. You have dreamed of this moment for the longest time. But you never really thought that it would come true.

But as he kisses your neck, his lips burn on your skin. And that makes you realize that this is your reality. You are finally getting to live your dream.

You moan out his name again breathlessly gripping on his shoulders so tightly as he attacks your neck, whispers of his name leave your mouth, you’re getting breathless, just by him kissing your skin.

That’s how much you want him.

He doesn’t respond with words, only pulls you closer, his movements frantic. It’s as though he’s trying to drown in you, to forget everything outside of this moment.

His scent is so exotic, he’s always smelled so good whenever he’s visited the café, his son is so stronger it surrounds the whole café and right now you’re so close to him. It’s getting you high.

You know that he’s drunk, he’s so fucking drunk and vulnerable, but you cannot bring yourself to stop him, especially not when he pushes your panties down, his lips hot on your collarbones.

How can you bring yourself to stop him when he’s suddenly licking his fingers, as he takes them out you, you stare at him, they’re glistening with his Saliva.

He’s so beautiful and so handsome, and the most sexiest man you’ve ever seen.

You can only encourage him, and you do that, when he finally starts to push his two digits inside of you, your hips buck up.

You’re so fucking wet it’s embarrassing.

He scissors them inside of you, curling them inside your gummy walls, hitting that spot that has you seeing stars, immediately and he’s barely even started

“AGGH…” you moan out loudly, He groans at the sound, sinking his teeth in your neck once again, he’s so needy right now, you feel his body temperature burning.

You’re burning up too.

Jungkook whispers in your ear, “take off my boxers.”

And you do, after that you start stroking his hard thick length, he’s so big, as you stare down at it, you gasp because it’s leaking already and it’s angry.

He’s been neglected for the longest time, you actually hate his girlfriend, but good for you. You get to feel him inside you like this.

He’s hungry for this. As you finally start to do the magic of your hands, he lets out a guttural moan, it’s so loud, and it rings in your ears.

you love the sounds he’s making right now. He sounds so hot almost like an animal in heat.

But he starts fucking your hand furiously, you lift his head up from your neck to look at him and you just want to keep him with you forever

He’s so beautiful.

He’s drooling, his eyes are closed as he feels the pleasure that you are giving him, the pleasure that he’s been denied for the longest time.

“T-Thank you so much for this because you have no idea how much I need this you have no idea how much I need you… yn- ngh… I’ve been dreaming about this… how about you… and you feel so much better than my imagination”

Jungkook cannot wait anymore though, just as he’s close, he wraps your legs around his waist and gently removes your hand, kisses you hard as he shoves his cock in your warm pussy.

“Let me feel your pussy, I need you, baby…” he begs, you grip his shoulders and kiss his cheek. He lets out a shuddering breath once your heat cages him in.

He starts moving his hips at a really fast pace, he’s jackhammering into you, Jungkooks moaning is echoing throughout the back room.

“NGHH mhmm AHHHG…. AHHH…”

The pleasure that you’re feeling right now is the most that you’ve ever felt in your life and you never knew that you could feel this good while having sex.

The sex with him is feeling so hot, so good and so fucking raw.

He’s so big you can see it bulging from inside of you, you gasp.

“Cum… please Cum inside me.”

You press desperate kisses on his neck, and on the hollow of his throat He’s so vocal about this. So hot. And then he lets out a desperate mewl as he cums inside your cunt.

It’s hot, thick and full as he fills you up to brim.

But it’s starts leaking out because it’s so much, you can feel it running down your thighs.

“You felt a-ah… so fuckin good, yn.”

When it’s over, the two of you lie tangled together on the worn couch, your breaths mingling in the quiet.

“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly, his voice hoarse. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t,” you cut him off, resting a hand on his chest. “Don’t apologize.”

He looks at you, his eyes searching for something he can’t find.

“You’re not alone, Jungkook,” you say softly. “Not anymore.”

But as he drifts off to sleep, your words echo in his mind, and unease curls in his chest.

•••

The first rays of sunlight filter through the cracks in the blinds, casting faint streaks across the cramped backroom of the café. The room is quiet, save for the sound of Jungkook's breathing. He lies awake on the couch, staring at the ceiling, your head resting on his chest, your arm draped over him like a lifeline.

The memories of the night before play in his mind on an endless loop-your soft moans, the way your body had responded to his touch, how you had whispered his name like a prayer. He feels a pang of guilt, but not for what he did. He doesn't regret it. Not the way your warmth had pulled him from the cold void he'd been living in, not the way you made him forget the weight of the world for a few fleeting hours.

What eats at him is the realization that he used you-your body, your kindness, your feelings— for his own selfish needs. And yet, as much as the guilt gnaws at him, a darker truth lingers: it had felt so good. You had felt so good.

Your breathing changes, pulling him from his thoughts. You stir slightly, your fingers twitching against his chest before you lift your head to meet his gaze.

"Good morning," you say softly, your voice thick with sleep.

He swallows hard, unsure of what to say.

“Morning,” he replies, his voice quieter than he intends.

You sit up slowly, the blanket slipping from your shoulders as you adjust yourself on the edge of the couch. For a moment, neither of you speaks, the weight of what happened between you hanging in the air.

“Are you okay?” you ask finally, breaking the silence.

“I don't know,” he admits, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

You bite your lip, looking down at your lap. "Last night..."

“Wasn't supposed to happen,” he says, cutting you off.

You flinch slightly but force a small smile. “I know,” you murmur.

He sighs deeply, sitting up and leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “I don't regret it,” he says finally, his voice low.

Your head snaps up, your eyes wide with surprise.

“I don't regret being with you,” he continues, his tone softening. “But I regret... I regret that I used you. That I let my emotions... my loneliness take over. You didn't deserve that.”

You shake your head, reaching out to touch his arm. “Jungkook, you didn't use me. I wanted it too.”

He looks at you, his dark eyes filled with conflict.

“I know you did. But that doesn't make it right.”

You hold his gaze, your heart aching at the vulnerability in his expression. “It's not wrong either,” you whisper.

He exhales sharply, standing up and pulling on his jacket. “I need to think," he mutters. “I need to figure out what I'm doing.”

Jungkook walks through the quiet streets, the early morning chill biting at his skin. His mind is a storm of emotions-shame, guilt, longing. He knows he should be thinking about Mina, the case, about everything that's been spiraling out of control in his life. But all he can think about is you.

You, with your soft smile and kind eyes. You, who had welcomed him without judgment. You, who had given him a moment of solace in the chaos.

He doesn't regret being with you, but he regrets what it means. He regrets how easily you've slipped into the cracks of his carefully constructed walls.

And yet, even as he walks away, he knows he'll come back to you. He always does.

Meanwhile, you’re feeling the same… after he leaves you at the door as it shuts.

You sit on the couch long after Jungkook has gone, staring at the spot where he had been just minutes before. Your heart feels heavy, conflicted. Last night had been everything you'd ever wanted, but now it feels tainted by his guilt, his regret.

Still, you can't bring yourself to regret it. Not when it had felt so perfect, so right.

But as you move to the front of the café, preparing for the day ahead, you can't shake the feeling that something has shifted between you and Jungkook. And you're not sure if it's for better or worse.

But you do know that this was only the beginning and this is not gonna end ever and you don’t want to.

•••

A month goes by, he hasn’t visited the cafe after that night woth you, he’s started to get over Mina, The investigation starts to grow worse, the killer more mysterious than ever. Jungkook’s focus shifts entirely to the case, but the memory of that night with you lingers, a dangerous distraction. He avoids Mina entirely, his guilt toward her eclipsed by the tangled emotions he feels when he sees you.

It’s only a matter of time before everything comes crashing down.

•••

The night Jungkook slept with you still lingers in his mind, haunting him like a half-remembered dream, a moment of clarity and chaos all at once. He tells himself it was a mistake, that he was drunk, confused, and in need of something—someone—that wasn’t Mina. But he knows deep down, it was more than that. It was the kind of intimacy that made him feel human again, something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Yet, when he wakes up the next morning, reality settles back into place. He tries to push you out of his thoughts as he makes his way to work, but every time he passes by the café, he finds himself looking for you, wondering if you’re there. The guilt gnaws at him, but the emptiness inside makes him think about you again, just for a moment.

What Jungkook doesn’t know, what he can’t see, is that the girl behind the counter, the quiet barista with the warm smile, has already made up her mind. You’ve already planned it out.

Mina is your problem now.

Mina never did anything wrong. She never even knew the darkness that lurked beneath your calm exterior. To her, you were just another face behind the counter, the one who always smiled, who always gave her the right change with a soft chuckle. She was just another customer. But that was before you realized she was still with Jungkook, and that was the last straw.

Mina knows about your crush on Jungkook because, on several occasions in the past, Jungkook had brought her with him when he visited the café. It wasn’t frequent, but enough for Mina to catch on to the subtle tension that simmered between you and him.

You hadn’t meant to make it obvious, but every time Jungkook walked into the café, your demeanor shifted. You’d become a little more flustered, your heart would race, and your eyes would light up, especially when he greeted you with that easy smile. It didn’t take much for someone like Mina, who was always looking for cracks in the façade, to notice.

The first time Jungkook brought her in, you did your best to be casual, to act as though you weren’t paying any special attention to him.

But Mina, watching from across the table, saw how you seemed a little more eager, a little more careful with every cup you made for him. She observed how your voice softened when you spoke to him, how your hands trembled just slightly as you handed him his order. It wasn’t hard for her to figure it out: there was something more than just friendship between you two, even if it was unspoken.

After that day, Mina started coming in more frequently when she knew Jungkook would be there.

She made a point of sitting at a table near the counter, watching the subtle interactions between you two, almost like a game. It gave her a sense of satisfaction—of control—to see how much you cared for him, how much you tried to hide it.

What really gave Mina the final piece of the puzzle was the day Jungkook brought her in again. This time, the way you interacted with him was different. You didn’t hide your feelings as well. You weren’t as guarded. Maybe you thought Jungkook had stopped noticing, that you could just be yourself around him without it being awkward, but Mina saw through it.

She watched you smile at him a little too brightly, watched how your voice softened when you said his name.

That’s when she knew. She had been right all along.

From that point forward, Mina began to play with this knowledge, poking at you, dropping little comments here and there about Jungkook. It wasn’t out of genuine interest in your well-being.

No, Mina was the type who thrived on power, on knowing things others didn’t. She knew you had feelings for Jungkook, and she wasn’t above using that against you.

Mina wasn’t a regular customer, but she made it a point to come by whenever she knew Jungkook would be there. She’d sit back, watch, and wait for you to slip up—because she knew it wouldn’t be long before you showed just how much you cared.

You watch her from the back of the café, your fingers tightening around the edge of the counter as she orders another coffee, laughs too loudly at something a friend says, her smile a little too bright.

You’re not the type to go unnoticed, not anymore. You’ve made sure of it. But this girl? She’s everything you’re not. Beautiful, untainted. Her life is easy—untainted by secrets or shame. But that life is a lie. And she doesn’t deserve it.

The tension builds like a slow-burning fuse as the afternoon wears on. Your hand shakes as you wipe down the counter, the hum of the coffee machine loud in your ears.

Mina doesn’t know how much you hate her. Doesn’t know that she’s the one thing standing between you and what you’ve convinced yourself is yours. Jungkook.

The thought of him with her, the way he always turns to her in the café, makes your stomach twist. You wish she’d just disappear. So, that’s exactly what you’ll do.

•••

The café is quiet as you lock up for the night.

The faint hum of the city lingers in the distance, but it doesn't reach your small sanctuary.

It's been a month since the night with Jungkook, and though he hasn't been back to the café in days, the memory of him is enough to send a shiver through your body.

You've noticed changes-small ones at first. A nauseous unease in the mornings, a fatigue that you can't shake. Tonight, though, you can't ignore the obvious anymore. Your period is late

far too late.

When you get home, you head straight for the drawer where you hid the pregnancy test. It had been an impulsive purchase a few days ago, something you hadn't wanted to face until you

absolutely had to.

The bathroom feels impossibly quiet as you take the test, sitting on the edge of the tub and waiting for the results. Seconds stretch into an eternity. When the lines appear, bold and unmistakable, the air leaves your lungs.

Your mind races. The weight of the word sinks into your chest. It's him. Jungkook. That night.

The night when everything felt like it could finally belong to you. But now, this?

Panic bubbles inside you, but it's swallowed by something darker, more visceral.

Mina's face flashes in your mind, and it's as if the pregnancy test has turned her shadow into a living, breathing entity. She's always there, always hovering around the edges of your thoughts, a reminder of what you'll never truly have.

She broke up with Jungkook that night. You've pieced that much together. She left him, but her presence still looms over you.

It's her fault you feel this way. Her fault that Jungkook can't be entirely yours.

Before you realize it, you're out the door again, the pregnancy test left abandoned on the counter. The idea takes root in your mind with terrifying clarity.

Mina's address isn't hard to find. She used to post pictures from home-soft, curated glimpses of her perfect life.

The city streets blur as you drive. Your fingers tighten on the wheel as adrenaline floods your veins.

When you pull up to her house, the world feels unnervingly still. The house is modest but exudes her curated style, clean and pristine. A pang of rage surges through you.

You knock softly at first. When there's no response, you knock louder, your fist trembling against the wood. Finally, the door opens.

Mina stands there in a loose sweatshirt and leggings, her hair tied back, and her expression instantly hardens when she sees you.

“What are you doing here?” she says sharply, her voice cutting through the air.

You don't answer. You push past her, stepping into her living room without waiting for an invitation. She whirls around, glaring at you.

“Excuse me?” Mina snaps, her hands on her hips. "You can't just barge in here-"

But you're not listening. Your focus sharpens as you glance around the room, taking in the perfection of it all. Everything she's built, everything she's taken from you without even knowing it.

“You ruined him,” you say suddenly, your voice low and trembling.

Mina freezes, her brows furrowing. “What are you talking about?”

“You don't deserve him,” you continue, stepping closer. The words spill out, raw and jagged. You never did. You threw him away.”

Mina's eyes widen, and for the first time, there's a flicker of unease in her expression. “Are you insane?” she says, backing up slightly. “This has nothing to do with you.”

But it does. It has everything to do with you.

The knife is in your pocket, cold and heavy against your palm as you pull it out. Mina's eyes go wide, and she lets out a sharp gasp.

“Y/N, stop. What are vou doing?” she says, her voice trembling now, you see fear in her eyes, and that is so satisfying

“I'm taking back what's mine,” you whisper, stepping forward.

Mina screams as you lunge, but she's fast. Her nails rake across your arm as she tries to push you away, drawing blood. The knife slips from your grasp briefly, clattering to the floor, and the two of you struggle, crashing into the coffee table.

She fights harder than you expected. Her fists hit your sides, her nails digging into your skin.

But your rage is stronger, a blinding force that drives you forward.

Finally, you grab the knife again, plunging it into her chest. The scream chokes in her throat, her hands flailing weakly as you press the blade deeper.

The fight leaves her body, her eyes glazing over as she crumples to the floor.

You stand there, panting, your body trembling with adrenaline. Blood pools around her, staining the pristine floor, and it's then you notice the streaks of red on yor wn arms.

Her nails. She scratched you.

Your breath quickens as the reality sets in. You grab a dishcloth from the kitchen, wrapping it around your arm to staunch the bleeding.

You leave quickly, your mind racing. The blood you've left behind is a risk, but it's done now.

She's gone.

As you drive away, the silence in the car feels deafening. You glance at your bandaged arm, your chest heaving with a mix of fear and exhilaration.

It's over. She's gone.

But the faint, nagging thought of the blood you've left behind lingers in the back of your mind, a seed of doubt that you can't shake.

•••

The next day, Jungkook’s phone rings with the news. Mina’s body is found in at her home reported by the neighbors, discarded like a broken toy. The details of her murder are grisly—so much blood, so many signs of a struggle. But there’s something more. Something that gnaws at him,

He doesn’t know it yet, And Jungkook has no idea how close he is to the one thing he’s been hunting.

As he visits the scene of the crime, his heart heavy with guilt over his own sins, the truth starts to swirl around him, each clue pulling him closer to you. But you are always just one step ahead.

And you’re not finished yet.

•••

Jungkook stands at the edge of the crime scene, Mina’s home. Familiar home, his mind racing as he watches the forensic team finish their work. Mina’s body has been taken away, but something about the scene feels unfinished—unnerving. As the team packs up, the lingering sense of wrongness creeps into his chest.

He takes a few more steps into the room, his eyes scanning every inch.

The silence is heavy, thick with the smell of blood, and something else, something he can’t quite place. He feels like he’s being watched even though he’s the only one left. His gut instinct tells him there’s more to find, something hidden beneath the surface.

“Detective Jeon,” a voice calls out, pulling him from his thoughts. He turns to see Officer Lee, the junior detective, holding a small evidence bag.

“What is it?” Jungkook asks, his voice tight with impatience.

“Sir,” Lee continues, stepping closer. “We found something odd in the kitchen area, near the counter. It’s fresh blood, but it doesn’t match the scene at all. It’s… different.”

Jungkook raises an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “What do you mean, different?”

Lee’s face shifts, his expression nervous. “It’s not the same consistency as the blood we’ve been seeing from the victims. It seems… newer, almost as if it wasn’t part of the original violence.”

Jungkook’s heart skips a beat. The blood. It’s almost like the killer made a mistake. He follows Lee to the kitchen, where they find the dark stain on the floor. It’s small but unmistakable, a sharp contrast against the faded red of the rest of the scene.

He kneels down, his gloved fingers brushing the edges of the stain. The blood is darker than what they’ve seen from the victim, almost as though it’s been there for some time—but that doesn’t make sense. He knew Mina was killed just hours ago.

“Is this from the victim?” Jungkook asks, still focused on the stain.

“We don’t think so,” Lee replies, his tone uncertain. “It’s not consistent with the rest of the scene.”

Jungkook’s eyes narrow. “It looks fresh.”

His instincts kick in. Something is off, and he knows it’s not just the stain. His gaze lingers on the blood. He needs to know more. If this is part of the same pattern, then they’re dealing with something entirely different.

“Send it to forensics,” he orders. “Get it tested immediately. I need to know what we’re dealing with.”

Hours pass before Jungkook finds himself in the sterile white of the forensics lab, waiting as the technician works quickly to process the blood sample they’ve retrieved from the crime scene.

He stands by, his mind on edge, feeling the pull of the unknown tightening its grip. The room is quiet, save for the hum of machinery and the faint clicking of keyboards as the technician runs the test.

Finally, the technician hands Jungkook a printed report. Jungkook takes it with a calmness he doesn’t feel, his fingers trembling ever so slightly as he scans the document.

The results are like a slap in the face.

The blood—this blood—belongs to a woman.

His chest tightens as he rereads the details. But it’s not just any woman. The test shows the presence of hormone levels consistent with early pregnancy.

A pregnant woman.

The words blur before his eyes. His mind struggles to make sense of it. Pregnant? How could it be?

This isn’t just some random woman who happened to get involved in the case. This is a pregnant woman. The kind of detail that changes everything.

He stares at the report in stunned silence. Mina’s murder doesn’t fit with any of the previous patterns, but this… this is a whole new level of complexity. And, despite his growing confusion, Jungkook can’t shake the nagging thought that the killer might be someone unexpected—someone who’s been hiding in plain sight.

Jungkook’s mind races as he pieces everything together. The fact that the blood belongs to a pregnant woman is huge. It feels like a lead that could take him in an entirely new direction, but there’s something else gnawing at him. A suspicion he can’t quite shake.

It’s the note he found on Mina’s body. The strange connection between the killings. Every victim has had a twisted background, all male, all with histories of violence or crime. But Mina… she was an exception. A woman. And she wasn’t involved in the same kind of criminal activity.

His gut is telling him something isn’t right. He’s seen this before—when his intuition is pushing him toward an answer, even when he doesn’t have all the pieces. And now, with this new revelation about the blood, that nagging feeling is only growing stronger.

Could the killer be a woman? Could the killer be pregnant? The thought unsettles him, but it makes sense. Perhaps this is the killer’s twist—targeting those who have wronged others, who’ve hurt people in the most vicious ways, while hiding behind a carefully crafted disguise.

As he stands there, staring at the test results, a chilling realization slowly begins to creep in. He hasn’t even begun to connect the dots. He hasn’t yet put it all together.

And the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes the one thing that’s been staring him in the face all along: someone close to him could be hiding this terrible secret.

But he doesn’t know who that is yet.

The blood. The pregnancy. The mysterious nature of Mina’s death—everything points to a killer who’s been hidden from view. Someone who’s not just playing a part in this sick game but is actively controlling the strings.

Jungkook takes one last look at the report in his hand. The piece of paper seems to burn with the weight of its revelation.

“Pregnant,” he mutters under his breath, the word tasting bitter in his mouth. “Who could it be?”

Jungkook’s thoughts are muddled. He hasn’t even considered the possibility that someone he knows could be involved. But the facts keep leading him in that direction.

With every passing second, the answer feels closer, yet farther away. All Jungkook knows for certain is that this case is far more complicated than he ever imagined.

And the killer is closer than he thinks.

•••

That night? he decides to visit his favorite coffee place again

The café is dimly lit, the warm golden glow of the overhead lights casting long shadows across the empty tables. It’s late—well past closing time for most places—but you’re still here. You’ve started staying later than usual, lingering in the quiet of your sanctuary, unable to go home to the lingering guilt of what you’ve done.

You’re wiping down the counter when the bell above the door chimes. The sound startles you, breaking through the silence. When you look up, it’s him.

Jungkook.

He’s standing in the doorway, his hair slightly disheveled, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. It’s been a month since that night, and he hasn’t been back since. Seeing him now feels like a punch to the chest, and for a moment, you can’t breathe.

“Jungkook,” you say softly, your voice barely audible. “You’re here again after a long time..”

He offers a small, tired smile as he steps inside, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. “Hey,” he says, his voice low and gravelly. “I know it’s late… but are you still making coffee?”

You nod quickly, trying to push down the rising emotions threatening to choke you. “Of course. For you? Always.”

He sits at his usual spot near the counter, leaning back in the chair as he watches you move around the machine. The silence between you is thick, weighted with everything unsaid.

As you hand him the cup, his fingers brush against yours. The contact is brief but electric, sending a shiver up your spine. He takes a sip, his eyes closing as he lets out a soft sigh.

“This is exactly what I needed,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

You can’t hold it in anymore. The words burst from your lips before you can stop them. “I need to tell you something.”

He looks up at you, his brows furrowing slightly. “What is it?”

Your hands tremble as you grip the counter for support. You’ve been rehearsing this in your head for days, but now, with him sitting there, the reality of it feels overwhelming.

“I’m… I’m pregnant,” you say finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

The words hang in the air, and for a moment, his expression is unreadable. He sets the cup down slowly, staring at you like he’s trying to piece together what you just said.

“What?” he says finally, his voice low and filled with disbelief.

You swallow hard, nodding. “It’s yours, Jungkook. From that night.”

His breath hitches, and he leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. “Pregnant,” he repeats, almost to himself. The weight of the revelation sinks in, his eyes flicking to your stomach before meeting your gaze again.

“That’s… that’s a lot to process,” he says finally, his tone careful.

“But.. promise that I won’t abandon you… I will take full responsibility.. don’t worry… I’m so sorry”

You’re about to say something—anything to break the tension—when his gaze drops to your arm. His brows knit together as he notices the faint, raw scratches peeking out from beneath your sleeve.

“What happened to your arm?” he asks, his tone shifting, more alert now.

Your heart skips a beat, panic rising in your chest. You pull your sleeve down instinctively, hiding the marks. “It’s nothing,” you say quickly, too quickly.

He doesn’t look convinced. His eyes narrow slightly as he studies you. “Those look fresh,” he says, his voice sharp. “Did someone hurt you?”

“No,” you say firmly, forcing a laugh. “I’m just clumsy, that’s all.”

Jungkook doesn’t respond immediately. He just watches you, his gaze searching, like he’s trying to read the truth in your expression.

“Y/N,” he says finally, his voice soft but insistent. “If something’s going on, you need to tell me.”

You shake your head, plastering on a smile that feels more like a mask. “It’s nothing, really. You don’t have to worry.”

But he doesn’t look convinced. His jaw tightens, and he leans forward slightly, his fingers drumming against the edge of the table.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice low.

You nod quickly, avoiding his gaze. “I promise. Everything’s fine.”

He doesn’t press further, but the tension in the air is palpable. You can feel his eyes on you as you turn away, pretending to busy yourself with cleaning.

The rest of the conversation is stilted, awkward. He finishes his coffee quickly, his movements stiff and deliberate.

“I should go,” he says finally, standing up and sliding the cup toward you. “Thanks for the coffee.”

You nod, forcing a smile as you watch him leave. The door swings shut behind him, and the silence that follows is deafening.

You lean against the counter, your legs trembling beneath you. The scratches on your arm burn as if in reminder. You knew this moment would come, but now that it has, you feel the weight of everything crashing down around you.

He doesn’t suspect you—not yet. But the way he looked at you, the questions he asked… it’s only a matter of time.

•••

Jungkook sits at his desk in the dimly lit precinct, the case file for Mina’s murder spread out before him. His mind is a storm, every detail looping back to the one piece of evidence he can’t shake—the fresh blood at the crime scene, identified as belonging to a pregnant woman.

He had brushed it off at first, thinking maybe it was some unknown accomplice or a bizarre twist in the killer’s pattern. But now, after his late-night visit to the café, everything feels like it’s coming together in ways he wishes it wouldn’t.

His hands clench into fists as he remembers Y/N’s confession.

And then there were the scratches.

They’d looked raw, fresh—exactly like the kind of defensive wounds a victim might leave behind. He tries to dismiss the thought. It’s Y/N, he tells himself. Sweet, shy Y/N, who wouldn’t hurt a fly. But the evidence won’t let him go.

The blood. The scratches. Her sudden nervousness, the way she pulled her sleeve down, the way she avoided his eyes when he asked her about it.

Jungkook takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He doesn’t want to believe it—doesn’t even want to entertain the thought. But as an inspector, he knows he can’t ignore the signs.

He flips through the photos from the crime scene, his eyes lingering on the smear of blood leading away from Mina’s body. The forensic team had confirmed it didn’t belong to Mina, and it wasn’t old enough to have been left by anyone else.

It had to be the killer’s.

He leans back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling. His mind races with conflicting thoughts—his duty to the case, his growing feelings for Y/N, and the sickening possibility that they might be connected in ways he can’t yet comprehend.

“Jeon,” his partner calls from across the room, breaking his train of thought. “Anything new?”

Jungkook shakes his head, snapping the file shut. “No,” he lies. “Still piecing it together.”

But inside, he knows he can’t ignore this.

The next night, Jungkook finds himself back at the café. It’s late again, and the streets are quiet, save for the occasional hum of a passing car. He tells himself he’s just here for coffee, to clear his head. But deep down, he knows that’s not true.

Y/N is behind the counter, her movements slower than usual, as if weighed down by something unseen. She startles when she sees him walk in, her eyes wide, but she quickly masks it with a smile.

“Back again?” she asks, her voice trembling slightly.

He nods, offering a small smile of his own. “Couldn’t stay away. You make the best coffee, remember?”

She laughs softly, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. He watches her closely as she moves, noticing the way she avoids his gaze, the way she keeps her sleeves tugged down over her wrists.

When she sets the cup in front of him, he doesn’t drink right away. Instead, he leans forward, resting his elbows on the counter.

“Y/N,” he says softly, his voice steady but probing.

She looks up at him, her smile faltering. “Yeah?”

“You never told me how you got those scratches,” he says, his tone casual but his eyes sharp.

Her breath catches, and he sees the flicker of panic in her expression before she quickly masks it. “I told you,” she says lightly. “I’m clumsy.”

“Clumsy enough to leave marks like that?” he presses, his gaze unrelenting.

Her hands tremble slightly as she picks up a cloth and starts wiping down the counter. “Why are you asking?” she says, her tone defensive.

He leans back, his jaw tightening. “Just curious. You know, with everything going on… people getting hurt. Makes me worry.”

She doesn’t respond, her focus fixed on the counter. The tension between them is thick, the silence stretching uncomfortably.

“I’m fine,” she says finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

But Jungkook isn’t convinced. Every instinct in him is screaming that something is wrong, that she’s hiding something. And yet, despite everything, a part of him doesn’t want to believe it.

“Okay,” he says finally, his tone softening. “If you say so.”

But as he leaves the café that night, the weight of his suspicions feels heavier than ever. The blood, the scratches, her nervousness—it all lines up too perfectly to ignore.

Jungkook walks slowly back to his car, his mind swirling with thoughts he doesn’t want to entertain. He stops just short of the driver’s seat, leaning against the door and staring at the dark street ahead.

The Y/N he knows—the one he’s been drawn to, the one who seemed so kind, so unassuming—couldn’t possibly be capable of this. Could she?

He slams his fist lightly against the roof of the car, frustration boiling under his skin. He doesn’t want to doubt her. But the evidence doesn’t lie.

That same night, Jungkook decides to dive deeper into the case. He returns to the precinct and retrieves the forensic report on the blood found at Mina’s home. He’s read it before, but now, with fresh eyes, he scans the details again.

The report confirms it: the blood belongs to a pregnant woman. The realization sends a chill down his spine.

Jungkook rubs a hand over his face, exhaustion creeping in as he tries to piece it all together. The killer had left no other trace—no prints, no DNA—just this blood. It was careless, uncharacteristic of someone who had been so meticulous with the other murders.

Why now? he wonders.

The connection feels tenuous at best, but the scratches on Y/N’s arm flash in his mind again, and he can’t ignore the unease building in his chest.

“Jeon,” his partner calls from his desk, interrupting his thoughts. “You’re still here? Go home, man. You’ve been at this for weeks.”

Jungkook forces a nod, shutting the file and grabbing his coat. “Yeah, I’m going,” he mutters.

But he doesn’t go home.

Instead, he drives back to Mina’s house, parking a short distance away and stepping out into the cold night. The crime scene has long since been cleared, but he needs to see it again, needs to feel it.

The house looms dark and silent, a grim reminder of what had happened within its walls. He steps closer, his boots crunching against the gravel as he shines his flashlight across the ground.

And then he sees it—a faint stain on the walkway leading away from the house.

His heart pounds as he kneels down, pulling on gloves and carefully swabbing the dried blood. It’s faint but fresh enough to have gone unnoticed during the initial sweep.

He stands, staring at the swab in his hand. It could be nothing, a stray smear left behind by someone from the forensics team. But it could also be something.

Someone.

As he slips the evidence into a bag, his mind circles back to Y/N. The scratches. Her sudden announcement. The way she seemed so on edge, so unlike herself.

The thought makes his stomach twist painfully. He doesn’t want to believe it, but the pieces are falling into place, and the picture they’re forming is one he can’t ignore.

He gets back into his car, gripping the steering wheel tightly. His next steps are clear: have the blood tested again, cross-reference it, and get answers.

But for now, he sits in the dark, staring out at the empty street,

Caught between his duty as an inspector and the growing fear that the woman he’s falling for might be the one he’s been chasing all along.

•••

It’s been days since Jungkook swabbed the blood at Mina’s crime scene. Days of sleepless nights, staring at reports, running DNA tests, and trying to ignore the tightening noose of suspicion around Y/N.

The results came back that morning. The blood is a match. A match for the mysterious pregnant killer. A match for Y/N, You.

The words on the report burn into his mind, but he can’t bring himself to process them fully. Instead, he spends hours driving aimlessly through Seodaemun-gu, circling back to the café before stopping outside Y/N’s small apartment.

He’s not sure what he’s going to say, or do. The woman he’s fallen for—who is carrying his child—has killed at least eighteen people, including Mina. But the thought of turning you in feels like a betrayal he’s incapable of.

Jungkook climbs the steps to your door, his heart pounding so hard he’s sure you’ll hear it the moment he knocks.

The door opens almost immediately, and Y/N’s face lights up in surprise. “Jungkook,” you say softly, but there’s a tension in your voice, as if you’ve been expecting this moment.

He steps inside without asking, closing the door behind him. His eyes scan the room, searching for something—anything that might confirm what he already knows.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you say, your voice low. You move to the small kitchen, your movements stiff.

“Y/N,” he says, his voice calm but firm. “We need to talk.”

You freeze, your back to him, her hand resting on the counter. “About what?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, instead stepping closer. “You already know what.”

Y/N turns to face him, Your expression guarded. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jungkook.”

“Don’t,” he says, his tone sharper than he intends. He exhales slowly, trying to keep his emotions in check. “I know, Y/N. About Mina. About all of it.”

Your face pales, and for a moment, you doesn’t respond. Then you cross your arms, your gaze steady but wary. “You’re mistaken,” you say evenly.

“I’m not,” he replies. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out the forensic report, dropping it onto the table. “This is your blood. At Mina’s house. You were there.”

Y/N’s breath catches, and you looks down at the report, your hands trembling. “It’s not what you think,” you whisper,

“Then tell me what it is!” His voice rises, the frustration and desperation spilling out. “Because the evidence says you killed her, Y/N. It says you’ve killed all of them.”

She doesn’t deny it. Instead, she steps back, her hands gripping the edge of the counter as if to steady herself. “I did it,” she says quietly, her voice breaking. “But they deserved it, Jungkook. Every single one of them.”

He stares at her, the weight of her confession hitting him like a freight train. “Mina didn’t deserve it,” he says, his voice hollow.

Her eyes fill with tears, and she shakes her head. “She broke you, Jungkook. She hurt you. And I couldn’t—”

“That wasn’t your decision to make!” he shouts, his voice cracking with emotion. “You had no right!”

Silence falls between them, heavy and suffocating. Y/N’s tears spill over, but she doesn’t move, doesn’t try to defend herself further.

Jungkook rubs a hand over his face, his thoughts spiraling. He knows what he should do—what his duty demands. But when he looks at her, at the woman carrying his child, he feels nothing but agony.

“I’m pregnant,” she says suddenly, her voice trembling.

“I know,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

“SERIOUSLY YN What the fuck have you done? I fell in love with a psychotic killer. FUCK!”

She flinches at his tone, her tears falling harder. “I didn’t mean for this to happen,” she says, her voice cracking. “I just, I couldn’t let them keep hurting people. I couldn’t let her keep hurting you.”

Jungkook closes his eyes, her words tearing through him. When he finally looks at her again, his expression is unreadable. “Do you understand what you’ve done?” he asks, his voice quiet but laced with pain.

“Yes,” she whispers.

“You’ve destroyed everything,” he says, his voice breaking.

She sobs, collapsing into a chair. “I didn’t mean to destroy you, Jungkook. I—”

“You didn’t destroy me,” he cuts her off, his tone icy. “You destroyed us.”

The room falls silent again, the weight of his words suffocating them both.

Finally, he speaks, his voice hollow. “I can’t turn you in, Y/N. I should, but I can’t. Because I—” He stops himself, shaking his head as if to dispel the thought. “But I need you to know that what you’ve done… it’s unforgivable.”

She looks up at him, her tear-streaked face full of anguish. “Then what happens now?”

Jungkook stares at her for a long moment, his jaw clenched, his hands trembling. “I don’t know,” he says finally, his voice barely audible. “I don’t know.”

And with that, he turns and walks out, leaving her alone with her guilt and the devastating weight of what she’s done.

•••

He takes a lot of Days to think about what he’s gonna do next, the truth is that he’s fallen too deeply in love with you to turn you in especially since he found out that you’re pregnant and as fucked up as it sounds, but the way you confessed to him that you killed Mina because she had hurt him,

It switched something inside him.. no one has ever gone that far for him.

You’re expecting his child

He has to do something to save you. He cannot turn you in no matter what.

So he decides to do something, a week later.

Jungkook sits alone in his car, parked a block away from the station. The stack of case files sits on the passenger seat, the details of eighteen brutal murders outlined in gruesome detail. At the top of the stack is Mina’s file.

The weight of what he’s about to do crushes his chest, but he’s made his decision.

If you go down, you take his child with you. You take him with you.

He exhales sharply, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. He’s always been a by-the-book cop, but the moment he fell for Y/N, that part of him started to crumble. Now, he’s about to destroy what’s left of it.

He enters the station with confidence and a mask.

The precinct buzzes with energy as Jungkook walks in, the familiar hum of chatter and clacking keyboards filling the air. His partner, Detective Choi, greets him with a nod.

“Got something for me, Jeon?” Choi asks, leaning back in his chair.

Jungkook sets the files down on his desk, forcing a calm expression. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ve been looking into a lead.”

Choi raises an eyebrow. “A lead? We’ve been spinning our wheels on this for months. What kind of lead?”

Jungkook opens Mina’s file, pulling out the report he fabricated the night before. He had spent hours doctoring evidence, crafting a story that would absolve Y/N of suspicion.

“This,” he says, handing the report to Choi.

Choi scans the document, his expression shifting from skepticism to curiosity. “A drug connection?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook lies smoothly. “I traced the source of the drug found in all the victims to a trafficking ring operating out of Incheon. It’s messy, but I think one of their enforcers is responsible for the killings.”

Choi frowns, flipping through the pages. “An enforcer who kills eighteen people, including Mina, and just disappears?”

“That’s the thing,” Jungkook says, leaning in. “I think they’ve already been eliminated. Internal cleaning. It explains why the killings stopped after Mina’s case.”

It’s a bold lie, but Jungkook delivers it with conviction, weaving in just enough plausible details to make it stick. He knows Choi is sharp, but he also knows his partner is tired of this case. They all are.

Choi nods slowly, handing the report back. “It’s a stretch, but it tracks. You’re saying we close this case on the assumption the killer’s dead?”

Jungkook shrugs, feigning indifference. “Unless you’ve got a better lead, I don’t see another option. The evidence lines up. It’s messy, but it fits.”

Choi exhales heavily, rubbing his temples. “Fine. I’ll run it by the chief.”

•••

The reaction is mixed. Some detectives are relieved to put the case behind them, satisfied with Jungkook’s explanation. Others grumble about loose ends and unanswered questions, but no one presses too hard.

“Good work, Jeon,” the chief says, clapping him on the shoulder. “You’ve been on this for months. Go home. Get some rest.”

Jungkook forces a smile, nodding. “Thanks, chief.”

As he walks out of the precinct, he feels the weight of his actions settle over him. He’s betrayed his badge, his oath, and every victim in this case.

But he’s saved you.

But there’s still a lot of loose ends that he needs to tie up, especially to convince his department that the pregnant woman was a pawn.

He needs to do something really convincing, and soon because time is running out.

•••

After a lot of days later, you’re almost now almost two pregnant, Jungkook hasn’t visited you after that confrontation and you think that maybe he’s abandoned you and maybe he’s gonna arrest you but you’re ready to pay for your sins.

You know what you were getting into when you decided to do this and you don’t regret killing any one of them.

Especially not Mina

Only if you had any idea… about what is happening around you…

 The apartment is quiet when Jungkook arrives. The air feels thick with tension, the kind that comes from unsaid words, from everything that’s been building up for weeks, months even.

He’s been here before, countless times, but tonight feels different. It’s as if the weight of everything that’s happened has finally caught up to him. The lies. The murder. The twisted love you’ve both been hiding from.

You’re sitting at the kitchen table when he walks in, a cup of cold coffee in front of you, untouched. The dim light casts long shadows across your face,

making you look almost ethereal, but there’s a darkness in your eyes that he hasn’t seen before. He doesn’t know whether it’s the guilt or the truth that lingers between you both, but it’s there. It’s palpable.

You don’t stand up when he enters. You don’t even look at him at first. Instead, your fingers trace the rim of the cup absentmindedly, like you’re lost in thought, deciding what to say. Or maybe deciding if you should say anything at all.

“You’re here,” you say finally, your voice quiet, almost resigned. “I was wondering when you’d come.”

Jungkook closes the door behind him, his breath heavy. The sight of you is almost too much to bear.

He feels the pull, the urgency of everything that’s been building up since that night at the café. But there’s something else too. Something darker. The guilt. The secret he’s been keeping. The knowledge that he’s closing his eyes to the truth.

“I had to,” he replies, his voice hoarse. His eyes move to you, scanning your face, trying to find the woman he once thought he understood, the one who wasn’t a murderer. But now, nothing seems as simple as it once did.

You finally look up, your eyes meeting his, and for a brief moment, he sees it. The crack in your facade. The vulnerability that you’ve been hiding. But it’s fleeting. Quickly masked by that cold, calculating expression he’s learned to fear.

“You did what you had to?” you echo, a bitter smile tugging at your lips. “Funny. I didn’t know I was something you had to protect.”

Your stomach twists, guilt washing over you as you feel the weight of your words. The truth that he’s been avoiding hits you like a punch to the gut.

“I didn’t want to…,” he starts, his words faltering. “I didn’t want any of this. But I couldn’t let you go. Not after everything.”

You smile, but it’s not a smile at all. It’s a mask. A shield you’ve put up, but he sees through it. Just like he’s starting to see through everything you’ve done.

“Why didn’t you let me go, Jungkook?” you ask, standing slowly, your eyes never leaving his. You take a step toward him, the space between you narrowing with every heartbeat. “Because of your guilt? Or because you want me? Because you want us?”

Jungkook feels the heat rising in his chest, his body tense, his hands balled into fists at his sides. He wants to deny it, wants to tell you that it’s not like that, but the truth is too raw to ignore. He’s in too deep. He’s in love with you.

“I…” he hesitates, struggling with the words that seem impossible to say. “I don’t know what to believe anymore, Y/N. But I want you. More than anything.”

The words hang in the air between you both, thick with tension. You step closer, the space between you vanishing entirely. Your breath is warm against his skin as you raise a hand to his chest, tracing a line down to the hem of his shirt.

“Then why do you keep pretending like this is all just a mistake?” Your voice is soft now, a little breathless, but there’s something in it that makes his heart race even faster. “You know what I’ve done. You know the truth. So why are we still playing this game?”

His chest tightens as he stares into your eyes, the question echoing in his mind. Why are we still playing this game?

He’s already crossed too many lines, already made choices that can’t be undone. He’s in love with you, and that’s the only truth he can hold onto right now. But the guilt, the knowledge of what you’ve done—it’s suffocating him.

“I’m here because I don’t have a choice,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. “I’ve already made my choice. And it’s you.”

You look at him, your gaze calculating, but something flickers in your eyes. Relief? Or is it something darker? He can’t tell anymore.

“You don’t have to choose between me and the truth, Jungkook,” you say, stepping even closer until you’re inches apart. “The truth is… we belong together. In everything we’ve done. In everything we’ll do.”

The words send a shiver through him. There’s no going back now. He knows it. You know it.

His hands reach for you, pulling you into him, and your lips meet in a kiss that is desperate and consuming. He’s not thinking anymore. He’s not questioning. He’s just here, with you, drowning in everything that’s pulled you both together.

When you finally break apart, his breath is ragged, his chest heaving. Your hands rest on his shoulders, your eyes dark with something he can’t quite place.

“I’ll do anything for you,” he says, his voice hoarse, the words pouring out of him without thought.

“I know,” you reply softly, your fingers brushing against his neck. “And I’ll do anything for you too. But we have to be honest with each other now. No more lies.”

He nods, the weight of your words sinking into his bones. There’s no turning back now. “Jungkook.. you know it was a big skill investigation rate. How did you even convince your department to close the case tell me what did you do.”

He looks at you and smiles

He’s made his choice.

“Okay fine I will tell you.”

The investigation was closing in, and with each passing day, the walls seemed to close in tighter around Jungkook. The blood—so carefully planted at Mina’s crime scene—was becoming a ticking time bomb, and the pressure to keep Y/N safe weighed heavily on him. His heart hammered in his chest every time the case came up in discussion, and he knew he had to take drastic measures.

He needed to shut it all down. Permanently.

That’s when it hit him: a recently discovered body in a nearby district. A woman—pregnant, recently deceased, and conveniently found under suspicious circumstances. She wasn’t the killer, but to Jungkook, she might as well have been. He could use her to frame the entire investigation.

When Jungkook visited the morgue that night, the body lay still on the cold steel table, a haunting reminder of the fragile line between life and death. The woman had died under mysterious circumstances, no clear motive, no clear suspect. And with her pregnancy, she was the perfect pawn.

Jungkook’s mind raced as he walked around the body, his eyes lingering on her swollen belly, her pale face, the indistinct bruises on her skin that told a story he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know. He felt a sharp pang in his chest, the ghost of guilt flickering behind his thoughts. But there was no time for hesitation. He needed this body.

In his mind, he already had a plan.

He would stage the scene, make it look like this woman was the killer. He’d plant evidence that suggested the woman had been linked to Mina’s death—trace amounts of blood, a few fingerprints in the wrong places. A well-placed piece of clothing or object to tie her to the scene. It was risky, but it was the only way to close the case without implicating Y/N.

The morgue attendant, a sleepy-eyed man who didn’t seem to care much for the dead, handed him the body without question. Jungkook took a deep breath, making sure his hands didn’t shake. He carefully moved the body, knowing exactly what he needed to do.

Hours later, the police were called to a new crime scene. It was the same as always—an empty alleyway with the body of a woman found in a position that suggested something far darker than a random attack. The crime scene looked eerily similar to the previous murders, and that’s exactly what Jungkook had hoped for.

His mind worked quickly, placing the body of the pregnant woman at the scene as though she had been the one to kill Mina. The blood trail leading away from her. A few well-placed items. The evidence was there, but just subtle enough to make it believable.

The next day, Jungkook presented the findings to the department. His colleagues seemed to buy it without much question.

The body of the pregnant woman, found near the alley where Mina had been murdered, in her own home, was identified as the suspect. The evidence—though still sparse—was enough to back up the theory he had fabricated.

“I’ve spoken with forensics,” Jungkook said, standing tall as the room buzzed with suspicion. “The blood found near Mina’s body and the scene where this woman was found confirms our theory. This woman, whoever she was, was clearly involved. And she was pregnant, which explains her connection to the killer we’ve been hunting.”

The room fell silent, the officers looking at each other in confusion. But Jungkook pressed on, pushing the narrative with an authoritative tone.

“She was part of the criminal network, no doubt. This is why the killer used her. She was a pawn, an expendable figure, dragged into something much larger.”

“But with her death, we’ve finally identified her role. She’s the one we were after.”

Jungkook’s voice was steady, rehearsed, convincing. He wasn’t just presenting evidence; he was weaving the story.

One of the officers, a sharp-eyed veteran named Park, raised an eyebrow, leaning forward with a skeptical look. “Are you sure, Jeon? This all seems… too neat. A little too perfect.”

Jungkook took a breath, pushing his doubts aside. “We have to tie it up. The evidence is there. It explains everything. And it leads us to believe that the killer is someone who knew how to manipulate the situation. A pregnant woman was used to distract us from the true killer.”

He met Park’s gaze, holding it long enough to send the message. There was no going back now. He had to make this work.

•••

After a lot of deliberation, and no further suspicions or clues, Jungkooks lie worked

But there were too many questions now. How far could he go before his lies caught up to him? Would the department ever suspect him, even if they’d closed the case?

And most importantly, how much longer could he keep this secret—his secret—hidden from everyone, especially from Y/N?

With the department’s approval, Jungkook walked away from the case, his mind heavy with the weight of the lies he’d told. But as whenever he looked at Y/N, the mother of his child, he knew that no matter what it took, he would do whatever it took to keep her from being discovered.

The announcement came in later that day: Case #178-C, the Seodaemun Serial Killings, officially closed.

The case was officially closed. The department was satisfied, the investigation wrapped up, and the media was ready to move on to the next headline. Jungkook, however, couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was unraveling. He had used the body of a pregnant woman, a victim in her own right, to save Y/N—and his own conscience.

And now you two, will be together forever, and it will be your own heaven where no one will ever disturb you both and your growing family.

Everything is fair in love and war after to all

And this was both.

The love stored in his heart and the war of his own conscious, and eventually the love for you and his heart lawn over the war in his conscious.

“So you see, yn? Start packing your bags. You’re moving in with me and we’re gonna get married and have a child and live happily ever after.”

He stares at you with a lot of love in his eyes, but there’s something darker and you recognize it because it’s such a familiar look

A look that you often saw in your own mirror.

You kiss him again and smile against his lips.

You will do anything for him and you know now that he will also do anything for you.

Everything was worth it.

He was always worth it.

And he knows for a fact that you’re always gonna be worth it

just saw talk of boxer au!gojo on twitter and i fear now i'm thinking about satoru—undefeated in his weight class, a sensation in the sport—gearing up for a fight against a fighter from the underground scene, ryomen sukuna, who's known to have seedy connections and to not fight fair. his opponents often end up hospitalized, or mysteriously retiring after his matches—and there are rumours that some meet even more sinister fates.

and you show up at gojo's training gym one night, long after the rest of his team has gone home and find him in the practice ring just laying on his back, his mitts tucked under his head like a pillow, asleep and totally at peace. you hesitate, not sure if you should disturb him, but eventually climb up onto the elevated platform of the ring. you slip through the ropes like you have a hundred—maybe a thousand—times before, and approach him quietly as not to wake him.

he strikes when you're within arm's reach, moving faster than you could ever hope to dodge even if you did anticipate it, and before you know it you're toppling down on top of him as he uses his body to break your fall—two strong arms cradling you to his bare chest.

"you weren't sleeping," you grumble into his neck sullenly, and you feel his chest lift with a laugh. "you tricked me."

"had to, otherwise you might've tried to run away." his hands pat down along your spine, then up over your shoulder blades, holding you tight. "couldn't risk that when you haven't been answering any of my calls."

he lets you pull away but only barely—just enough room to use his chest to push yourself up and look at him, but his hands on your hips keep you pinned in place where you straddle him. when you look down at him, at his pretty face and his bright eyes and the soft smile he always shows you, you feel like you might start crying again—just like the last time you were in this very gym a week prior. the gym whose route you could walk in your sleep, whose walls you have memorized with his name and trophies displayed proudly everywhere you look. Gojo. Gojo. Gojo. the same way the crowds at his fights chant for him and his triumph.

gojo—a name as familiar to you as it is foreign. it's his, but it's not. because the boy below you, staring up at you with that same lovesick expression you've never seen waver, will never be anything to you but satoru. means everything to you as satoru.

"it's not too late," you whisper, reaching up with a shaking hand and running your fingertips along the blush that sits high on his cheeks. "you can still call off the fight, there's still time."

satoru's expression shifts for a moment, so brief you may have missed it if you didn't know him so well. there's a flash of something behind his eyes that reads unmistakably like guilt. he dons a facade of petulance to mask it, his lip pursing in an exaggerated pout.

"i can't believe my own good luck charm doesn't think i can win against some loser," he whines, turning his face and nosing against the palm that was cupping his cheek.

it's not true. you believe in satoru unwaveringly, you know his skill and his abilities. your faith in him is, and always has been, implicit. it's his opponent you don't trust.

it's what the fight might cost him, regardless of the outcome, that terrifies you.

"hey."

your eyes focus again, and you meet satoru's gaze below you. he lifts his hand, cupping yours—so much smaller in comparison—underneath as he holds your touch against his face, pressing a kiss to your palm.

it's so impossibly still in the gym with everyone else gone, but everything about it is known to you. is wholly familiar. the dim fluorescents, the smell that lingers in the air, the hum of the fans, the sound of satoru's breath.

"stop worrying, okay?" he whispers against your skin, kissing your palm again to punctuate the request. "there's no way i'm gonna lose. i'm the strongest, after all."

and there's familiarity in those words too, since he's said them to you more times than you could ever hope to keep track of.

but this time they just don't seem to reassure you the same way.

࣪ ⊹ 𝐍𝐎 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐘 — tsukishima kei.

⁰¹ — 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈 : the best part of me…

part i summary : your winter trip was supposed to bring you a sense of relaxation and relief after the long fall semester. however, there's a bit of trepidation about seeing your long-time crush, daichi, for the first time after he introduced his new girlfriend. yet, you quickly find yourself wrapped in a much more complicated tryst than you had anticipated.

contains : fem reader (she / her pronouns), slight angst, mentions of unrequited feelings (reader → daichi), college au, friends to lovers, idiots to lovers, tension (romantic and unamed sexual), eventual smut (none in this part, mdni), mentions of anxiety, fake dating, misunderstandings, reader is shorter than tsukishima, teasing, pining tsukishima

a/n : this fic is definitely my baby and I hope you all enjoy it! i plan on having two parts, but it may turn into three if I cannot fit the smut in with the plot for next chapter! also, I pictured the until dawn lodge as the cabin in this fic, but I tried to make it as vague as possible for you all to imagine <3 reblogs / tags / comments are loved and appreciated! thank you so much to sweet risu for helping me whenever I got confused <3

word count : 14.6k

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There are many instances in life–different paths to take, different decisions to make–in which you do not come to understand their meaning until after they have passed. 

Looking back, you suppose this was the start of one of those instances. 

The sting of the cold is alleviated soon after you push open the large glass doors of the metropolitan museum–though the coolness of the door’s metal handle lingers on your skin. You can still feel the grooves pressed against your palm even as you walk through the main entrance, and you mindlessly run your thumb over the small indents to soothe them away. 

It’s strange–the echoing of your footsteps, the blatant sound of your footfalls; they bounce off the walls, ringing slightly in your ears as you make your way past the exhibits. With the evening sun dwindling behind you–the day’s last rays beaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows surrounding the front door–the shadows of the museum’s exhibits stretch across the hard, grey floor. Seeing a place usually teeming with gleeful families and exuberant, easily-excitable children devoid of people is almost eerie, but you find comfort in the vivid emptiness. 

The lights are dimmed as you traverse down the main hallway, and the excitement at what’s to come continues to swell inside your chest. You swiftly take a right until you spot the second door–somewhat propped open, allowing any outside viewers a peek inside the office. 

“Hey stranger,” you make your presence known, though the likelihood of surprising Tsukishima is slim to none. 

Leaning against the wooden doorframe, you cross your arms, waiting for your best friend to turn around and greet you with his usual charm of sarcasm and teasing. 

Tsukishima leans over his desk, shoving a book and miscellaneous supplies into his brown shoulder bag. The jacket he’d sported this morning–the same one he’d worn a week ago, before he spilled a splotch of coffee on the grey tweed–is already shrugged over his shoulders. It’s long, reaching down his back, framing his tall form in a way that compliments him. 

Not that you’d ever tell him that. 

“Sorry–we’re actually closed,” Tsuskishima is smug, throwing a lopsided smirk over his shoulder. His glasses fall down the bridge of his nose at the action, and he casually pushes them back into place with his pointer finger. “Didn’t you see the sign?

His attempts at teasing are lost on you; you scoff, rolling your eyes in such a manner that only comes from being friends with the tall man since your adolescent years. “There was no sign, actually,” you chide, hugging your arms to yourself. The cool chill is back–something that is not uncommon in such a large museum. Without the numerous people milling about, families having taken off an afternoon to explore and coo over the exhibits, the warmth that comes with so many bodies in a building is absent. 

Tsukishima furrows his brows as he finishes gathering his belongings. Turning to face you briefly, he grabs the gloves that hang on a small hook by the door, tugging the leather over his knuckles, pulling down until they cover his wrists. “Well, the sign is metaphorical; you can easily check our hours online. Besides–does anyone actually use ‘open’ and ‘closed’ signs anymore?” 

You shrug, lips downturned into a thoughtful look. You humor Tsukishima–your specialty. “I dunno. Small businesses, maybe. The restaurant down the street from Suga’s uses one,” you point out. 

Knowing his routine, you quickly snatch his thermos from his desk–the one he religiously uses for coffee and nothing else–and offer it to him with a supercilious grin. 

Tsukishima glares at you, though it holds no bite, before gratefully grasping the mug's handle. With a slight frown–a pout, by any other means–he opens the lid, taking a peek inside. He swirls the cup, and immediately, a woeful look crosses his features–empty. 

You hypothesize that the probable lack of coffee that usually lingers in the metal thermos will lead to a more easily irritable Tsukishima, and brace yourself accordingly.

“How do you even know that?” Tsukishima asks, astonishment evident in his tone. He doesn’t mask his surprise at the tiny bit of knowledge, though you do feel slighted by your best friend. 

“Are you really asking me that?” you retort, raising a brow in mock disbelief. Your tone is jokingly flat, as so to convey your feigned irritation. It’s notorious among your friend group that you hold an abundance of random, oftentimes useless, pieces of information. It’s a small thing, yes, but you blame it on your years of trivia night at the insistence of Yamaguchi–every Tuesday in the campus’s library and–if you’re lucky enough–you could even win a free parking voucher.

You’d won eight times throughout your tenured years at the university. 

“Okay, smartass.” With a huff, Tsukishima pulls the thick strap of the bag over his shoulder, motioning with one hand for you to relinquish your commandeering of the doorframe. Readily, you push off of it, moving to wait in the hallway as Tsukishima flicks off the light in his office with one hand, turning his back to you to close and lock the heavy door. 

“What–no ‘closed’ sign?” you bait him, though, with the lack of coffee in his cooled metal thermos, you take heed to continue with care and caution. 

“Careful there,” Tsukishima warns, ducking his head in to give you a scornful look. It has the opposite desired effect–you haven’t been intimidated by the tall man since you were years younger, and even then, it was always more of a kind of admiration. Instead, you merely grin. 

To be friends with Tsukishima Kei, you must have a certain amount of bite. 

“Alright, princess.” Your arms are still crossed, attempting to trap the body heat close to your chest. You’re becoming restless–more than ready to escape the large, echoing, empty museum, looking forward to the warmth his car will provide. “Let’s get you some coffee. Have to get you more amicable before we join the masses.”

“Princess?” he glares, adjusting his grip on the handle of his tumbler. You bite back the urge to laugh as Tsukishima seems to hold onto it like it's his lifeline–you don’t feel the need to risk your neck quite this early in the evening. 

“Well, yeah,” you reply thoughtfully. Your attention is temporarily stolen by a stray piece of thread hanging off the hem of your sweater sleeve, layered neatly underneath your coat; you pick at it, a pinch forming between your brows as the offending string snags. After losing interest in the string, you let it hang, instead deciding to eye the singular bag Tsukishima holds. “You’re taking forever to get all your stuff together–probably longer than I did. By the way, is that everything you’re bringing? You know we’re going to be gone for, like, two weeks.”

The winter trip is not uncommon; every year since your first in university, your group of friends have made an effort to get away after the fall semester had ended. This year, a large lodge cabin nestled in the mountains was calling your name, and you had only a few misgivings about attending this year. 

You did not know if you were quite ready to face him. 

“Hey–listen, you,” Tsukishima falls into step next to you, and his words are paired with wide eyes and a dismayed expression. “I’ve had it to about here today,” he raises his hand to mimic a high bar above his head, “and the last thing I need is your attitude.”

His words, while harsh, are offset by the warm, affectionate tone in his voice. He doesn’t mean the bruskness–and hardly ever does with you–and the familiar teasing banter that bounces effortlessly back and forth between you is gratifying. It has you grinning widely, knocking your shoulder against his body to pull a similar smile from him. 

“Right. Hence the…” you wave your hand around, gathering your thoughts,”...the bribery of more coffee.”

You trail off in a singsong, wiggling your eyebrows in what you hope is an obnoxiously humorous enticing manner. 

Tsukishima snorts, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. They never stay in place, and you make a brief note to remind the man to ask for more rounded temples the next time he finds himself needing a new pair of frames.

“Is that what that was? A bribery?” Tsukishima walks steadily beside you–just as he has for years, purposefully slowing his pace, shortening his strides in order to fall into step with you. The gesture, while likely unconscious after many years, is still appreciated. You doubt you would be able to keep up with him otherwise.

“Duh,” you simply state, framing your voice to emulate a sense of aloofness–as if the answer was obvious. “We have a long drive ahead of us–one that you’re soldiering, I hope you know–and I don’t feel like dealing with your grumpiness the whole way.”

“Really? My grumpiness? You’re one to talk,” Tsukishima easily bites back, tilting his head your way with a slight raise of his brow. “Also? I never agreed to drive. When did you come to that conclusion?”

You pretend as if you miss his question.

“Whatever. One of us will be grumpy by the time the drive is over,” you glance at Tsukishima with shock written across your features. “Also, you never answered my question.”

“And you never answered mine.”

Your glare is met with an annoyingly self-satisfied smirk; Tsukishima is smug, and his intonation only further has the frustration prickling at your chest. 

After a few seconds of silent stand-off, you finally break eye contact. “Please drive,” you mumble, tucking your chin a bit further under the thick scarf you wear. “I really don’t feel like it.” 

You’re grateful for the added warmth of your winter clothes as Tsukishima sweeps open the front doors of the museum. Immediately, the cold welcomes you, the brisk chill causing you to shiver slightly in your coat. The sounds of the city immediately greet your ears, and if you squint, you can almost see your and Tsukishima’s reflections on the blacked-out windows of the building on the opposite side of the busy street.

“Ah–there it is,” is Tsukishima’s cryptic response. 

He turns around to lock up the museum, pulling out an old key from the front pocket of his long coat. You remember the first time you’d seen it, one instance three weeks ago. Tsukishima had been tasked with closing and locking up, just as he is now, and you recall laughing at the sight of such an old-looking key for a new, modern museum. 

You pull your attention away from the tiny key as Tsukishima turns back to face you, tucking it safely away in the previous pocket. 

“What is where?” you ask, confusion lacing your words. Another cruel breeze brushes past you, and with your hands shoved in your front pockets, you curl your fingers towards your palms–aching to return warmth to the appendages. 

“Are you that determined to ignore it?” Tsukishima pauses as he begins walking down the sidewalk, making his way steadily to the car. He always parks at the sixth parking spot down from the front door–far enough away to allow museum patrons a spot, yet close enough to not warrant a long walk. You follow him quickly, itching to feel the warm blast of heat in his car. 

As you annoyingly tug at the handle of his car, you feel the twisting of unease settling at home in your chest. You hate the feeling–you had been attempting to ignore and push it aside as much as possible this past month. Yet, with a friend such as Tsukishima Kei, you find that hiding your emotions is more difficult than not.

“Ignore what?” is your poor response. You wince as the words leave your tongue, feeling heavy, stilted, and awkward even as they meet the cold air. Heavy, stilted, awkward, and undoubtedly not believable.

Tsukishima scowls over the hood of his car at your continued tugging and pulling on the handle. Finally unlocking it, the car makes a small beeping sound, and you let out a similar noise of relief when the handle gives, and you’re able to duck your head inside.

“You’re a bad liar,” your friend states, though not unkindly. 

He settles in the front seat, pushing his keys in the ignition and letting out a sigh of ease when the warm air from the heater immediately begins filling the small space. Sinking against the leather cushions, you refrain from taking off the scarf, still feeling the lingering chill that creeps through the thin pane of the window. 

Gathering a feigned smug composure, you smirk. “Only to you,” you tease, hoping that the fondness in your tone will distract Tsukishima from his original observation of your sour mood. 

But, your wishes are for naught; you've never been able to hide anything from the blonde, and as he carefully pulls out of the parking space–one hand on the steering wheel, one hand braced on the back of your headrest–he offers you a knowing glance.

Then, after a brief moment of silence, a sigh. It’s rough–as if Tsukishima is hesitant to bring up the thoughts so obviously plaguing his mind. “It’s about him, right?”

For a moment, you’re silent. Your stomach sinks at the reminder of him–at the reminder Daichi, of your feelings, of what never was. The chill outside is nothing when compared–a pit inside you widens as it gnaws on your gut, filling your lungs with thick ice at the unpleasant reminder of it all. You find yourself unable to focus on anything for a moment as your mind is filled with memories of him–friendly memories, yes, but the once rose-colored haze they were all colored in is now gone, along with the crush that you harbored on Daichi for years. The remainder of your unrequited feelings leaves a bitter taste on your tongue, one that you have yet to replace with something sweeter, and while you're confident any romantic feelings have gone, it is still challenging to move past.

“Yeah, it’s about him.” 

The car falls quiet, and you feel a sudden surge of gratefulness for the moment of silence Tsukishima grants you. 

The state of quiescence is not unwelcome, nor is it strained; Tsukishima lets the subject teeter off the edge–though you know to expect him to bring it up again soon–and the lapse in conversation allows you time to think. 

Daichi has been a friend for years; just as Tsukishima, just as Yamaguchi. Just as Kiyoko and Yachi and Hinata and a plethora of others. Unlike Tsukishima, Yamaguchi, and the rest of your friend group, your feelings for Daichi had always run a bit deeper. Perhaps it started when you were still in high school–bright-eyed, excited, and entirely head-over-heels for the captain of the volleyball team. Or, maybe it began when you entered college–on the night when Daichi, always acting as the sweet, dependent upperclassman, saw you studying in the library one evening and made an effort to join you until you'd finished.

While you do not know when your feelings began, you do remember when you discovered your feelings were entirely unrequited. It wasn’t until a few unfortunate weeks ago that a party Suga hosted resulted in your friend group being introduced to Daichi’s new girlfriend, Michimiya. 

A sweet, unassuming girl. She’s cute and acted especially shy that night. You recall how a permanent blush coated her cheeks, likely due to being under such adoring care from Daichi–an arm constantly slung over her shoulder. She had been kind to you, and it only made you feel worse when she offered you a friendly smile in greeting, accompanied by a genuine compliment of how much she adored your outfit.

You couldn’t bring yourself to dislike her. Despite the rolling of your stomach–a dark green monster perched on your shoulder–she was too sincere in her words and actions, caring and giving to a fault. By the end of the night, she had smoothly integrated into your group, and your throat felt as if it had a thick wad of cotton shoved deep inside. 

The crush started as it ended–abruptly, with little fanfare, and an exuberant amount of emotions you weren’t necessarily prepared for–or ready to face. 

You have not seen nor spoken to Daichi since that night, and you feel a strange sense of nervous suspense and trepidation at the prospect of seeing him in a short few hours. Likely, Michimiya would also be in attendance because who would go on a long post-college, trip without their new girlfriend?

You don’t know who you wish to avoid more. 

“What’s up?” Tsukishima breaks the comfortable silence. His fingers flick over the adjustments for the heater, raising it two degrees. Silently, you grin, and you know that Tsukishima picks up on your thankfulness simply by the almost indecipherable tilt of your head in his direction. You receive your own in turn: a small tug of his lips, a quirk of his mouth in a telling grin. 

“Oh, nothing really,” you tuck your hand between your thighs, crossing your legs in an effort to warm your fingers. You make your voice light–teasing and derisive. “Just doing my best to keep the impending dread at bay.”

His grin is immediately gone, twisting into a displeased expression. Then, a scowl. 

“Self-deprecating jokes don’t suit you.”

It’s a brutally honest statement, and while you’re used to hearing Tsukishima speak that way to others–his peers, other students, your rambunctious group of friends–it is rare he speaks that way to you. It has a strange feeling swirling in your chest, and all you can do is attempt to brush it off with another ill-timed joke. 

“Yeah, okay. Like you know what suits me.” To lighten his mood again, you make your tone pleasant–easy. A teasing manner to rope Tsukishima back into the playful give-and-take you so often take part in. 

However, his frown only deepens uncharacteristically, and he keeps his focus solely on the road, even while stopped at a bustling intersection. 

Tsukishima’s reaction is strange, and you decide to brush it off. 

You attribute it to the lack of coffee.

“Maybe I do,” he concedes, glancing in the rearview mirror before tapping his turn signal. As soon as the light turns green–the metal pole of the traffic light dancing precariously over the crosswalk as a gust of wind likely disrupts it–Tsukishima makes a left turn. 

You’re left in silence, mindlessly scratching over the material of your coat. Was Tsukishima implying that he knows what would suit you? Was he, therefore, insinuating that Daichi is not what would best suit you? It’s almost as if he had something else in mind–something troubling his mind? What exactly Tsukishima was referencing, you can’t fathom, yet his words bury themselves uncomfortably in your heart, and you feel an inexplicable urge to swiftly apologize for your likely crass words. 

It’s infrequent that the air between you and Tsukishima feels stilted and heavy; you can recount on one hand the number of serious fights you’ve been in–and, even less, the number of times you’ve felt awkward around him. The niggling at the back of your mind returns, and you bite back the urge to ask for clarification: what’s that supposed to mean? you want to ask, though, with the state of his mood, Tsukishima would be prone to take your words the wrong way. 

So, you let the moment taper out on its own. The drive continues languidly, and, with time, the air between you–as well as your fingers–no longer feels frozen. It’s not until three minutes later, according to the car’s lagging clock, that Tsukishima pipes up again, letting out a low sigh as you approach your apartment. 

You glance over at him in acknowledgment, knowing that words are unnecessary. 

“You can talk about it, if you want,” Tsukishima merely states. If you didn’t know him, hearing the care that bleeds through his words would be nearly impossible. “About him,” he clarifies.

Instantly, your heart lifts, and the strange pit in your stomach is relieved. Leaning your head back against the headrest, you keep your focus trained on your friend, not minding that he pointedly keeps his attention on the road, avoiding your soft gaze. 

“I know,” you say, no longer bothering to try masking the tarrying remnants of hurt.

It doesn’t feel like quite enough, but as your feelings currently stand–confused, with a mix of jittery anticipation and a lingering amount of heartache–it is all you can offer. 

Tsukishima parts his lips–as if a sentence is hanging off the tip of his tongue–before deciding against it. 

A spark of surprise comes to life inside you at his apparent hesitance. Tsukishima has never been one to hold his tongue. 

Interesting. 

Before you can speak on his odd behavior, he’s suddenly adjusting the gear shift, turning to face you with a look you can’t reasonably interpret. “We’ve arrived at your destination, Miss. Your total for this trip will be three-thousand three-hundred and sixteen yen. If you don’t mind, please don’t forget to leave a good review on the mobile app–”

Tsukishima is smirking, and you can only offer a huff of amused laughter in response as you sneer. Lightly, you punch his shoulder, noting how soft the fabric of his sweater feels under your fist. 

Before you can pull away–laughter still present in the air–Tsukishima captures your wrist, holding your hand in place. His fingers are long enough and palm large enough that he’s able to wrap the entirety of your wrist in his one hand; he’s warm, fingertips calloused as they grip onto you–tightly enough to make a point, yet loose enough that you could easily pull away if you wanted. 

Strangely, you find that you don’t.

“Ow.” Your friend is smirking; it’s a devilishly handsome look, you realize. Lips tugged up in a lopsided fashion, eyes glinting with a kind of mischievousness reserved only for you and Yamaguchi. He’s not actually hurt–a fact you’re both keenly aware of, as your tiny punch could hardly have bothered a fly–yet he’s still holding onto your wrist, and you suddenly cannot comprehend why your throat feels so dry. 

“You’re so full of it,” you attempt to tease, but your voice shakes a bit as the syllables get caught in your mouth. 

Tsukishima is simply looking at you with an unreadable expression; on the outside, he is teasing as usual. Thought, you know Tsukishima, and there’s a slight beat–barely half a second–when something else flashes across his features. In that second, his eyes narrow gently, his fingers moving to drag against your pulse point. Your breath catches in your chest at the sensation–the rough pad of his thumb barely brushes over the thin skin of your inner wrist, applying pressure to the sensitive area with no more than a blink.

The space feels hot–not suffocating, but overwhelming. It’s difficult to distinguish the abnormal barrage of emotions that suddenly crash in your stomach, pushing against your ribcage, and swelling in your heart before you can do anything to stop them. It’s humming, filling any possible crevice and corner of the car until it’s packed full–full of the anticipatory feeling, full of indiscernible emotion.

But, perhaps it’s not indiscernible. You think, if you focus hard enough, you might be able to determine what exactly it means.

The abrupt and unforeseen shift in energy throws you for a loop. You don’t know where to look, what to do, what to say. But you don’t have to make that decision; Tsukishima is holding your rapt attention, not saying anything, not doing anything, but staring at you with those inscrutable eyes. If you squint–you might be able to see what’s hidden there. 

The moment lasts only seconds–an inconsequential blip in time–yet it feels like it lasts for years.

Again, Tsukishima parts his lips–as if he wants to say something–before ultimately deciding against it.

The thick buzzing between you quickly dissipates when Tsukishima drops your wrist, looking down to pull his keys from the ignition. He clears his throat with a humorless chuckle as you come back to the moment, still wholly perplexed by what transpired mere seconds ago. 

The moment may have just ended, but with the tension hanging still thick in the air, it might as well have been a lifetime ago. 

“Want me to come inside? Help you grab your things?” he asks, running a few fingers through his hair. 

You miss how his hand shakes.

Taking another second to attempt to process what just occurred–shoving it to the back of your mind, determined not to focus too much on any underlying meaning–you let out a humorless laugh. 

What the fuck?

“Please, I’m offended,” you tell him, folding a hand over your heart. “You make it sound like I overpacked.”

Tsukishima doesn’t need to say anything. Just as with most in your friendship, he only has to shoot you a look–one of disbelief, as if to say really?

“Don’t you always?” Tsukishima pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. 

All you can do is scoff, opening your door in a swift movement before smoothly exiting the car. The coldness hits you, and even though you shouldn’t be, you’re shocked by the near-freezing draft that greets you. With a small, petulant glare, you press your lips together to fight off the shiver that instantly wracks through your body. 

“No coffee for you, then,” you say through gritted teeth, digging your fingers into your palms as you cross your arms over your chest. While your tone bled seriousness, you and Tsukishima know the threat is feigned–hidden behind a thinly-veiled laugh. But, after all his teasing, you think it’s the least Tsukishima deserves. “Besides, I have to overpack to compensate for your underpacking.”

You don’t have to turn around to know your friend heard you. You hear a disgruntled chuckle as if he calls out your bluff–knowing that you wouldn’t dare deprive him of coffee–but it is cursorily followed by a soft thud, then a tiny curse of ow. 

You grin, thoroughly pleased, and curiously ponder how many times Tsukishima has become overexcited and thus knocked his head against the roof of the car. Feeling a small spark of triumph alight in your chest, you allow the smugness to tug at your mouth in an undoubtedly obnoxious and self-satisfied grin. Leaning down, you press your hands to your knees until you’re peering at Tsukishima through the open door. He doesn’t bother softening his scowl at the sight of your arrogant smirk, tentatively rubbing a hand over the back of his head. 

“Forget the money,” Tsukishima glares, leaning over the middle console to meet your gaze. “I just want the coffee. I think that’s an appropriate payment for driving your ass the two-and-a-half hours.”

You gasp in faux surprise, comically clutching at your heart over your top. “My ass? Kei, you were the one demanding that I go? If I recall correctly–”

“You probably don’t.”

“Kei!” You scold him for interrupting you. 

“If I recall correctly–which I do, smart ass–you were the one pouting saying that you didn’t wanna go this year unless I came, too!” With a fond look, you think back to the evening in question, remembering how Tsukishima had lazily stretched across your couch, scowling incessantly until you’d agreed to request off work for the two weeks encompassing the vacation. 

Not even bothering to argue against your words, Tsukishima lolls his head to the side, thumping dramatically against the warm leather headrest. “Fuck you very much,” he grunts, twisting the knob of the heater up a few more degrees, making up for how the cold air filters in through your open door. 

The soothing blast of fresh hot air is almost enough to thaw your now-frozen fingers. In an effort to warm them, you bring your hands up to your mouth, cupping your palm atop your other and blowing a tepid breath onto your fingertips. 

It does little to hide the doting smile you sport. 

“C’mon, Tsukki,” you tease, reverting to the childhood nickname, aiming to get a bit more under his skin. “How’re you ever gonna get a girlfriend with that foul mouth? No wonder you’re still single.”

It’s unfortunate how your words appear to have the opposite intended effect. Tsukishima’s body relaxes in a cocky, arrogant way, eyes gleaming with playfulness in such a way that it has a hyper buzz prickling at your heart. 

“Girls tend to like my foul mouth, actually,” he taunts, and the arrogance seeps through his body, pouring into every word as he stares you down competitively. Tsukishima shifts, spreading his thighs, and you hate how your eyes flicker down to catch the slight movement. 

You hate how it makes you feel even more. 

However, before you can even respond–make an attempt to knock him down a peg–Tsukishima’s brows furrow, and he slumps in his seat once again. “And don’t call me that,” he grumbles, rolling his neck until you hear a small popping sound. 

You grin, and everything returns to normal. 

Without another word, you slam the door a tad harder than necessary, giggling a bit when you faintly hear Tsukishima protest from inside the car. 

You make your feet quick; with a bouncing step, you walk into the front doors of the apartment building, enjoying how the heat instantly warms you to your core. Despite the warmth, the cold from outside tends to linger in the doorframe, and after enough time of living inside the building, you know to hug your coat closer to ward off any further chill. 

The elevator ride to your floor seems to take forever; the excitement of joining the rest of your friends in the mountainside cabin–promptly rented for a week and a half–thrums through your veins. As you think more about it, mindlessly nodding your head along with the elevator's tinny sound as it passes the multiple floors, you can’t help how the anticipation mounts. It builds until you feel the urge to shake your hands free of the feeling, swelling incessantly with equal amounts of eagerness and nerves. The notion that, soon, you’ll be existing in the same vicinity as Daichi is almost nauseating, and you have to suck in a large breath to ease your frazzled nerves.

It hardly works. The thrumming continues. 

Three more breaths pass before the elevator door opens. You’re relieved at the excuse to move; you walk quickly, hastening into a subtle jog to help rid your body of the anxious energy that has taken up house there in the past minute or so. It helps, though barely, and by the time you reach your front door, you decide to push your worries to the side. This trip is as much for you as it is for everyone else. You refuse to let any negative emotions ruin what is supposed to be a fun getaway from the stressors of university and burgeoning adulthood. And, after the tiny chunk the luxurious rental cabin took from your modest checking account, you’re more determined to enjoy yourself. There was no way you could fathom staying at such a place on your own, yet, even after splitting the price evenly amongst your friend group, the cost for such an extended stay was enough to make you wince. 

After telling yourself that you deserve the well-needed break after such an arduous school semester, paired with Tsukishima’s convincing argument that there was no way he could go if you didn’t, you ultimately came to terms with the cons of the trip. 

After slotting and turning the key in your apartment’s door, you quickly gather your things. 

Two bags and a brewed, fresh thermos of coffee later–Tsukishima’s thermos, one of the two extras that he insists on keeping in your overflowing cabinets–you find yourself in the same position. Locking the door, you ruminate briefly on the time you’ll spend away from home, allowing an inkling of nostalgia to, inexplicably, settle in your heart for a beat too long. 

You don’t ponder too long on the feeling, similar to the nervousness you promptly decided to ignore. 

The elevator ride down always seems to go by much faster than it does going up. In seemingly no time at all, you’re lugging your things through the large front doors of the apartment building, offering a kind greeting and a wave to a familiar neighbor as you go. 

“What was that about overpacking?” Tsukishima is leaning against the side of the car as you meet him outside, suspciously eyeing the bags you hold. You huff irritably, gesturing to him the steaming coffee you have in one hand before shoving a bag into his awaiting arms. The short sound of dismay he lets out is not nearly enough for your liking, especially after seeing how his eyes lit up at the sight of more coffee, and you find yourself fighting the childish urge to stick your tongue out at him. 

“Asshole,” you pop the trunk–the familiarity of the gesture almost seeming like second nature. 

“Love you, too.” Tsukishima places your second bag by your other–next to his own. 

His hands twitch as he places them on top of the trunk, only moving to shut it after making sure your hands are out of the way. Again, his eyes fretfully dart to the thermos held between your palms, and all you can offer is a huff of laughter between cold puffs of air. 

“Come on–we’re already going to be late.”

“Yeah? And who’s fault would that be?” Tsukishima attempts to retort, not knowing that you have an answer already poised on your tongue. 

“Yours, actually,” you click your seatbelt into place, a content grin gracing your lips as you relax in the car. You kick your shoes off in an exaggerated gesture, pressing two fingers on the seat’s adjustable track to lean it back. “My class ended at two. You didn’t get to close the museum until four.”

Tsukishima scrunches his nose in distaste–whether at your words or you kicking off your shoes, you don’t know. “You’re full of spite today. Did you know that?” 

The gentle hum of the ignition is soothing, and the warmth fills the car again soon after. “Mm, it’s part of my charm,” you close your eyes and take a deep breath, happily folding your hands on your lap. “Oh, are we picking up Yamaguchi? He did know we would be late, right? Because of a certain someone,” you look pointedly at Tsukishima. 

The blonde lets out a humorless chuckle, clicking down on the turn signal as you set up the GPS. “Yamaguchi said that he would rather room with Noya and Tanaka’s hyperactive asses than ride with me. Something about my driving being crap. Plus, I still have to drop the key off at my boss’s place,” Tsukishima fingers the museum’s key between two fingers, wiggling it in front of your vision. 

After fiddling with the navigation system and entering the appropriate address, you sit back. The estimated time of arrival blinks back at you–a little over two hours and forty minutes.

“He’s got a point,” you muse, closing your eyes. “About your driving, I mean.”

You feel the soft pinch on your shoulder before you see it, whipping your head around to see Tsukishima grinning, proud. “If my driving is crap, what does that make yours?”

You click your tongue as you turn back around, facing the front. You hadn’t noticed it previously, but snow flurries settle on the windshield in a soft, white powder. You take a second before responding to admire the fresh snowfall, following the flakes’ tiny dances until they land on the windshield, destined to promptly melt if they do not get swiped away by the windshield wiper first.

“Always so mean to me,” you murmur, but your tone is lighthearted and gaze distracted. The longer you watch the snow fall–turning into a white blur as the speed limit increases–the adrenaline and excitement of the day seep from your body, replacing it with a potent kind of exhaustion. All too soon, your limbs feel heavy, and your eyelids begin to droop despite your meager effort to keep them open. 

You find that, in the still silence that follows, paired nicely with the comforting heat gathering in the car and the soft lull of the drive, you begin drifting off into a mindless, dreamless sleep.

You miss the last thing Tsukishima says before you slip off into unconsciousness. 

“You’re the worst driving partner ever.”

“You know, that doesn’t even make sense. We didn’t take turns driving, Kei.”

The look he shoots you is nothing short of hostile, yet it makes you laugh all the same. 

After a nearly three-hour drive–due to the weather and the side-trip of dropping off the museum’s key–you arrived at the cabin. At first glance, you think ‘cabin’ is too diminutive of a word; in its place is a large lodge, made up entirely of nice, dark wood and surrounded by hundred-year-old pine trees blanketed in soft snow. In the distance, the snowy peaks of mountains surround you, and you cannot help but stand in place, floored, for a few moments.

You stare in awe at the unmistakable extravagance of the place you’ll lay to rest for the coming days, one bag held slack in your hand as you take the time to appreciate the structure. There’s a large balcony that you admire for a few seconds, and you wonder how quickly you’d be able to explore it further. 

“You’ll catch flies if you keep that up.” Tsukishima stands next to you, his own bag and your second held tightly in his grip. 

Warmheartedly, you knock your shoulder against his, looking at him with a distinct unbridled excitement. “Not even your stinky attitude can bother me right now, Kei.”

Your words are true; while Kei cannot ruin the moment, the swirling, nearly all-consuming nervousness you feel most certainly can. You feel as if your insides are being eaten up, an uncomfortably warm fizzling sensation settling right at home in your gut, your chest. It’s all you can do to take a deep breath of winter air, exhaling the faint taste of pine, mint, and a trace of cinnamon.

“‘Stinky attitude’?” Tsukishima states, appalled.

You promptly ignore him. “I wonder if that was part of the downpayment,” you mutter humorlessly, curiously wondering how the owners managed to imbue a signature smell to the place. 

“What was that?” Tsukishima asks, leaving thin footprints in his wake as he turns to offer you a strange look. 

“Oh, nothing,” you sigh, heaving your bag over your shoulder to follow him. “Just living the dream.” You do not tell him how you feel agitated and almost sickeningly overwhelmed at the prospect of seeing Daichi–with a girlfriend–again; though, with the way Tsukishima looks back at you, his features softening almost unnoticeably, you don’t think you need to. 

Tsukishima slows, nearly stopping his pace altogether as he patiently waits for you to catch up. 

As you walk, there is a pleasant crunching sound–the fresh snow offering a soft give underfoot. The path from the car to the front porch is short, though, surrounded by nature and the gentle scents of wood and balsam, with the remainder of nerves unendingly tugging and pulling at your system, it feels much longer.

You let yourself savor it as if the walk lasted twenty minutes. 

The cold helps clear your mind and settle your concerns, and you wonder how much it would take to convince Tsukishima to join you on a walk later. 

You hadn’t even reached the front steps of the large wooden porch when a loud yell rings throughout the air, and a thrill of surprise rushes through you. The front door of the lodge is thrown open with haste, and only a familiar head of bright orange hair is able to quell the sudden bout of apprehension that had caused your heart to start pounding and your vision to become tunnel-like.

“Oof–hi there, Hinata,” you manage to get out. His arms hug you tight and warm, engulfing you in a soft embrace. Gradually, you relax, allowing your bag to drop onto the nicely lacquered porch wood as your fingers curl into the softness of his hoodie. You feel him grin, happy at being acknowledged and even happier to have his hyperactive embrace returned.  

“Yo!” Hinata exclaims when he pulls away, a perpetually exuberant grin tugging lopsidedly at his lips. “You guys took forever–though, you’re not the last ones to get here.”

Hinata’s words, while confusing, leave you reeling with more questions than answers. If you were not the last to arrive, who was trailing behind you? Was the object of your recent distress waiting beyond the front door, lounging on a loveseat with a girl you are not quite familiar with yet, beyond knowing she is too sweet to dislike? Or have they not yet arrived? 

Both options leave you feeling restless, and after managing to get out a pathetically halfhearted laugh, you cannot decide which one you would prefer. 

Hinata seemingly misses your uneasiness; he does not comment on it, and his long-winded greeting and explanation of how his drive up the mountain went are only interrupted by Kageyama and Yamaguchi joining you on the porch. The latter is dressed in only a thin cotton shirt, and you let out a slight sound of worry at the sight of his cheeks immediately pinkening upon walking into the cold. 

“Hey, everyone.” Tsukishima picks up your forgotten bag, and Yamaguchi is the next to pull you in for an easy hug. It is looser than Hinata’s, yet more comforting, and as you allow yourself to relax in his familiar embrace, you find that your mind is able to settle slightly. 

However, Yamaguchi soon shivers, and you think he may have only hugged you to receive a small bit of the remnants of warmth that linger on your coat. 

With a giggle at the knowledge, you pull back, noting with a fondness that the pink has quickly spread to his ears. 

“How was the drive?” Yamaguchi asks, shooting a pointed look in Tsukishima’s direction. The lighthearted banter between the two is something you’ve sorely missed, and you find yourself looking forward to seeing more of the friendly banter later. 

“Ha-ha. As if driving with these two was any better,” Tsukishima points to Hinata and a stoic Kageyama. 

Yamaguchi snickers, ducking his head as he shoves his hands in his pockets. “Hardly.”

“Hey!” Hinata pouts, enthusiastically bouncing and rocking on the balls of his feet. Under him, little imprints of the soles of his shoes are left as a reminder in the snow. 

“Hey,” Kageyama simply states, ignoring the impending argument and holding open the door in a silent urging. 

You look at him gratefully. 

“Kageyama, ever the charmer,” you state with a teasing hum. Tsukishima elbows you gently, and, whipping your head around, you childishly snatch one of your bags from his arm. 

Kageyama’s face breaks out into a rare mischievous smirk. “Only for you,” he keeps the door open, holding his fist out to Tsukishima in a short, characteristic greeting.  

“Guys, it’s kinda cold out here…” Yamaguchi is wracked with another shiver, and you feel a pang of concern for the man.

“C’mon, everyone. Yamaguchi’s teeth are practically chattering,” you sympathize, ushering everyone inside with a slight wave of your hands. 

If you were impressed with the exterior of the lodge cabin, the interior is enough to take your breath away. It is filled with a comforting warmth despite the large, open-air layout, dark wooden beams decorating the tall ceiling with similar thick columns gracing the broad stairs. A prominent, rustic light fixture emanates a warm glow not dissimilar to that of the brick fireplace radiating a kind of dry heat; even from the front door, you can feel the homey fire warming your fingertips, spreading throughout your chest in a thick, syrupy heat that causes your cheeks and nose to prickle as the last bits of cold leave your body. 

You take a step down to enter the main living space, eyes wide and mouth parted as you take in the grand magnificence of the place. The furniture compliments the natural charm of the cabin–understated yet unimaginably comfortable-looking, with nude colors and differing shades of tans, reds, and browns. One glance at the two plush blankets and numerous large pillows decorating the L-shaped couch, and you feel the urge to collapse onto it. The leather would feel heavenly under your fingertips, soft with a certain give to it the harder you pressed onto the cushion. 

“There you guys are!” Another excited voice. 

Having been entirely distracted by your surroundings–home, for all intents and purposes, for the coming days–you hardly noticed the familiar faces emerging from inside the rental. 

“Kiyoko!” Similar to earlier, you promptly drop your bag, rushing forward to pull your friend in for a tight embrace. 

“You guys sure did take a while,” a thrilled voice from next to you perks up–Yachi. Stretching out your right arm, you open the embrace, and the girl joins the hug, wrapping her small arms around you and Kiyoko to rock you both back and forth. 

“Sorry, bad traffic,” Tsukishima deadpans, and before you know it, the bag by your feet is quietly plucked up and placed by the foot of the stairs. 

You feel more than hear Yachi let out a huff of laughter, and the three of you only pull away to properly welcome each other. “Traffic?” she asks, not entirely believing him. You feel a huff of pride fill you; you taught her well.  

“Hello to you too, Tsukishima,” Kiyoko greets, her arms still thrown over your and Yachi’s necks. The joy of seeing each other again is palpable–it grows as you leave your arms interlocked around each other, refusing to let go and only tightening comfortably with each passing interaction. 

“She never greets me like that,” Tsukishima elbows Yamaguchi, taking on a teasing look as he blatantly points to you. 

In response, you merely roll your eyes, too preoccupied with catching up with your two friends after not having seen them lately. Due to the time commitment of final exams and the last stretch of the school year, you’ve hardly been able to meet up with your old roommates as much as you’d like, and the feeling nags at you. 

As you roll your eyes at Tsukishima, you miss the knowing look shared between Kiyoko and Yachi from behind your shoulder. 

After the excitement of finally reuniting dissipates some, your previous worries are brought abc to the forefront of your mind. “So, who’s all here?” You broach the topic of your concerns timidly, sparing a glance around the room to try and deduce the current occupants residing here. At first look, there is nothing terribly discerning, minus a coat–likely Yamaguchi’s, based on the size and color–draped across the back of the couch. The rest of the room is sparse of personal belongings, only holding the furniture that came with the place.

“So far, it’s just us,” Kiyoko waves around the room–Hinata, Yamaguchi, Kageyama, Yachi, herself, you, and Tsukishima–“everyone else isn’t here yet.”

“Namely Nishinoya, Tanaka, Daichi, and Michimiya–his girlfriend,” Hinata clarifies, though the added bit about Michimiya being Daichi’s girlfriend was unnecessary: by now, you all know who she is. 

Your body sags with relief; it is a minute action–one that is only caught by Tsukishima, his eyes having flitted to you as soon as Hinata began speaking. 

Not that you noticed, of course.

“Oh, and Suga and Asahi are upstairs. I think they were playing a game or something to decide who got the bigger bed,” Yamaguchi shrugs, though, by the way his shoulders shake slightly, there must have been something amusing regarding the two boys ‘game’. 

As your group of friends continues talking–catching up, laughing, and simply relaxing in each other’s company–you cannot determine whether the feeling that fills your chest is relief or disappointment. Did you feel eased at the notion that you don’t have to face Daichi just yet? Or are you disheartened at the knowledge that he is not yet here? 

While you are confident that you no longer have any remaining romantic feelings for the man, heartbreak is a strange thing that often lingers, and you can’t deny that some morsels of pain still remain even after your feelings have gone. It is as if an echo of something hollow pangs through your heart, leaving you with hands that feel empty and a shallow feeling causing a hole in your stomach. 

“D’you need help bringing your things upstairs?” You are pulled from your thoughts by Tsukishima, who has once again sidled himself against your side. It is not uncommon to find him lingering next to you when surrounded by your mutual friends, with Yamaguchi often next to him. 

“Mhm, yeah. If you don’t mind,” your previous thoughts have made you surprisingly docile and a bit vulnerable. You lean further against Tsukishima’s side, intrinsically seeking his familiar and comforting presence. 

Seemingly taking notice of your abrupt change in mood, Tsukishima nudges his head to the side, silently motioning for you to begin making your way up the stairs. 

“Oh, your guys’ rooms are on the second floor, near the corner with the big window. God, I’m still so jealous of you,” Yamaguchi says, motioning with his hands how to reach your bedrooms. 

In response, Tsukishima only smirks, telling him, “It’s not our fault you got the shortest stick. We all did the same thing.”

The grin on Tsukishima’s face only widens, and you are briefly grateful that, a few weeks prior, you managed to pull the longest stick out of the cup–therefore allotting you one of the three single, private rooms in the cabin. The second had gone to Tanaka, who had triumphantly rubbed it in Nishinoya’s face, with the third being drawn by Tsukishima. 

“Don’t think too much about it,” you comfort Yamaguchi, moving to rub a hand against his shoulder. In response, the man offers you a sheepish smile, nodding along with your words. 

Then, with a conspiratorial grin, you continue, “Besides, you know how Tsukki snores. You should feel lucky that you don’t have the room right next to his,” you leaned forward as you spoke–as if indulging Yamaguchi in a deep secret to which no one else had been privy. 

He lets out a breathless chuckle, more a huff of air than anything else, as he nods his head in a bashful kind of agreement. 

“If you don’t hurry up, I’m gonna take the bigger room,” Tsukishima taunts, already poised and waiting at the foot of the stairs. Your eyes flicker down to your bags–still held in his hands. 

“Please, I’ll let you have that,” you snort, a decidedly unattractive sound, before joining him. “You need it with all that extra…” you trail off, peering up at Tsukishima and vaguely motioning to the air above your head, “…height.”

Quickly picking up on your insinuation, Yamaguchi promptly joins in on the teasing with a grin. “Hey, Tsukki?” he calls from where he’s plopped himself on the couch, legs stretched out, and arms resting behind his head. You hear the mischievousness dancing in his voice and can barely hide the giggle behind your hand before Tsukishima’s icy glare is aimed at you. 

“Don’t start, you two,” Tsukishima sighs, already exasperated, but the ball is already rolling.

“Yeah, I was actually wondering how’s the weather up there?” you finish for Yamaguchi, hurriedly quickening your pace so as to escape from the majority of Tsukishima’s wrath. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know!”

You’re left with a light feeling in your chest from the interaction, and you don’t bother waiting for the taller man. Having grabbed your bags from his hands, you make your way down the wide hallway; it follows the same open-air feel as adopted downstairs, leaving the hallway as more of a balcony, of sorts. You can lean over the side of the wooden railing, knee slotting between the similar pieces of wood that hold the railing up, and clearly see almost the entirety of the downstairs level.

You smile–it’s nice, and you can still feel the heat from the fireplace from where you’re standing. 

Tsukishima is long gone–you think you heard him shut the door to the room on the right, closest to the window residing at the end of the hall. You take the fleeting moment of silence gratefully; as much as you adore your friends, the likelihood of privacy is essentially doused down the drain the moment you’re all together. 

You’ll take any moment of alone time gratefully–and with a grain of salt. 

After admiring the view from the second floor, you push off the railing. A painful pop in your elbow has you wincing, and you extend it a few times before picking up your bags again. 

Your room is simple, understated, with a decent-sized bed in the middle, centered evenly against the wall opposite the door. A large window is perched above it, and your eyes go wide in excitement.

Little frost lines creep up the panes, surrounding the soft flakes of snow like intricate lattices. To your right is a dresser and mirror, and a plush chair sits in the corner, a thick blanket fashionably draped over the armrest. 

You think simplicity fits the place nicely–the framework of the house, paired with the natural beauty of the mountain, is already breathtaking. Elegant furniture and grand pieces of luxury are not necessary when faced with everything the cabin already offers. 

You can’t seem to stop the soft sigh that falls past your lips as you set your things down on the dresser. That feeling is still nagging at you, tugging and pulling at your heart until a crease forms between your brows. It diminishes the room's warmth, and in a semi-successful effort to distract yourself from the unwelcome feeling, you begin unpacking, carefully tucking neatly folded clothes into the dresser’s drawers, hanging the few pieces that need the special treatment in the closet. 

A knock on your door is the only thing that knocks you out of your peaceful state, and you startle only briefly before welcoming the visitors in.

“Hey,” Kiyoko rubs her hands together, folded neatly in front of her chest. 

You grin as a familiar head of blonde hair peeks from behind her–Yachi. 

“Hey, guys. I’ve missed you,” you greet them, rubbing your hands on your pants. Seeing two of your closest friends after having not for so long is therapeutic. 

For two years, in the middle of your time at university, the three of you had shared an apartment, and you hold the memories fondly, tucked away softly in your heart to reminisce on occasionally. But now, Kiyoko and some of the older members in your friend group–such as Tsukishima, Tanaka, Daichi, and Sugawara–have graduated. 

Sometimes, you find yourself sucked into an innate sense of sentimentality–you miss those days, of how simple and easy everything appeared to be. Of course, they were not, but looking back on the fun times with your friends, you don’t remember the complicated things. You only remember the good. 

Immediately, Yachi folds, darting out from behind Kiyoko and engulfing you in one of her long, signature hugs. You drop the shirt you were refolding–it doesn’t matter if it retains a few wrinkles, anyways–and return her embrace, feeling a bubbly feeling fill your heart as she begins rocking you back and forth. 

“We missed you more!” Yachi declares, still refusing to let you go. 

Not that you would let her, anyways. 

Kiyoko lets out a fond giggle from the doorframe, still lingering on the precipice. Eyes widening, you wave her over, and Yachi hurriedly begins ushering for her to do the same. Making space, you resume the group hug, sighing happily as Yachi continues laughing with glee. 

However, like all moments, it must eventually end. A sound from the hallway disrupts you–someone clearing their throat, though you are instantly able to recognize the voice: Kei.

“Can’t you see we’re having a moment?” you gently chide, though your words are paired with an unmistakably kind smile. 

Yachi’s lips purse into a bit of a pout, clearly upset over having ‘girl time’ ruined–a term she eloquently coined during your first semester in university. But, at his presence, the two girls allow you to disentangle from the friendly embrace, occupying themselves as they sit on the bed.

“Yeah, yeah,” Tsukishima scratches the back of his neck, shifting almost hesitantly in the door before imperceptibly pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “I just, ah, wanted to tell you guys that everyone else just got here. We’re all downstairs–if you wanna join.”

Ah. You understand his previous hesitance. 

“By everyone else, you mean…?” you attempt to pull more information out of him, though the sudden rapid pounding of your heart hints that you already know to whom he’s referring. 

“Tanaka, Noya, Michimiya, and Daichi.”

You’d braced yourself for the punch in the gut you were sure his words would bring. Your fingers find the stray thread hanging on the sleeve of your sweater again, twisting it repetitively until little red lines are imprinted onto your skin. 

“Okay, yeah. We’ll be down there soon?” you pose it as a question, looking back at the two girls now perched on the side of your bed for confirmation. 

“Yep! Definitely not now, though. Get lost, Tsukki!” Yachi animatedly points out of your room, kicking her feet back and forth as she comically shoos Tsukishima away. 

With hands held in mock surrender, Tsukishima nods in agreement, though not before letting his lingering gaze settle on you. 

“Hey, come here,” he all but demands, but his voice is soft, and he is already walking towards you. Before you can protest, he holds your wrist, stretching it out towards him, and all your worries about Daichi are gone. It’s all you can do to watch, confusion etched on your features, inscribed on your pathetically rapid-beating heart, as he twists the cuff of your sweater, deft fingers pinching at the hanging thread to remove it.

“There,” is all he states, fixing your sleeve before letting your arm gently fall to your side. You hardly have enough time to say anything before he’s fixing you with an unrecognizable look, and then he’s pulling out of the small bubble to wave ‘bye’ to Yachi and Kiyoko. 

You’re still for a second after he’s left, still reeling with what had transpired. You can’t place the strange, tense feeling burrowing in your chest–you only know it is not the same kind of nervousness you feel at seeing Daichi again.    

As if sensing your thoughts, you hear Kiyoko–or maybe Yachi–stirring behind you. Snapping yourself out of it, you turn on your heel, gracing them with a wide, hardly believable smile. 

“Speaking of…” Kiyoko begins, shoving her hands underneath her thighs. Ever cautious and cognizant of others’ feelings, Kiyoko approaches the topic tepidly, clearly skirting around the thing at the forefront of your mind. 

You let out a defeated sigh, no longer bothering to keep up the poor appearance of normalcy. Yachi tilts her head to the side, concern clearly written across her face. “How’s the Daichi front?” she asks, and while it is not with the same amount of worry Kiyoko held, Yachi’s words are still imbued with a friendly care you have come to associate her with. 

Looking at them–waiting expectantly, but still ensuring to be careful of your feelings, wanting to understand how you’re doing–is enough to have you letting out a humorless laugh. “You guys know me too well,” you decide on, pressing your hands into the back pocket of your jeans. 

You join them on the bed, and they quickly shift to make room for you in the middle. You allow them to coddle you–wrapping their arms around you, wide eyes full of understanding as they listen to you talk. You tell them how, at first, it was rough; how the feelings ate away at you, and how you’re still not sure how you’ll feel seeing him again. 

They listen, offering small interjections where needed, a comforting hand held on either side of your back as you ramble. 

You don’t stop talking until the nagging feeling is replaced by relief–the sort of relief that only comes from telling someone something that has been bothering you for a while. It feels as if a weight is lifted from your chest by the time you finish, and you don’t resist the deep breath trapped in your throat; it seems like, along with it, the superficial hurt dissipates, and only the deeper feelings remain. 

You don’t think you’re ready to face the deeper feelings yet. 

“Feel better?” Kiyoko asks after you’ve finished, dipping forward to look at you. You’re leaning forward, hands pressed to the edge of the bed for something tangible to grip on. 

“Yeah, surprisingly,” you state, and you’re relieved to hear that even your voice sounds lighter. They nod, understanding with few words–you’re not surprised that talking to them is what helped; you’re more so surprised that speaking of something that profoundly bothered you helped you feel that much better–better than you’d anticipated. 

“Good!” Yachi chimes in, and you grin at the similar relief that is present in her tone. 

“Yeah. Kei tried getting me to talk about it more with him, but it’s just not the same as talking you guys, you know? Anyways, I felt kinda bad about it all.”

“Ah–” Kiyoko hums pensively, pressing a finger to her chin as if in thought, “–the other elephant in the room.”

It takes you a moment to piece together what she’s referring to. Different ideas run through your head, and you sift through them abruptly until you’re confident you’ve combed through even the cobwebs of your mind. 

Looking to Yachi, you shake your head. “Okay, I’m…clearly lost.”

A scheming giggle falls past her lips when she nudges you, knocking you gently into Kiyoko, who nudges you in a similar manner. 

“Tsukki!” is Yachi’s exuberant, overexcited response. She looks at you as she wiggles her brows–as if she expects you to clearly understand whatever hidden meaning is lingering under the surface. 

Looking back and forth between the two slowly, you make it evident that you believe they have possibly gone mad. “What about him?” you ask, giving in after they offer no hints as to their meaning. 

“Well, something, clearly,” Kiyoko gently pushes for more, and your lips quirk at the unfamiliar, yet not unwelcome, sight of devilishness tugging at her mouth. 

“Yeah, he’s a pain in my ass. Possibly my soulmate, and still perpetually insufferable–in case you were wondering,” you grin widely as you refer to Tsukishima, allowing the sarcasm to seep between your words. 

Before they can respond–you see the excitement build in their eyes, practically becoming palpable as they simultaneously begin tugging at your shirt–a loud, all-consuming voice from downstairs is booming up the stairs. 

“Yo! Anybody home?” Tanaka hollers, and you can hear the loud smack even from your spot in your room. 

“Don’t you two have any manners?” comes another familiar voice–Sugawara.

Leaning into Kiyoko and Yachi, you all get up in a fit of giggles, looking forward to the red welt that would likely be proudly standing on the back of Tanaka’s head. The previous topic of conversation is briskly forgotten, left on the now-creased blanket decorating your bed. 

The sudden burst of noise and activity is strange in comparison to the innate quiet that loiters upstairs. Still, you bask in the familiar, comforting chaos that often accompanies your old high school friends. The nervousness that had previously reared its ugly head, making your palms sweat and your heart pound in jittery beats, has thankfully diminished after speaking to your friends, and you find that the notion of seeing Daichi for the first time in weeks does not cause the same jolt of stress that it used to. 

Their words remain as a comforting blanket as you meet them. Your greetings are brief–a small wave, followed by an acquainted side hug and few words. You turn to offer Michimiya a similar welcome and are shocked when the bright, previously shy girl from the beginning of the month hugs you with enthusiasm. 

“Oh wow,” you laugh shakily before kindly returning her embrace, “it’s a day for hugs, apparently.”

“Sorry,” Michimiya is sheepish, a blush dusting her cheeks. “I’ve just been really excited to be here and see you all again.” 

You wave your hand placatingly, already grinning as you see Nishinoya, Suga, and Asahi waving you over in your peripheral vision. “Don’t worry about it–it was a joke,” you explain, hoping to ease her worries. 

Tsukishima promptly sidles next to you, throwing a long arm over your shoulder. You glare and shove lightly at him, but ultimately end up grinning as you settle against him. 

“Yeah, don’t mind her,” he states, and you sense the inklings of a teasing joke hidden under his words. “She has a penchant for not being funny.”

You readily wriggle out from under his arm, not bothering to soften your glare. “Oh, he makes jokes. Cute,” you lean up to ruffle his hair–messing up the previously neat look he was going for. 

Just as earlier, Tsukishima manages to grasp your wrist before you can do any real damage, though, triumphantly, you note how he grumbles and goes to fix his crooked glasses. 

While you’re distracted, Michimiya watches on with a fond look, covering a shy laugh behind her hand as she makes a few connections in her head.

“There you are!” Sugawara cries behind you, and before you know it, his arms make their way around your waist in a tight embrace. 

“Hey, Suga,” you laugh, patting his hand in a friendly, affectionate gesture before he releases you. You turn to face him. “How was the drive?”

The loudness of the room makes it difficult to hear, even more so when Suga moves to collapse onto the couch in an exhausted heap. “Oh, you know,” he lolls his head to the side, grinning in that same charismatic manner that had a slew of girls crushing on him in college, “long. How was yours?”

“She was knocked out most of the drive, don’t ask her,” Tsukishima butts in–a habit he seems to excel in, especially regarding you. “The drive was fine, though. More snow than I expected.”

“You know,” you point between you and Suga, feigning a look of annoyance that has the older man snickering, “this was a conversation between Suga and me? And I don’t recall inviting you into it?”

Your argument only causes Tsukishima to chuckle blithely, purposefully knocking into your shoulder as he moves to sit next to Suga. “Nah, you love me. Actually, you don’t know what you’d do without me.” He’s teasing again, stretching his legs out and reaching his arms above his head. 

You notice how his shirt rides up ever so slightly, exposing a bit of skin and a faint adonis belt.

Heat prickles at your cheeks, filling and swelling until the strange urge to swallow thickly builds in your throat. It’s the same feeling you felt in the car, and you still have yet to place it. 

Turning your gaze away, you pretend not to notice. 

“Whatever. Even if you’re right–” you point, raising a brow as if you’re about to regale Suga and Tsukishima with a heartstopping tale, “–we all know it’s me you can’t live without.”

“In your dreams,” Tsukishima sneers, sinking back against the couch and pulling a large blanket over his lap. 

All the while, Sugawara simply looks on, his gaze flitting back and forth between you both with gleaming interest at every passing interaction. 

“Hey, what’s the situation with food?” Nishinoya bounds into the room, a baseball hat mussing down his spikey hair. He sees you and waves, the characteristic bright grin taking over his features. “Hey Tsukki, hey everyone!”

Another chorus of disjointed ‘hey’s’ follows suit, and you’re all launched into figuring out dinner. 

“Oh, didn’t you know?” Hinata’s eyes crinkle at the edges, spelling nothing but trouble. Side-eyeing Tsukishma, you see a similar look of caution cross his face: better move out of the way and prepare for the crossfire. “We gotta scavenge our own food. You know–being in the woods and all.”

“Hinata, you’re not as clever as you’d like to think,” Tsukishima chuckles, rubbing at his nose. Yamaguchi joins in on the banter, and the room becomes loud once again with the raucous clamor of numerous voices, all attempting to speak over one another. 

“We actually took care of the food for a few days,” Asahi speaks up, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. A blush paints his cheeks when Tanaka and Nishinoya immediately bombard him, showering him with praise and hanging off of him, words of thanks spilling from their mouths. 

“There was a store a ways back. We managed to get a bit, but someone will have to make another trip down in a few days,” Sugawara adds, not bothering to get up from the couch as he knows Tanaka and Nishinoya are well preoccupied with Asahi. 

“Thanks, man,” Daichi claps Suga on the back, and while you’d gotten used to his and Michimiya’s quiet presence in the room, his sudden appearance so close to you has left you feeling disjointed. 

“Well, that’s enough of that,” you proclaim quietly, and Sugawara is the only one to acknowledge your words–with a kind smile and a nod. Returning the look, you smoothly make your way through the room, avoiding the others as best you can in search of the kitchen. While everyone else is distracted by catching up, you think it must be as good a time as any to try and start on a late dinner.

You’d underestimated the size of the cabin. You realize this as you walk, stepping down a small staircase–consisting of a modest five steps–to enter a large second sitting room adjacent to the living room. It has a large piano settled off to the side, and you briefly wonder if any of your friends would be able to play it. 

Trailing your hand against a wooden column bracing the small staircase, you take a moment to appreciate the space and the brief quiet, though, with the open living space, you can still hear the chatter of your friends a few steps up. It’s comforting, wrapping you in the warm embrace of friendship and familiarity–something genuine that only comes from years of knowing someone. 

There’s hardly any dust, and during your short journey in search of the kitchen, you come to the conclusion that the owners must have someone come and clean often. 

It only takes you a bit longer to find the kitchen. Like the rest of the home, it is surrounded by dark wood, complemented by a floor only a shade lighter, beams decorating the ceiling, and columns bracing the doorway. It’s large and beautiful, boasting appliances that you could only dream of cooking with at home. 

Glancing over to the counter, you spy bags of groceries–likely put there by Asahi and Suga, and you make haste to search through them, putting the groceries away in cabinets and the refrigerator as needed. 

“Oh–hey there.”

You make sure not to freeze, though you noticeably tense, and it feels as if your heart freezes in your chest. 

Biting back a wince at your obvious reaction, you take a calming breath, closing your eyes to steady yourself for a beat. While you were prepared to see Daichi again–along with his new girlfriend–you were decidedly not ready to be alone with him in any sort of capacity. You had steeled your nerves earlier, pushing down and relieving any lingering worries that came with seeing him again, but this is not what you had in mind; you did not imagine that you would be alone with him, or that you would subsequently have to deal with the emotions that came along with it. This feeling is not welcome, yet it makes itself at home in your heart.

Not wanting to appear strange, you plaster a grin on your face before setting down the bag of white rice, turning around to face the man of the hour. 

“Daichi,” you simply greet, internally hoping that your voice takes on some semblance of normalcy.  

He merely hums in acknowledgment, clapping his hands together in such a ‘Daichi’ way that, if this had occurred a few months prior, you would have made fun of him. “What’ve we got in here? Anything look good so far?”

His words should not catch you by surprise, yet you find yourself frozen for a few seconds, anyways. With your hands braced on the kitchen counter, you falter, words becoming lost on you as the time drags on. 

“Ah, well–” you take the excuse to turn around, fishing through more grocery bags. “I haven’t looked that hard yet, but I’m sure I can find something.”

“Yeah, you were always good at that,” his voice is so fundamentally friendly that it hurts. The hollow pang returns with full force, battering shallowly against your heart, bringing with it useless questions of 'what if?’ 

When you don’t respond, Daichi’s voice takes on an air of concern–a sound you’ve, frankly, gotten sick of hearing lately. “Hey–you okay? You were pretty deep in thought when I came in here.”

An unamused laugh falls from your mouth, though Daichi is none the wiser to pick up on it. 

“Oh, nothing really,” you turn to face him, a wry grin tugging at your lips, “just wondering if these beams and columns are actually here for foundational support.”

Your words earn you a chuckle. It is a deep, warm sound, and you try not to notice how his eyes crinkle at the edges. 

Another hollow pang. 

“Yeah, I doubt it.” His hands reach across the counter, attempting to aid you in putting away the groceries. 

It’s all too much, too fast. Quickly, you pull away, and when Daichi offers you another look of concern, you simply wave him off. “I’m fine–just a bit warm. I’ll see you later?”

You don’t wait for his response. 

Winding your way through the lodge, you attempt to remember how to get to the third floor’s balcony you spied while driving up. Through the snow and trees, it looked like a wonderful place to escape, and your feet seem to take you up there instinctively. 

Your friends don’t hardly notice you as you make your way up the stairs–other than waving and asking if you found anything suitable for dinner. You say something quickly to placate them before continuing, passing by the open door of your room in your efforts to find the balcony. Your thoughts are swirling almost as frantically as the snow outside, and no matter what you do, your heart refuses to slow down. 

When you reach the balcony, you are not disappointed. 

The white snow coats everything in an almost sparkling, shining blanket. If snow was not inherently freezing, you would be half tempted to lie down in the soft tufts that pile in the corners of the balcony–shoveled neatly in the corners by the railing–convinced that it would be warm. 

The instance with Daichi has left you feeling stilted; thrown off course, you do not know how to react. After speaking with Tsukishima briefly, and then later with Yachi and Kiyoko, you'd felt an intimation of relief. You wonder how fickle that relief must have been to have been shattered by a mere interaction–a brief moment alone, a few words exchanged. 

It causes a surge of embarrassment to flush through your system and, soon after, the stinging beginnings of tears. 

Your eyes burn as they pool on your lower lashes, collecting in thick drops but still refusing to fall. A swell of indignation fills your chest at your tears’ refusal to slip–it’s as if even they do not know how to react, a mirror of your own hurricane of emotions. 

With an angry sound–something akin to a broken, half-hidden sob–you wipe at your eyes. You’re incensed by your tears, filled with ire and frustration at the confusion regarding your own feelings. You’d thought that, after some time away from Daichi, after speaking with your friends, you’d finally be able to sort through and organize your whirlwind of emotions. 

Because time heals all wounds, right?

“It’s kinda cold out here, you know. Like, literally below freezing. Your snot might freeze to your face.”

Only one person can speak so bluntly, full of unbidden crass, yet still cause you to let out a pathetic snort of laughter. 

“Kei,” you acknowledge him simply, the remainder of your tears clotting in your voice.

He joins you by the railing, arms folded to relax against the wood. He leans his tall body over the balcony’s fence, and the slight flare of panic that rushes through you is quickly snuffed out when he speaks.

“Nice view, huh?” 

He didn’t have to ask the question; the view leaves you awestruck. In the distance, you can spot the snowy mountain peaks surrounding you, even through the tall pine and balsam trees that wrap around the lodge cabin. Though snow rests gently on the swinging leaves and bristles of pine, dusting white across brown pinecones, you can still see bits of green peeking out, the smell of mint and pine and cinnamon lingering in the cold air.

A puff of cool, misty air leaves your mouth as you exhale. “You think?” you chuckle humorlessly, catching Tsukishima’s frustration. 

A desperate look flashes in his eyes as he turns to you, his expression turning only slightly pleading. “Please–talk to me. I don’t know how to help you if you don’t let me.” 

His sincerity catches you off guard. Of course, you are no stranger to Tsukishima Kei’s kindness; it always manifests in small, incremental actions: waiting for you by his car, refusing to enter until after you have, slowing his pace to allow you to catch up–never willing to leave you behind.

Fixing the sleeve of your sweater when a stray thread is hanging off. Insisting that you speak to him when you really need it. 

Being able to always tell when you do.

But, similar to the awkwardness you recall feeling during the drive, it is rare that his sincerity becomes so plainly obvious. 

When it does, you know you have been remiss in keeping your closest friend in the loop. 

Guilt joins with the barrage of emotions already pounding in your chest. 

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, tucking your hands underneath the sleeves of your sweater. You feel almost timid at expressing your feelings to Tsukishima in a way that you were not with Yachi and Kiyoko, and you cannot discern why. 

He waits patiently, still leaning against the railing.

“It’s just…” you search for the right words but quickly give up: there are no concrete, simple words to possibly describe what you’re feeling, “…hard.”

A beat of silence passes as you allow Tsukishima to understand your meaning, for Tsukishima to offer you the quiet you need. The air stills, and with a short sigh, your friend relaxes. 

“Come here,” he simply states, not bothering to explain himself. You feel an innate sense of déjà vu as he turns to you, but unlike earlier, he tucks you into his arms. 

Tsukishima is warm–having a tendency to run hot–and you gratefully sink into the familiar, calming embrace. However, it is different from the rest of your friends’ hugs; perhaps it is different in the way you can feel how his heart beats against your body, how you’re distinctly aware of his fingers lingering on the small of your back–acutely in tune to where his body ends, and yours begins. 

“It’s okay, you know,” he begins cryptically. Sensing this, he continues, “to be confused, I mean. And to be upset. No one ever said that this was going to be easy.”

Your hands tighten into a fist against his back, smoothing over any wrinkles that are there before likely forming more. You ache to feel the familiarity of his touch closer. “I know, but I still hoped it would be.”

You feel him grin by your ear, and it manifests into a short huff of a chuckle. “I know. But you knew it was going to be hard–seeing him.”

For the millionth time that day, there is something about Tsukishima that you cannot interpret. This time, it is in his words, in his tone. By the way his voice seems to linger on the word 'him,’ the intonation deepening into a sound you do not often hear from Tsukishima, you know he means something that he does not say.

Strangely, your heart beats rapidly against your ribcage, and you curiously wonder if Tsukishima can feel it the way you feel his. His arms around you–while stained with years of familiarity–feel implicitly different, tightening slightly with an enduring touch that has you itching for something more. 

The strange, complex emotions well in your throat, stopping up the words that remain halted on your tongue. Pulling away slightly, you look up, peering at him with wide eyes, hoping a bit of comic relief will ease the blatant tension surrounding you. 

“Kei, be honest,” you begin, curling your hands into the fabric of his coat. 

“When have I ever lied to you,” he points out, and it is not a question. His eyes dart and flit all over your face, yet, before you can pinpoint what he is looking at, he has already moved on to a different feature. 

Tsukishima’s words, imbued with honesty and a hint of teasing, cause a grin to break across your face. Playfully, you swat at his chest, and he joins you with laughter of his own, still holding you in the hug. 

“Is there really snot on my face?” you finally finish, already feeling infinitely better than before he’d joined you. 

At that, he snorts, throwing his head back as he rolls his eyes. “Duh. Like, all over,” Tsukishima states, flicking your head in an affectionate gesture. 

“Ow,” you glare, bringing a hand up to rub at the tingling sensation on your forehead. 

The look that crosses his face is kind–filled with a sort of fondness you are used to, but also hiding something you are not. 

The comedic moment ends, and something else replaces it.

Once again, you are filled with that similar tension as earlier today, when he’d held your wrist in his hand–when he’d pulled the string from your sweater. Tsukishima’s small traces have lingered long after his touch has gone–you swear you can still feel them even now, remaining as imprints on your skin. Your skin remembers his touch, and, unlike usual, you wish you had more of it. 

The sudden frazzled rapping of your heart in your chest leaves you faltering; you can’t find the words yet–they’re still stuck in your throat, but for a different reason than before. The air feels charged, thrumming as if there is a current buzzing around you, filling and stretching until you feel similarly stretched thin, consumed by everything Kei. 

Frankly, you’re confused, and the unreadable expression on his face only further pushes that confusion. 

“Kei?” you prompt, hands still clutching at his back. 

Your eyes flit down to where he bites his lip–a teasing, yet slightly pained, look present in his gaze. A brief feeling of conflict fills you at the sight, and, just like all the other emotions thickening in your chest, you cannot discern what it means. 

“I, uh…” he starts off, voice tapering off. You can see him searching for the words, digging into his mind, and tasting the form of many different phrases on his tongue. 

It takes him a moment. Tsukishima internally battles with himself, tossing and turning whatever is troubling him, churning it around in his head until he’s appropriately nurtured the thought. 

Just as he goes to open his mouth, his grip on your body loosening minutely before his fingers tighten again around your waist, a loud crash interrupts you. 

Startled, you fall away from Tsukishima’s touch, darting your gaze to the balcony’s doors to spy a boggled, surprised Nishinoya and Tanaka. The duo has their mouths hanging open–uncharacteristically quiet in such a way that has concern bubbling in your throat–but then the moment passes, and a look of triumphant understanding crosses their faces. 

“I fucking knew it!”

“God, you two really left us all on edge!” 

Their excitement is palpable, and it would be contagious if you weren’t so confused. Looking between the duo with furrowed brows, you hold your arms out–as if waiting for someone to fill you in on whatever joke you’re clearly not part of. 

“What?” you ask, looking between the two. They merely grin conspiratorially, knowingly, and it has a sense of foreboding blaring red in your mind. “What are you two on about?”

Looking to Tsukishima, you notice how a flare of panic comes to life in his eyes, raising his hands in an effort to settle the two hyperactive, scheming men. “Hey, guys–”

“We fucking knew you two were together!”

“How long have you been dating! Geez, you could’ve let us in on it a while ago!”

Dating.

Together.

The words blur together in your mind, and it takes you a second to piece together the overwhelming connotation. It’s a strange puzzle–one you had never bothered to piece together. The edges are blurred–the idea of you and Tsukishima dating had only ever crossed your mind a few times: when you first became friends and any subsequent instance in which someone had mistaken you as such. The thought was something you merely brushed off, correcting people from time-to-time, until the accusations eventually stopped. 

After forming your crush on Daichi, you’d never given it much extra thought. But apparently, you were in the minority, because everyone else had. 

“Can you two please calm down–” 

“Calm down? After this bombshell? Get a grip!” Tanaka begins to scramble, running out from the doorframe and likely back to the remainder of your friends. A feeling of nausea fills you as he leaves your sight, and it’s something you can’t fight down.

“Hey! Wait up!” Nishinoya laughs, chasing after his best friend with equally frantic movements. 

You startle, protests rising and getting caught in your throat as they run off. Down the hall, you hear Nishinoya shout, “Suga! You owe me four thousand yen!” 

“Guys, stop!”

They don’t listen to Tsukishima.

There is a hustle and bustle from downstairs that you can hear even from the balcony, and with a shared, nervous look with Tsukishima, you race inside, leaning over the hallway’s railing to catch the tail end of Tanaka and Nishinoya’s explanation. 

That you and Tsukishima are dating. That your friends had been right. 

With wide eyes, you slowly, cautiously look at Tsukishima. He meets your gaze with similar shock, trepidation clear in his gaze, eyes wide as he takes in the shouts and hollers of your friends downstairs. 

Shit. 

There are many different instances in life–with different paths to take, each leading to different outcomes. 

With your friends whooping and exclaiming things like, “I freaking knew it!” and “They really were pretty obvious about it,” paired with the wide-eyed look Tsukishima shoots you, you do not yet know where this path will take you. 

Untold

description - king Katsuki Bakugo, who’s desperate in wanting to get closer to his mate hatches a morally dubious plan to do so. Let himself get injured ? check. Convince his clueless mate that his dragon needs to breed her otherwise he will rampage ? check. 

warnings - Bakugo is soo bad at feelings. loss of virginity (m&f), dom bakugo, vaginal penetration, dirty talk ?, clueless reader, breeding kink, slight lactation kink but reader isnt lactating, implied brain washing. Bakugo and his dragon are like two separate entities who existing in one body. feral baku. mentions of poison and injury. Manipulation. slight dub con if you squint.

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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?” 

Scoring, In More Ways Than One | Kunigami Rensuke x Raichi Jingo x Reader

When you ask your non-writer friends to help you name your fic and you end up with football puns, but I’m not even mad about it.

This is a disgustingly late submission to @prettyboykatsuki​‘s Corruption collab. I’m so sorry that I’m now so late you probably forgot all about the collab entirely, but thank you so much for letting me join! This has been dying in my docs for months so it feels amazing to actually finish it and I hope you guys enjoy!

Summary: You knew when you first started dating Kunigami that he took football extremely seriously, and it was something that you accepted about him.  He’s waiting until he makes it into the Pro-leagues to have sex with you, because he can’t have any vices or distractions from his childhood dream, but Raichi thinks you’re the biggest distraction there is.

Warnings: 18+, pwp, no beta, virgin!reader, implied/hinted virgin!Kunigami, threesomes, degradation from Raichi, praise, blowjobs, hand jobs, cunnilingus, fingering, multiple orgasms, spanking, sweat, cumplay, creampies, no protection, voyeurism.

Pairing: Kunigami Rensuke x Raichi Jingo x f!reader.

Word Count: 8.6k.

Qualifying matches were often a hostile environment for your boyfriend and his football team, the tensions high as they made their way up the tables towards the finals. During these periods it was normal for you to see less of Kunigami as he spent all his free time practising with his team, but for a few cherished moments each evening, you’d have him all to yourself.

You’d been lucky enough to accompany him to the championships this year. Often having to resort to FaceTime, texts and voice calls to keep close during the distance in your relationship. But as well as getting to spend more time with your boyfriend during downtime and watching the games from the sidelines, this meant you now got to experience how hostile the environment could get with his teammates.

“That goal was mine, Kunigami.” Raichi snarled after shouldering his way into your hotel room that evening, “You always have to play the fuckin’ hero, huh?”

“You weren’t open,” Kunigami replied smoothly, towelling his hair dry as he stood at the foot of the bed with a pair of sweats slung low on his hips, “And we needed to win.”

“Are you trying to say I couldn’t have made it?” Raichi scoffed.

“There was no way,” Kunigami shrugged, “That’s why Isagi passed to me.”

“And you thought you’d just score the winning goal.” Raichi rolled his eyes.

“Isn’t that the point of the game, Raichi?” Kunigami tutted, dropping the towel onto the office chair in the room to cross his arms over his chest, “Scoring goals?”

“You’re so lucky to have such a good guy ain’t ya, sweetheart.” Raichi seethed, pure venom dripping from his every word.

“Yeah, she is.” Kunigami furrowed his brows, “And I think it’s time for you to leave.”

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Good Boy

Wolf Hybrid! Kageyama Tobio x Reader (Hybrid Au)

- my first time writing for Kageyama + hybrid au, he fits the wolf hybrid theme so well. final commission post for @nightmarelilyxd​ ! tysm for being patient <33

You were his to protect the moment you picked him at the adoption centre, his to fuck, his to breed.

Warnings: kageyama can shift between his human form/ wolf form, kageyama has ears + a tail, smut, slight dub/non con, slight somnophilia, pet play(?), this is literal porn w/o plot, breeding kink

Kageyama never really understood why you picked him.

You strolled right past the other hybrids practically vying for your attention and pointed a single, pretty manicured nail at him with an equally pretty smile before you opened your mouth, “I want to adopt this one.”

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Aberration - Chapter 9

MHA!Various x Fem!Reader

Thriller/Horror/Drama

Criminal!AU

Words: 2.6k

A/N: After 1000 years, chapter 9 is FINALLY COMPLETED. I hope it’s good enough. It’s a wee bit shorter than the last but I wanted to leave this on a specific cliff hanger~ Enjoy!

Warnings: Yandere Themes, Mentions of murder, torture, abuse, blood, felonies, bullying, swearing, death and description of dead bodies.

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of MHA, just this story. In no way does this reflect the characters, writers or VAs of the show/manga. MINORS DNI.

~~~

Aberration Masterlist

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Move your legs, Y/N!’

It’s like time slowed down as you notice the inmates have been freed. Fear rises inside you knowing each and every single one of these people are dangerous.

‘Move your fucking legs, Y/N!’

You couldn’t move, couldn’t flee. Your body is frozen in pure terror. You KNOW you need to move. You KNOW you need to back out of that goddamn room or you will not survive. But no matter how much you will your legs to move, they’re practically paralyzed underneath you.

“MS. Y/N, YOU NEED TO LEAVE! NOW!”

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His | 2 | Yandere Bakugou x Reader

Chapter 1 | Chapter 3

Story Masterlist

Summary:  You’re a petty villain, and your new villain-career is forced to an immediate halt when none other than Ground Zero captures you. He’s convinced that you’re in need of his help to change your tainted lifestyle, and you’re not going to tell him otherwise.

WARNINGS: ABUSE, INJURIES

Ground Zero’s grip on (Y/n)’s wrists twisted, shifting his hold on her and placing her back in the locked position she was previously, holding her arms together behind her with one hand. She felt Ground Zero’s weight shift as he reached for his belt once more. The clang of metal was behind her and immediately knew she was being detained. The gravel felt rough against her chin as she grimaced, looking forward at the dark alley her and the hero were alone in. She felt like freedom was just a few more paces away — maybe if she had been faster, or just had a quirk…!

Who was she kidding.

Ground Zero was not known for his mercy. He was not known for his compassion. He was not known for his gracious nature.

He was known for his ruthlessness. He was known for his hostility. He was known as the symbol of strength, and by God, did it show by just how bruising his grip was on her arms.

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his dream.

part of the lovetimes7 yandere drabble series (except this isn’t really a drabble anymore bruh).

pairing. jeongguk x f!reader

word count. 2.6k

warnings. yandere behavior. obsessive behavior. stalking. recording without consent. smut (male masterbation, fantasizing about handjobs and blowjobs and penetrative sex). gguk’s awkward as fuck.

would recommend reading shy. before this.

dirty apartment.

dirty boy.

my masterlist!

the first thing jeongguk does when he gets to his apartment is toss his backpack to the side and scream into his pillow.

then, he makes sure that none of his supplies are damaged from the throw before screaming into his pillow again.

the neighbors may file a complaint about how loud he is, but jeongguk doesn’t care. after all, he can probably say that today has been one of the happiest days of his life (aside from the day he saw you for the first time, or the day he went to your apartment alone); because today is the day you asked him for tutoring.

he recalls how you walked into the lecture hall before class started, sitting in your spot a few seats below him (jeongguk made sure to arrive early like he usually does; that way, he could take the chair that allowed him to have the best view of you). it started out like any other lecture. jeongguk, being the smart boy he is, studied the lesson beforehand so he could use the time to watch you listen to the professor. his eyes were glued to you, observing how you squinted at the board with confusion, how you tapped your pen on your chin, how you flipped through your notes and scribbled onto your paper with haste; jeongguk wanted to squeal from how cute you were! aside from watching you, the boy did a lot of daydreaming. he imagined how it would be like to give you his notes, and how you would compliment how neat they were. it had him smiling down at his lap and suppressing a giggle. his fantasies distracted him from realizing that the lecture was over; distracted him from noticing you approaching him; distracted him from your sweet voice calling out to him. poor jeongguk was so confused when you said his name (sh.. she knows my name?!) and asked if he could help you with the lessons, to which he replied with “uh– oh– uh– i mean– y-y-yes!” (poor, shy jeongguk wanted to slap himself for being so awkward, but what could he do? it was his goddess talking to him!).

your smile at his response had him stunned, completely dazed, and the memory plays on repeat in his head even when he opens his apartment door (he couldn’t follow you home today; if he did, he would probably pass out the second he saw your face again!).

jeongguk’s hands ruffle his hair as his ears turn pink. half of him still doesn’t believe that you talked to him. another part thanks himself for all those nights of studying and being at the top of the class; maybe he secretly fantasized about teaching you concepts you were stuck on. the thought of you creeps back into his mind again, and flustered jeongguk searches for a pretty, pink boxes in his drawer. his hands reach for the one labeled ‘_____’s fashion’ (his hand ghosts over the one named ‘_____ sleeping’ before he shakes his head).

jeongguk opens it and carefully takes each picture out, one by one, laying them side by side before opening his closet.

he wanted to look his best for you. he wanted you to compliment his clothes, all while he makes sure that the two of you don’t look out of place for the study… date.

jeongguk was going on a date with you tomorrow.

he jumps on his bed and screams into his pillow again.

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