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ty-bayonet-betteridge · 1 year ago

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two of the transfems youre friends with have been talking to you about the clinic they got their bottom surgery done at. apparently its dirt cheap, and the surgeon - despite some oddities and, your friends admit, poor hygiene - is incredibly talented. theyre more than happy to give you her phone number when you ask, and while it sounds simultaneously incredibly sketchy and way too good to be true, at this point youre just so broke, desperate, and tired of gatekeepers that you're willing to give it a shot.

you call on a thursday afternoon, and the call is picked up on the fourth ring, when youre just gearing up to hear an answering machine. the voice on the other end sounds like a middle-aged woman with a smoking habit trying to sound like a cheery, bubbly young girl, and mostly succeeding. hiiiii! what can i do for you? she asks. you say er im looking for a surgical clinic is this the right number? she says mhm! thats me. you say okay, i just have a few questions. she says shoot. you say do you take patients who arent referred to you? she says nobody refers patients to me so yes. then she giggles. youve never heard somebody pull off a giggle in real life. you ask okay, so ive been looking for a place to get my metoidoplasty done, can you do that here? she says i dont know what that is give me like five seconds. then the line goes silent. you can hear her typing on a mechanical keyboard and humming to herself as she reads. youre now convinced that this is not in any way a legitimate medical institution.

youre about to hang up when she comes back on the line. OH you need a dick she says. sure i can do that! does tuesday afternoon work for you? i have that morning free too but i HATE getting up in the mornings so id rather not schedule it if i have to. you say tuesday afternoon is fine, how long should i expect the visit to be? she says i dont know like seven hours? you say seven hours? she says yeah give or take a few, every person is different so i dont know what itll be like until ive got your cunt opened up. honestly probably best to take the whole day off just in case it turns out to be a tough operation. you dont respond to that immediately. she says oh shoot should i not use the word cunt, is that too gendered? sorry. you say no its fine. you say i thought i was just going in for a consult? she says i mean yeah if youd rather. i dont mind doing same-day but some people like having more time to think about their options. do you have somewhere to be tuesday night or something? you say no its just... no tuesday afternoon should be fine. she says okay great!

she gives you her address. she says knock three times so i know its you and not my parole officer. parole officer you ask? she says im being good i promise but i still hate talking to him hes boring. you say if you dont mind me asking what were you imprisoned for? she says the ones i plead guilty to at the trial were a hundred and ninety-two counts of first-degree murder with a parahuman ability, two hundred and fifty-six counts of physical and emotional torture with a parahuman ability, five hundred and six counts of intentional infliction of emotional distress with a parahuman ability, four hundred ninety-eight counts of aggravated assault and battery with a parahuman ability, four hundred twenty five counts of domestic terrorism with a parahuman ability and two hundred and twelve counts without, three counts of arson, two hundred forty two counts of burglary with a parahuman ability, three hundred eight four counts of robbery with a parahuman ability, four hundred twenty seven counts of abduction with a parahuman ability, a hundred eighty six counts of human trafficking with a parahuman ability, three hundred ninety counts of destruction of public property with a parahuman ability, eighty counts of possession of a controlled substance, more than three thousand conspiracy and complicity charges in various felonies, eighteen violations of the Geneva Conventions, and the unauthorized practice of medicine. i plead not guilty to the larceny, sexual assault, contempt of court, corporate espionage, and identity theft charges and the prosecutor didnt really try to fight it since i had already earned seventy life sentences from the other stuff so im technically innocent of those.

you dont say anything to that.

after three seconds of silence she says sooooooooo i'll see you tuesday? you say tuesday, yeah. what was your name again? Riley, she says. Riley Grace Davis. you say thanks again and then hang up.

you debate constantly during the intervening days whether you should go on tuesday. youre grateful your friend group is so slutty; it means youve already seen with your own eyes that this surgery is real and not just a lure to murder you. still, you have some reservations, which you think is perfectly understandable.

you call one of your friends whos been there already. she picks up and you say if this is a joke its only sort of funny. she says if whats a joke? you say the clinic. you say you DID give me the actual number to the place where you actually had your bottom surgery done right? she says yeah, dont worry the surgeons so sweet. you say she admitted to doing two hundred murders when she was on the phone. she says i dont know anything about that but i trust her. you say if i end up dead, kidnapped, or mutilated, its your fault. she says dont worry about it.

tuesday comes. you never agreed to an exact time so you show up as early as you can and still have it be "afternoon" in your mind - 12:30. you climb the rusted fire escape to the third floor door and knock three times. the door is answered by a woman six feet tall in casual but very nice clothes with frizzy brown hair and an expression you cant read. you say er, riley? she says nope. another girl pushes past her, exasperated. she's maybe five foot two and her wavy blonde hair is worn down, with a red bow in it. she's wearing torn jeans - naturally torn, not the sort that you buy with holes in them that youve always hated but the kind that were once normal jeans and now have worn through much of the fabric on the knees. her tshirt is faded and has stains that you cant quite place on it, but youre pretty sure it was once Eidolon merchandise.

she says damnit amy let me answer the door next time. the taller woman, amy apparently, shrugs and steps aside to let you in riley claps her hands together once youre inside and the door is shut. introductions! she shouts. amy, this is, er... I never actually got your name? you tell them your name. she says right! hes one of my clients. and this is Amy, my sister. dont worry about her, shes just a little awkward. amy says can you PLEASE not introduce me as your sister. riley says make me. then she grabs amys shirt and pulls her down, standing on her tiptoes at the same time. they kiss in a very un-sisterly way. you clear your throat politely.

riley breaks away and says right, yeah, sorry! i get distracted easy. youre here to get a dick right. you splutter a bit, both at the bluntness of the question and the fact that amy is still standing right there. riley follows your gaze. she says oh dont worry about her! sorry, i wouldve run her off earlier, i thought you wouldnt come by for another few hours. you say sorry. she says dont worry, its her fault. amy says you didnt tell me you had a client. riley says you didnt ASK. you clear your throat politely again. you say er yes, i did come in for metoidoplasty. she bites her lip and furrows her brow. she says metoido... oh right. well i dont really do that here but i can give you a dick. you say uh im not really interested in phalloplasty. she says whats phalloplasty? amy says its the construction of a penis, usually via tissue flap taken from another part of the body, often followed by the insertion of prosthetics to allow the constructed penis to achieve erection. riley says oh, huh. yeah i dont do that either. i can give you a dick though. she takes a second then puts on an exaggerated scowl. who would want that she asks? amy says lots of people prefer it to metoido for aesthetic reasons or because they dont think theyll be large enough for penetrative sex with metoido. riley says but it wouldnt feel like a dick! man, some surgeons are talentless hacks.

you clear your throat again. you say so if youre- riley says youre clearing your throat a lot, are you okay? you say im fine, its just- she says oh duh were being so rude! why are we all standing around here. come sit down in the living room, do you want anything to drink? she leads you into the living room. it has the unmistakable air of a room thats been cleaned recently, with vacuuming marks present in the carpet and the unmistakable scent of air freshener. the sofa that you're gestured to sit on is, by contrast, unbelievably filthy. stains of every sort are visible on it - some of them are obvious, like the patches of blood and vomit or the ring of a coffee mug. others take you a second to place, like the crusty streak along one cushion that you realize all at once is semen, or the sticky yellow parts that you hope to god are honey. some of them, like the muddy green handprint along one arm of the sofa or the deep black smudge along a seat, are completely foreign to you. you can smell it from several feet away.

amy notices your hesitancy. she says i keep telling her to throw that thing out. riley says and i keep telling HER that its a relic from earth bet! its an antique and itll be worth millions soon. it just needs a good deep cleaning. amy says what that sofa needs is a bullet, not a deep clean. you sit down. drink? riley asks. you say er what do you have? she says water, diet coke, vodka, coffee. no more beer though, SOMEBODY drank the last one. amy says you never said they were off limits! riley says they arent, im just teasing. you say waters fine. riley says aaaaaaaaaamyyyyyyy, could you pleeeeeeaaaaaaaase go get our guest a glass of water and me a diet coke? oh and can you grab the pill bottle on the second shelf of the spice cabinet. amy says sure, i'll be right back.

riley sits down next to you. she says sooooooo what do you want for your dick? you say sorry, if youre not doing phallo or metoido then what exactly are you offering? she says no offense but it would take like literally eight years to give you enough background info for you to understand my explanation, and i dont have that kind of time. im not getting any younger. except for when i am. she laughs louder than you thought a human could. you have no idea how to describe the sound of her laughter. she says just tell me about your dream dick and ill give it to you. trust me, im a doctor.

except that youre not, amy says, returning with glasses and pills in hand. she sets the water down in front of you and you immediately take large gulps, feeling very much lost right now. riley says am TOO, accepting the pill bottle and diet coke from amy. she frowns. why is it can diet coke, she asks? she says glass bottle is so much better. she says why did i even BUY can. amy says they are literally the same liquid, what do you mean its better. riley says theyre not the same, stop deluding yourself. amy says which of us is the REAL doctor? riley says both of us! the PRT finally issued me an equivalency. youre talking to doctor riley davis, MED. amy says oh really? congrats she says. riley beams. then she unscrews the lid of the unlabeled, dark brown glass bottle, grabs three pills, and pops them into her mouth.

what is that you ask. ectasy she says. you want some? you say no thanks. she says you sure? you say i probably shouldnt take drugs before an operation, what if it interacts with the anesthetic? riley says dont worry, i made my own anesthetic that has zero drug-drug interactions. amy says except with sudafed. riley says ok YEAH except with sudafed, how was i supposed to know? she glances at you. you dont take sudafed do you she asks. you say no. she says good. it was such a bitch cleaning the pus off the ceiling she says. you say huh? she says dont worry about it, you dont take sudafed. she says are you sure you dont want any ecstasy? i promise its pure. you say i dont want to get addicted. she says i can surgically remove the addiction pathway from your brain if that would help. amy says riley, no means no. riley says fine. do you want any ecstasy babe? she says no thanks. riley frowns. she says you guys are a bunch of squares. she pops a fourth one and starts chugging diet coke.

she slams the can down after drinking what must be half of it, wipes her mouth with her arm and grins. sorry, we keep getting distracted! she says. she says im getting into the start of a manic episode and that always makes me roll right over people in conversation. what do you want for your dick? you say um. i hadnt really thought about it. its not normally a choice beyond the type of surgery, you sort of just end up with whatever the doctors are able to make work? thats lame she says. why are normal doctors all so lame she says. ok, rude amy says. OBVIOUSLY im not talking about you babe riley says. and stop distracting me from my client! amy holds up her hands in mock surrender, an easy smile on her face.

you didnt bring a toy with you did you, riley asks. you say huh. she says sometimes people bring a toy that they want me to model it after and that makes everything a lot easier. you say no you didn't. you say i hadn't really thought about my preferences, can we go dealer's choice on this? amy pipes up. she says you REALLY dont want riley to go dealers choice. riley says shut up and get me another diet coke, i just finished this one. amy says yes princess. you honestly cant read whether it was meant to be mocking or endearing. riley turns back to you. ok, she says, lets start with basics. primate? canid? equine? suine? dolphin? i could give you a hyena pseudopenis but i dont know if that would be offensive. you say human is fine. she says please dont tell me you're gonna just be boring this whole time. you say define boring. she sighs deeply and starts massaging her temples. amy, having stepped into the room in time to hear the last bit of conversation, tousles rileys hair. she says sorry babe, customer's always right.

you work out the appearance of your soon-to-exist cock this way. riley asks questions about length, girth, hair, amount of semen generated, percentage growth when erect, and you try to give what you think are average answers every time. amy watches, bemused, the whole time. halfway through she leaves to get the bottle of vodka. she drinks five shots in fifteen minutes. you say i didnt think the human body had that much capacity for alcohol resistance. she says it doesnt. riley swats playfully at her arm.

eventually, riley grabs a set of crayons and a cocktail napkin. she says ok, i think we got it, scribbling furiously. she shows you a crayon drawing of a dick. this look good she asks? you squint at it. there are no measurements given and the medium does not allow you to make out any fine detail. you say yeah thats fine. amy tries and fails to hide a smile. riley chucks the napkin aside and rubs her hands together. boring parts done! she says. time to get messy she says. amy pours a sixth shot of vodka. she says dont forget the anesthetic first. riley rolls her eyes. she says OBVIOUSLY i didnt forget the anesthetic. she says ill be right back. as soon as she leaves the room, amy knocks back her shot. she turns to you. she says you mind if i stay and watch? she says i dont want to make you uncomfortable, but i like watching her work. shes cute when shes working. you say at this point youre not sure you would mind anything at all. you say at this point you dont think you would be fazed if she came back with a fully-formed dick wriggling around in her hand like a fish and sewed it onto me. she says dont tempt fate.

riley comes back with a black bag the size of her head, which she sets on the coffee table with a thunk. she points at you and says okay, clothes off. or pants off i guess. you can leave the shirt on. or take it off. i dont care. you take it off. she tells you to lie down and starts pulling things out of the bag. amy stands up from the sofa to give you the space to stretch out and sits on the coffee table instead, one leg pulled up to her chest with her chin resting on her knee.

riley pulls out a syringe from the bag, filled with pitch-black fluid. she says okay this will hurt for a second but only for a second. you say huh? she flips you over onto your belly and jabs the needle against your lower back, into your spinal column. it hurts like a bitch for all of two seconds and then you stop feeling anything at all in your lower body. you also cant move your legs, you realize. what just happened you ask, as she flips you onto your back again. she says i just killed all the cells in the nerves in your lower spine. she says its the easiest way to make sure none of the pain signals slip through, and she'll just replace them with living ones when she's done. you don't know how to respond to that.

she pulls more things out of the bag. a cartoonish array of different cutting implements come out. most of them are various sizes of medical scalpel, ring cutter, or saw, but you also see a pair of chunky pink safety scissors, a pizza cutter, a serrated bread knife, an x-acto, a drill with a comically long bit, a pair of wire cutters, gardening shears, and an awl. she says okay im gonna start operating so look away if you dont wanna see how your crotch looks while its being rearranged. especially if you think you might puke, i hate having to stop to clean up puke in the middle of surgery. you look away. you notice amy is watching transfixed.

for a couple of hours things go on like that. amy and riley make light conversation, with riley filling any silence by humming a wordless tune you dont know. the sounds and smells youre getting are enough to make you slightly sick; you continue not looking.

in the middle of hour two, riley stops. oh goddamnit, she says. what amy asks? riley says she forgot that shed need extra meat. amy says you started a surgery to give somebody a whole new organ and forgot youd need more tissue to do it? riley says shut up, im dumb. amy says no youre not babe. riley says ughhhhh now what. amy says just get his stem cells to grow the tissue you need. riley says nooooooo thatll take forever, and i have places to BE tomorrow, and if i stop putting pressure on him here hes going to bleed out through his cunt. you say wait, what? amy says well i dont know what you want me to do about this situation, i gave you my solution. riley says baaaaaaaaaaabe. amy says whaaaaaaaaaaaat. riley says i think we have some bacon in the fridge, will you pretty please with sprinkles on top go get it? amy says and what do i get in return? riley says a kiss. amy says id get that anyway. riley says my undying love and affection. amy says i have that already. riley says not making me angry at you so you can sleep under my roof without having to worry that ill turn your sweat glands into acid glands in the middle of the night. amy says that, plus i get to top tonight. riley says fiiiiiiiiine, just go get the bacon. amy gets up.

you say look uh i know you said not to question what youre doing but i kind of dont want a dick made of bacon, not to sound ungrateful. also did you say something about me bleeding out? riley says dont worry, if you bleed out ill put the blood back in, im a professional. you say thats not as reassuring as she thinks it is. riley says whos the doctor, mister? you say technically both of us. i have a phd in social sciences you say. she says wow, theyre just giving out doctorates for anything these days, huh? you say hey, rude. she says only teasing. you say anyway, uh, you didnt address the bacon dick thing? she says oh dont worry about it, my amys amazing, youll see.

amy comes back in with the package of bacon. do you need this in any particular shape she asks. riley says nah just give me a good amount of it. and make sure its spongy, so when he gets hard the blood can- amy cuts her off. she says dont worry, ive given you enough penises at this point that i think i know what penile tissue is like at this point. you say given her enough penises? what the hell does that mean? riley says hey, dont kinkshame! she sounds legitimately offended. you say sorry. amy pulls the bacon out of the package, holding it aloft in her left hand. you watch as the familiar look of a half-pound of bacon shifts and warps into a strange lump of fatty, spongy tissue of a waxy color. she hands it to riley. riley says thanks sis youre the best, love you! amy says no problem. riley says id kiss you if i wasnt elbow deep in this guys cunt right now. amy says kiss me after the surgerys done.

another two hours go by. the sounds of flesh being chopped, sawed, and stitched underscore riley and amys meaningless conversation about whether they HAVE to attend their acquaintance lisa's birthday party. riley says lisa probably wouldn't throw a birthday party if there wasn't some sort of scheme going on. amy agrees but says that doesnt indicate whether they should get involved with the scheme or not. you wonder dimly if you will ever feel your lower body again. you wonder if this is purgatory, an endless afternoon of lesbians bickering affectionately while one of them does surgery on you. you turn your head enough to look at the clock. its 5:26pm. where the fuck did the time go?

another hour passes. riley stands up. she is soaked up to her elbow in various bodily fluids - mostly blood, but youre not looking too closely. she says finally! she says just need to regrow your nerve cells now. you say is that going to take long? she says like twenty minutes maybe as she flips you over. you say ok. she jams a different needle into the same spot, injecting a strange yellow paste into your spine. she then flips you onto your back again. you feel brave enough to finally look at your crotch.

there is a completely normal human penis of average size there. you reach a hand down and touch it. you dont have any sensation in it yet since your nerves are all still dead, but it feels warm and soft under your hands. you smile, feeling tears come to your eyes. its over.

rileys talking. she says i followed your specifications except i had to cheat a bit on the nerves, you actually didnt have very many in your clit for whatever reason so your glans has maybe eight thousand fewer nerves than you wanted, sorry about that. she says i gave you balls in your scrotum for shape but since you said you didnt want kids they dont produce sperm. let me know if you want that changed she says. she says it should be fully functional in every respect, but if you notice any erectile dysfunction, incontinence, discoloration in urine or semen, priapism, or any other issue come back and we'll sort it out. if you notice it bleeding in ANY capacity, call me immediately. if im not answering call Amy, ill give you her number. if SHES not answering either then you can start seeing normal doctors, not that those idiots will know how to help you probably. if you want any changes to it call me and ill pencil you in to get it adjusted. get all that she asks. you nod. she says cool. she says itll be like $200, no rush if youre not able to pay right now. you say it might be a bit since youre still trying to pay interest on your student loan debt. wait, she says, they have student loans again? you nod. she says the world ended like thirty years ago, when did they set up student loans again? fuck, how much do you owe? you say a little under eighty thousand. she says jesus fuck, nevermind, its free. goddamn. you say thank you so much. she says yeah of course. do you want us to dress you or do you want to wait until you can move and do it yourself?

#wormblr #parahumans #worm spoilers #riley davis #riley grace davis #bonesaw #nsft #amy dallon #panacea #MY BELOVED GIRL. IS BACK #our writing #dr riley davis mde

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mostlysignssomeportents · 19 days ago

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“That Makes Me Smart”

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/04/its-not-a-lie/#its-a-premature-truth

The Biden administration disappointed, frustrated and enraged in so many ways, including abetting a genocide – but one consistent bright spot over the past four years was the unseen-for-generations frontal assault on corporate power and corporate corruption.

The three words that define this battle above all others are "unfair and deceptive" – words that appear in Section 5 of the Federal Trade Commission Act and other legislation modeled on it, like USC40 Section 41712(a), which gives the Department of Transportation the power to ban "unfair and deceptive" practices as well:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/10/the-courage-to-govern/#whos-in-charge

When Congress created an agency to punish "unfair and deceptive" conduct, they were saying to the American people, "You have a right not to be cheated." While this may sound obvious, it's hardly how the world works.

To get a sense of how many ripoffs are part of our daily lives, let's take a little tour of the ways that the FTC and other agencies have used the "unfair and deceptive" standard to defend you over the past four years. Take Amazon Prime: Amazon executives emailed one another, openly admitting that in their user tests, the public was consistently fooled by Amazon's "get free shipping with Prime" dialog boxes, thinking they were signing up for free shipping and not understanding that they were actually signing up to send the company $140/year. They had tested other versions of the signup workflow that users were able to correctly interpret, but they decided to go with the confusing version because it made them more money:

https://arstechnica.com/tech-policy/2024/05/amazon-execs-may-be-personally-liable-for-tricking-users-into-prime-sign-ups/

Getting you signed up for Prime isn't just a matter of taking $140 out of your pocket once – because while Amazon has produced a greased slide that whisks you into a recurring Prime subscription, the process for canceling that recurring payment is more like a greased pole you must climb to escape the Prime pit. This is typical of many services, where signing up happens in a couple clicks, but canceling is a Kafkaesque nightmare. The FTC decided that this was an "unfair and deceptive" business practice and used its authority to create a "Click to Cancel" rule that says businesses have to make it as easy to cancel a recurring payment as it was to sign up for it:

https://www.theregister.com/2023/07/12/ftc_cancel_subscriptions/

Once businesses have you locked in, they also spy on you, ingesting masses of commercial surveillance data that you "consented" to by buying a car, or clicking to a website, or installing an app, or just physically existing in space. They use this to implement "surveillance pricing," raising prices based on their estimation of your desperation. Uber got caught doing this a decade ago, raising the price of taxi rides for users whose batteries were about to die, but these days, everyone's in on the game. For example, McDonald's has invested in a company that spies on your finances to determine when your payday is, and then raises the price of your usual breakfast sandwich by a dollar the day you get paid:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/05/your-price-named/#privacy-first-again

Everything about this is "unfair and deceptive" – from switching prices the second you click into the store to the sham of consent that consists of, say, picking up your tickets to a show and being ordered to download an app that comes with 20,000 words of terms and conditions that allows the company that sends you a QR code to spy on you for the rest of your life in any way they can and sell the data to anyone who'll buy it.

As bad as it is to be trapped in an abusive relationship as a shopper, it's a million times worse to be trapped as a worker. One in 18 American workers is under a noncompete "agreement" that makes it illegal for you to change jobs and work for someone else in the same industry. The vast majority of these workers are in low-waged food-service jobs. The primary use of the American noncompete is to stop the cashier at Wendy's from getting an extra $0.25/hour by taking a job at McDonald's.

Noncompetes are shrouded in a fog of easily dispelled bossly bullshit: claims that noncompetes raise wages (empirically, this is untrue), or that they enable "IP"-intensive industries to grow by protecting their trade secrets. This claim is such bullshit: you can tell by the fact that noncompetes are banned under California's state constitution and yet the most IP-intensive industries have attracted hundreds of billions – if not trillions – in investment capital even though none of their workforce can be bound under a noncompete. The FTC's order banning noncompetes for every worker in America simply brings the labor regime that created Silicon Valley and Hollywood to the rest of the country:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/26/hit-with-a-brick/#graceful-failure

Noncompetes aren't the only "unfair and deceptive" practice used against American workers. The past decade has seen the rise of private equity consolidation in several low-waged industries, like pet grooming. The new owners of every pet grooming salon within 20 miles of your house haven't just slashed workers' wages, they've also cooked up a scheme that lets them charge workers thousands of dollars if they quit these shitty jobs. This scheme is called a "training repayment agreement provision" (TRAP!): workers who are TRAPped at Petsmart are made to work doing menial jobs like sweeping up the floor for three to four weeks. Petsmart calls this "training," and values it at $5,500. If you quit your pet grooming job in the next two years, you legally owe PetSmart $5,500 to "repay" them for the training:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/08/04/its-a-trap/#a-little-on-the-nose

Workers are also subjected to "unfair and deceptive" bossware: "AI" tools sold to bosses that claim they can sort good workers from bad, but actually serve as random-number generators that penalize workers in arbitrary, life-destroying ways:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/11/26/hawtch-hawtch/#you-treasure-what-you-measure

Some of the most "unfair and deceptive" conduct we endure happens in shadowy corners of industry, where obscure middlemen help consolidated industries raise prices and pick your pocket. All the meat you buy in the grocery store comes from a cartel of processing and packing companies that all subscribe to the same "price consulting" services that tells them how to coordinate across-the-board price rises (tell me again how greedflation isn't a thing?):

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/04/dont-let-your-meat-loaf/#meaty-beaty-big-and-bouncy

It's not just food, it's all of Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs. Take shelter: the highly consolidated landlord industry uses apps like Realpage to coordinate rental price hikes, turning the housing crisis into a housing emergency:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/24/gouging-the-all-seeing-eye/#i-spy

And of course, health is the most "unfair and deceptive" industry of all. Useless middlemen like "Pharmacy Benefit Managers" ("a spreadsheet with political power" -Matt Stoller) coordinate massive price-hikes in the drugs you need to stay alive, which is why Americans pay substantially more for medicine than anyone else in the world, even as the US government spends more than any other to fund pharma research, using public money:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/23/shield-of-boringness/#some-men-rob-you-with-a-fountain-pen

It's not just drugs: every piece of equipment – think hospital beds and nuclear medicine machines – as well as all the consumables – from bandages to saline – at your local hospital runs through a cartel of "Group Purchasing Organizations" that do for hospital equipment what PBMs do for medicine:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/09/27/lethal-dysfunction/#luxury-bones

For the past four years, we've lived in an America where a substantial portion of the administrative state went to war every day to stamp out unfair and deceptive practices. It's still happening: yesterday, the CFPB (which Musk has vowed to shut down) proposed a new rule that would ban the entire data brokerage industry, who nonconsensually harvest information about every American, and package it up into categories like "teenagers from red states seeking abortions" and "military service personnel with gambling habits" and "seniors with dementia" and sell this to marketers, stalkers, foreign governments and anyone else with a credit-card:

https://www.consumerfinance.gov/about-us/newsroom/cfpb-proposes-rule-to-stop-data-brokers-from-selling-sensitive-personal-data-to-scammers-stalkers-and-spies/

And on the same day, the FTC banned the location brokers who spy on your every movement and sell your past and present location, again, to marketers, stalkers, foreign governments and anyone with a credit card:

https://www.404media.co/ftc-bans-location-data-company-that-powers-the-surveillance-ecosystem/

These are tantalizing previews of a better life for every American, one in which the rule is, "play fair." That's not the world that Trump and his allies want to build. Their motto isn't "cheaters never prosper" – it's "caveat emptor," let the buyer beware.

Remember the 2016 debate where Clinton accused Trump of cheating on his taxes and he admitted to it, saying "That makes me smart?" Trumpism is the movement of "that makes me smart" life, where if you get scammed, that's your own damned fault. Sorry, loser, you lost.

Nowhere do you see this more than in cryptocurrencyland, so it's not a coincidence that tens – perhaps hundreds – in dark crypto money was flushed into the election, first to overpower Democratic primaries and kick out Dem legislators who'd used their power to fight the "unfair and deceptive" crowd:

https://www.politico.com/newsletters/california-playbook-pm/2024/02/13/crypto-comes-for-katie-porter-00141261

And then to fight Dems across the board (even the Dems whose primary victories were funded by dark crypto money) and elect the GOP as the party of "caveat emptor"/"that makes me smart":

https://www.coindesk.com/news-analysis/2024/12/02/crypto-cash-fueled-53-members-of-the-next-u-s-congress

Crypto epitomizes the caveat emptor economy. By design, fraudulent crypto transactions can't be reversed. If you get suckered, that's canonically a you problem. And boy oh boy, do crypto users get suckered (including and especially those who buy Trump's shitcoins):

https://www.web3isgoinggreat.com/

And for crypto users who get ripped off because they've parked their "money" in an online wallet, there's no sympathy, just "not your keys, not your coins":

https://www.ledger.com/academy/not-your-keys-not-your-coins-why-it-matters

A cornerstone of the "unfair and deceptive" world is that only suckers – that is, outsiders, marks and little people – have to endure consequences when they get rooked. When insiders get ripped off, all principle is jettisoned. So it's not surprising that when crypto insiders got taken for millions the first time they created a DAO, they tore up all the rules of the crypto world and gave themselves the mulligan that none of the rest of us are entitled to in cryptoland:

https://blog.ethereum.org/2016/07/20/hard-fork-completed

Where you find crypto, you find Elon Musk, the guy who epitomizes caveat emptor thinking. This is a guy who has lied to drivers to get them to buy Teslas by promising "full self driving in one year," every year, since 2015:

https://www.consumerreports.org/cars/autonomous-driving/timeline-of-tesla-self-driving-aspirations-a9686689375/

Musk told investors that he had a "prototype" autonomous robot that could replace their workers, then demoed a guy in a robot suit, pretending to be a robot:

https://gizmodo.com/elon-musk-unveils-his-funniest-vaporware-yet-1847523016

Then Musk did it again, two years later, demoing a remote-control robot while lying and claiming that it was autonomous:

https://techcrunch.com/2024/10/14/tesla-optimus-bots-were-controlled-by-humans-during-the-we-robot-event

This is entirely typical of the AI sector, in which "AIs" are revealed, over and over, to be low-waged workers pretending to be robots, so much so that Indian tech industry insiders joke that "AI" stands for "Absent Indians":

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/29/pay-no-attention/#to-the-little-man-behind-the-curtain

Musk's view is that he's not a liar, merely a teller of premature truths. Autonomous cars and robots are just around the corner (just like the chatbots that can do your job, and not merely convince your boss to fire you while failing to do your job). He's not tricking you, he's just faking it until he makes it. It's not a scam, it's inspirational. Of course, if he's wrong and you are scammed, well, that's a you problem. Caveat emptor. That makes him smart.

Musk does this all the time. Take the Twitter blue tick, originally conceived of as a way to keep Twitter users from being scammed ("unfair and deceptive") by con artists pretending to be famous people. Musk's inaugural act at Twitter was to take away blue ticks from verified users and sell them to anyone who'd pay $8/month. Almost no one coughed up for this – the main exception being scammers, who used their purchased, unverified blue ticks to steal from Twitter users ("that makes me smart").

As Twitter hemorrhaged advertising revenue and Musk became increasingly desperate to materialize an army of $8/month paid subscribers, he pulled another scam: he nonconsensually applied blue ticks to prominent accounts, in a bid to trick normies into thinking that widely read people valued blue ticks so much they were paying for them out of their own pockets:

https://www.bbc.com/news/technology-65365366

If you were tricked into buying a blue tick on this pretense, well, caveat emptor. Besides, it's not a lie, it's a premature truth. Someday all those widely read users with nonconsensual blue ticks will surely value them so highly that they do start to pay for them. And if they don't? Well, Musk got your $8: "that makes me smart."

Scammers will always tell you that they're not lying to you, merely telling premature truths. Sam Bankman-Fried's defenders will tell you that he didn't actually steal all those billions. He gambled them on a bet that (sorta-kinda) paid off. Eventually, he was able to make all his victims (sorta-kinda) whole, so it's not even a theft:

https://www.cnn.com/2024/05/08/business/ftx-bankruptcy-plan-repay-creditors/index.html

Likewise, Tether, a "stablecoin" that was unable to pass an audit for many years as it issued unbacked, unregulated securities while lying and saying that for every dollar they minted, they had a dollar in reserves. Tether now (maybe) has reserves to equal its outstanding coins, so obviously all those years where they made false claims, they weren't lying, merely telling a premature truth:

https://creators.spotify.com/pod/show/cryptocriticscorner/episodes/Tether-wins–Skeptics-lose-the-end-of-an-era-e2rhf5e

If Tether had failed a margin call during those years and you'd lost everything, well, caveat emptor. The Tether insiders were always insulated from that risk, and that's all that matters: "that makes me smart."

When I think about the next four years, this is how I frame it: the victory of "that makes me smart" over "fairness and truth."

For years, progressives have pointed out the right's hypocrisy, despite that fact that Americans have been conditioned to be so cynical that even the rankest hypocrisy doesn't register. But "caveat emptor?" That isn't just someone else's bad belief or low ethics: it's the way that your life is materially, significantly worsened. The Biden administration – divided between corporate Dems and the Warren/Sanders wing that went to war on "unfair and deceptive" – was ashamed and nearly silent on its groundbreaking work fighting for fairness and honesty. That was a titanic mistake.

Americans may not care about hypocrisy, but they really care about being stolen from. No one wants to be a sucker.

#tether #ftx #scams #trumpism #caveat emptor #cryptocurrency #twitter #sleaze #premature truths #bossware #pluralistic

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t4t4t · 7 months ago

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The Liberal is always INNOCENT; he has nothing to do with anything; he never acts:

“God forbid! I didn’t send for the Police! I didn’t intend any VIOLENCE! I just didn’t want an Unobjective Person in My Department. If he was jailed or shot by the Police, THAT’S NOT MY CONCERN; I’M COMPLETELY INNOCENT! I DIDN’T HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH THAT, and in any case, that merely shows what kind of person HE really was.”

The Liberal’s project is to exclude the radical from society, but he does not take responsibility for the project; he realizes his project in stages, but he is only responsible for the “innocent” first stage. OTHERS DO THE REST. The Liberal merely initiates the process, and is not responsible for what the others do.

The Reactionary hits the radical directly; the Liberal does not do his own hitting. The Liberal merely PROVOKES the radical until he responds to the provocation, and when he responds, THE COPS GET THE RADICAL. The Liberal maintains his good conscience: HE didn’t act--the radical acted; HE didn’t repress the radical--the cops did. THE LIBERAL IS ALWAYS INNOCENT; his only desire is peace and quiet.

The Reactionary throws out a radical and then has him arrested for Loitering or Conspiracy or outside Agitation if the radical returns to fight; the Reactionary “eggs on” and harasses until the radical is provoked to hit back, and then has him arrested for Assault and Battery; the Reactionary tries to exclude the radical from any sources of income in order to have him locked up as a thief. To the Reactionary, the radical is ALREADY A CRIMINAL WHEN HE EXPRESSES HIS THOUGHTS.

The Liberal knows just as well as the Reactionary that “The cops’ll get ‘im”; HE COUNTS ON THE COPS TO PROTECT HIS PEACE AND QUIET; but, as Rafferty repeatedly observed, THE LIBERAL DOESN’T WANT TO SEE THE COPS WHO PROTECT HIM.

The Liberal can be compared to the Medieval Church. The Church excommunicated a heretic, but did not itself put the heretic to death. The Civil Authority, the Secular Authority, took charge of the heretic’s body. The Church was innocent; the Civil Authorities and the Executioner were the ones responsible for physical extermination. The excommunicators of the Church maintained clean consciences.

Thus also the Liberal: All he does is to excommunicate the radical, to exclude him “spiritually”; the Civil Authorities do the rest. At every single step he applies systematic terror and violence, and at every single step he manages to maintain his clean conscience.

The Liberal ALREADY KNOWS that when his “Leftist Colleague” is an unemployed radical he will do something for which it will be legitimate to throw him in jail, but the Liberal doesn’t want to be aware that HIS PEACE AND QUIET ARE MAINTAINED THROUGH TERRORISM AND VIOLENCE. In other words, the Liberal’s weapons are the same as the reactionary’s; the only difference between them is that the Liberal doesn’t look, and has a good conscience. He’s “tolerant,” he “reads radical literature,” he’s the “only one who talks to radicals,” he’s MORAL in every single way; he goes out of his way to “help radicals”; he’ll do everything for radicals which will help him keep his good conscience WHILE HE CONTINUES TO RELY ON TERROR AND VIOLENCE.

Liberal professors and students whose situations can only be maintained through terror and violence, through systematic psychological and physical murder, advertise “Make Love Not War.” Liberal students who have ALREADY CHOSEN to help maintain the dominant project when their time comes, are busy “accumulating” large “stocks” of good conscience while they can, while their “new styles of life” do not yet conflict with their future “responsibilities.”

Liberals are not “moderate.” That’s their own self-image. They’re extremists, but unlike reactionaries, THEY’RE EXTREMISTS WITH GOOD CONSCIENCES. Their instruments are not “ideas”; their instruments are TERROR and VIOLENCE. But unlike lynchers, THE LIBERALS TURN THEIR EYES AWAY to maintain their innocence.

People are EXCLUDED; thousands of people are OUTSIDERS; yet the Liberals who forced them out are TOTALLY GUILTLESS, and have the illusion that they are the ones who are “sympathetic” to the Radical Students, the Emotionally What-Have-You Students, the Hippie Students. The Liberal who is the first to move WHENEVER SOMEONE CROSSES ONE OF HIS LINES at the same time “contributes generously” to “Left-wing organizations” and “is against the war in Vietnam.” He is a supporter of all GOOD THINGS; he is a GOOD PERSON; he’s the BEST PERSON IN THE WORLD. He is able to accept physical and psychological TERROR and VIOLENCE WITH A GOOD CONSCIENCE AND CHRISTIAN MORALS.

Kalamazoo, February 1969

I Accuse This Liberal University of Terror and Violence, Fredy Perlman

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literaryvein-reblogs · 2 months ago

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more words for your fight scenes (pt. 2)

Arrive

admission, alight, appearance, arrival, billow, butt in, come in, cross, disembark, embark, enter, foray, get back, get on, go ahead, immigrate, influx, intrude, invasion, lance, light, lunge, penetrate, pierce, progress, reach, return, stalk, trespass, turn up

Illegal behavior

assault, backstab, bleed, break, bribe, buy, conspire, contravene, delinquency, disobey, extortion, felony, foul, graft, hara-kiri, holdup, imposture, infringe, intrigue, kickback, larceny, loot, misconduct, misdeed/misdemeanor, offense, pick, piracy, poach, rip off, rip-off, robbery, shenanigans, smear campaign, speculation, stick up, take, theft, treason, victimize, violation

Join physically

link, merge, mingle, piece, splice, tuck, unite, weld, yoke

Jump

bounce, clear, dive, gallop, hop, lunge, plunge, rear, recoil, skip, start, vault

Leave

abandon, back, blow, bolt, break, break out, cringe, dart, depart, desert, deviate, digress, disappearance, distance, draw back, ebb, embark, exit, fall back, flee, fly, get along, get out, goodbye, go out, jilt, light out, maroon, parting, push off/push on, quit, recoil, renunciation, resign, retire, run, scram, segregation, shake off, shrink, strike out, takeoff, threads, trousers, vacate, withdrawal

Prepare physically

acclimate, accustom, braid, brush up, bundle, coat, disguise, domesticate, dress, embattle, fine-tune, fix up, fortify, gear, gild, gloss, grease, habituate, knit, make up, modulate, overhaul, pad, plaster, polish, prepare, preserve, primp, reform, refrigerate, regenerate, rejuvenate, renovate, round, set, shine, smear, square, strain, toughen, training, weather

Pull

drag, extract, lug, pluck, schlep, strain, tow, twist, wrench, yank

Push

advance, back, barge in/barge into, billow, blow up, bulge, burst, compress, crowd, crush, depress, drive, extrude, force, indent, insinuate, jam, jolt, knead, mash, mob, notch, poke, prod, protrude, pump, repel, roll, shove, slam, squish, tax, tip, trample, wrestle, wring

Weapon

A-bomb, armament(s), arrow, atom bomb, battery, bullet, catapult, defense, explosive, firearm, gun, missile, nuclear weapon, ordnance, rocket

NOTE

The above are concepts classified according to subject and usage. It not only helps writers and thinkers to organize their ideas but leads them from those very ideas to the words that can best express them.

It was, in part, created to turn an idea into a specific word. By linking together the main entries that share similar concepts, the index makes possible creative semantic connections between words in our language, stimulating thought and broadening vocabulary.

Source ⚜ Writing Basics & Refreshers ⚜ On Vocabulary ⚜ part 1 Writing Notes: Fight Scenes ⚜ Word Lists: Fight ⚜ Pain

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yeyinde · 29 days ago

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I am binge reading your work and I love your Price characterisation so much! Can you please go into detail what you his childhood looked like and what led him to be this angry, stubborn man who is fixated on saving the world at all costs

this is basically a reinterpretation of opening Pandora's box but instead of releasing great evils, it's just me yapping non-stop about John Price whenever i get the opportunity. but i cut a lot out because it was getting too long, so this is a brief summary on what made John Price the way that he is;

re: abuse (physical, mental, emotional; of authoritative power).

Nepo-baby. Born into Military Royalty. The Price name has a lot of sway in the government. Probably lived in Hereford going up before moving to Liverpool at 18. Realistically, Price has no other career choices because I can't see Mr "threatens to hang superior officers" sitting in a cubical and expected to hit quotas without catching several charges for assault and battery when his temper gets the best of him. And it always does.

His homelife was bad (but absolutely nothing compared to Simon's). His dad was just a staunch disciplinarian groomed by the traditional values of 40s-60s England. The typical "father works to provide for his family all day and then comes home to quiet, respectable children neither seen nor heard with food already on the table waiting for him and a wife that only speaks when spoken to and only ever to agree with her husband (and a lil bit of female "orgasm"????? by god! they've brought witchcraft back to the land of her Majesty the Queen!)"

He has an angry, uncompromising father with a temper and a mother who says thinks like, "well if *you* didn't make him angry, then you wouldn't have gotten yourself a black eye."

His dad was very physically abusive to both of them. Price really tried to stick up for his mum, but that would just set his dad off even more. And afterwards, his mum would just side with his dad, anyway. But on the flipside, I think she expected Price to protect her. So when he didn't (because he's a literal child!!), she'd get angry. But she obviously can't lash out like her husband or even her child, so uses the only weapon she has to gain some semblance of control: manipulation.

Price takes pieces of both his parents. His father, the physical aggressor, and his mother, the manipulative victim. And she is a victim, very much so. But I also think she pits them against each other. Gets bored. Causes issues. But there's power in getting someone to do what you want, and that's how she takes hers.

Price catches on to her in his early teens, but that's still his mother. Even though they have a very rocky relationship, she's still the Victim in his head, even when she's whispering in his dad's ear about all the things she despises about her son. And then going to Price (after his dad does something about it - again: disciplinarian, control freak) and playing the pitiful mother subjected to her husband's tyranny and a sad, weak son who can't do a single thing to protect her when she needs him.

Price learns to manipulate from her. Emotional blackmail. Victim-complex. Gaslighting. Scapegoating. But the biggest takeaway is the way he shifts the victim-complex into heroism (esp with Gaz). They can't be the bad guys. It's a logical fallacy in his mind. They're the ones saving the world, and if the world wasn't so riddled with bad guys, with people who need projecting, then they wouldn't need to do what they do.

I think Price has a bit of animosity towards people he sees as weaker (re: his mum having to share the victimhood with her son). But this animosity can also rear as obsession. He's the only person who can save you/them/the world. And since you/they/the world can't save yourself, then you should just listen to him.

And if you don't. Well, that's going to be a pretty big problem.

Honestly on the fence about siblings. If he has any, it's probably an older sister and she's either the equivalent of Janice Soprano (minus any of the backbone and ambition) or Barbara, resigned to her life and utterly forgetful. but I kinda like the idea of him not having any siblings to weather the storm with, you know? Like, it's just him and a mother who victim blames and ignores, and he gets the brunt of his dad's anger.

He was an obnoxious kid to be around. Probably really tried to impress his dad by adopting all of his values; baby misogyny, bite-sized authoritarianism, military fiscalism/military–industrial complex, militarism, etc., before realising (earlyyyyy teens) that he hates his dad and everything he stands for (but I'm a SUCKER for letting Price suffer and I love cyclicity and generational trauma so naturally, as much as he tries to run from the ghost of his dad, it still lingers - just in different ways; the worst thing you could ever say to Price is, you're just like your father).

Turned into a moody teen in the 80s/90s. His anger is a hair trigger. Utterly uncontrollable. But by this time, he learned to hide it because his dad's way of idealing with trauma was to add more. Therapists are pseudoscience, so he taught Price that men just bury these things. And if you can't, then you should be put down like a dog.

The assessment of a man's character was entirely based on the military tests he passed. And with Price's anger, trauma, he probably shouldn't have passed the evaluations, but since his dad, his grandfather, his great-grandfather, were all military dogs, he learned how to beat it. He's also really good at manipulating people.

I think between 16-17 there was a real attempt to do something that wasn't the military and I haven't decided which one I like better but:

He gets a job (as a port worker or in a factory). The Price name has no sway here (and baby Price grew up surrounded by people who knew his family, who revered them for their service to the country, etc). If he wants to make it, it has to be by his own merit. The problem is, while he's a hard worker, his trauma (men who remind him of his father, women who are too much like his mother) causes an incredible rift between him and authority.

If his boss is a man just like his dad, then Price is a match in a tinderbox.

If he isn't, to Price (who has only just learned to hold his tongue), the idea of a nobody being in a position of power over him will also set him off.

Either way, he's doomed.

If he man is a beast that no one can stand up to, and gets away with things because he's the boss, then Price's temper would flare pretty quickly. Especially if he comes after Price. Bullies him. Belittles him. But the worst is the humiliation. He ends up beating his boss very badly, terrifying the men around him but in their fear, and how quickly they listen to him because of it, Price realises he likes it. That fear can be weaponized. Honed.

Or: same situation, but if you lean more towards Price looking out for the underdog rather than his own self-interest, then he sticks up for someone and beats his boss to protect them. Everyone's still afraid of him, but they revere him. They do what he asks. This version, he realises that respect can be weaponized.

(and if the man is not like his dad, then Price will antagonise him into action. He'd throw the first punch, and Price will retaliate. It would still go too far, but - Nepo baby, weaponized fear: the outcome would be the same.)

He gets taken into custody. The tell him his boss is not going to make it. But Price's dad exercises every ounce of power to get his son out of trouble (because this will look very bad on them), and Price leans several things which shape him as an adult: his name has a lot of power; rules and regulations and just policing won't stop bad people unless you take it into your own hands once and for all, and people listen to him and that either version of the above can be weaponized.

He'd probably take the military a bit more seriously but only because he's trying to get vengeance for himself (even if this is subconscious and he doesn't realise it). He leaves at 18. Joins. And climbs the ranks higher than his dad.

At first, there's a concerted effort to do good but something cracks. Builds. Eventually Price comes to the conclusion that he'll have to take a more hands-on approach and get them a little bloody if he wants real change.

I have a lot of thoughts of military-dog Price. But!! That's basically it.

Shaped by physical, mental, emotional abuse; leans into the poor rich kid trope slightly. It all manifests more when he climbs the ranks, gets freedom, and realises that only he can do what needs to be done.

#his complex relationship with his mother (the one i made up inside of my head)#is also why i cannot see him as a brat tamer #he wants the opposite of his mother and a brat is just not that #ahhhhh anyway!!!! thank you letting me yap!!!#john price #john price headcanons

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rayday-mayday · 3 months ago

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I seriously don't get why antis believe that SA ( or just sex in general ) and violence are so far removed from each other. Like, of course there's how both rape/SA and violent actions ( murder, battery, etc ) are illegal and harmful, but there's a lot more on top of that that links the two.

Like, there's how SA aka Sexual Assault literally has the word "Assault" in it. You know, which is a crime of it's own that involves physical violence sometimes. Saying rape/SA of any kind and violence aren't the same/linked, inherently takes away the violence of rape/SA.

We could also take a look at the BDSM scene, where stuff like choking, spanking, bruising, biting, etc are quite common kinks that obviously go alongside sex, which, once again, links the two subjects.

There's cannibalism which is inherently violent, but often sexualized in multiple different ways. Be it the classical soft vore fetish art you see online, or the metaphors where cannibalism and sex are woven together to show some deeper meaning.

And there's also how classical horror media and ( fictional ) non-con media can produce similar reactions in people. I know personally that when I read yandere x reader fanfiction ( both with- and without non-con elements ) it gives me this form of rush that has helped me cope with the urge to be abused. And just here a bit ago I was playing Doors ( yes, the Roblox horror videogame ) which gave me a similar rush of adrenaline.

I know part of the appeal of monsterfucking at times also ties into the fear and horror of the creatures, which ties into the violence and destruction these monsters can commit.

There's also how both violence and sex can be practiced safely if everyone involved is consenting, and have the proper safety precautions in place; and how both can also be traumatizing if done without consent and/or without the proper safety precautions.

As you can see just by those examples, sex, violence, fear, and trauma are incredibly closely linked. This isn't to say that sex is bad or that violence is good, but that denying that all those subjects are tied together, or that saying they aren't similar, is just flat out wrong.

Tbh there's probably more examples out there, too, but those listed above are just the ones I can think of at the moment. Feel free to add onto this in the reblogs/tags/comments if you can think of any. I just wanted to ramble about this after I realized how similar the rush I get from horror games is to the rush I get when I read darkfiction.

#proship please interact #pro fiction #profic #proship #proship community #proship safe #anti anti #proshipper #proshipper safe #profiction #op is profic #op is proship #op is a proshipper #proshippers please interact #profic safe #profic please interact #×discourse×#discourse

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byte-your-tongue · 3 months ago

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Sebastian Solace x Crybaby!Reader

(Platonic, GN Reader)

AN: This is actually a repost from my main blog. But i edited it to be more general rather than selfship writing! I haven't written anything that wasn't basic headcanons in a LONG time. So please excuse the first couple ones i do being bad lol.

TW: Blood, gore, violence, vomit, descriptions of injuries, constant talk of an impending death (that doesn't actually happen.)

Run.

That was the only thought coursing through your mind at the moment as you were chased through the halls of the abandoned facility.

You weren't even sure if anything was following you anymore, but your adrenaline fueled brain kept screaming at you to keep moving. And that was where your first mistake lie. You were so caught up in keeping an eye out for flickering lights and sparks coming off fake doors you forgot to pay attention to your other senses.

You couldn't hear anything over your own loud footsteps and heavy breathing, failing to notice the tell tale sign of a wall dweller sneaking up on you until it was nearly too late. You whipped your head around just as the creature struck, scaring it off in the same moment it lunged for your legs.

You let out a loud yelp and stumbled, but refused to break eye contact with the fleeing monster until it was fully gone. And even then you lay on the floor for a minute longer, making sure it wasn't faking its retreat. But when you finally went to pick yourself off the ground your right knee buckled from the injury inflicted by the wall dweller.

Just as you sat down to assess your injuries all the lights in the room flickered, an ominous warning of the Angler approaching. You ground your teeth through the pain and dragged yourself into the nearest locker, slamming the door shut right as the monstrosity roared past.

'Goddammit! I really can't catch a break this time, huh?'

You grimaced as you slowly opened the locker door, switching on your only light source you had managed to find so far: a lantern with half the batteries drained already. It was more likely to anger squiddles, but even after who knows how many failed attempts to retrieve this stupid crystal you still hadn't gotten over your crippling fear of the dark. If anything it's gotten worse during your time down here.

And so you limped along, praying you would be out of this stretch of dark rooms before your light source died out. As you entered through the next door you noted the number: 42. That was important for one reason: Sebastian's shop. Sebastian prefered to hang out further from the entrance that your fellow "expendables" used. Sebastian didn't want to get caught by anyone important enough to pose a real threat, and he wanted to give people time to actually collect enough research to make it worth his effort.

But none of that was important to you right now. At the moment the only thing you cared about was purchasing a med kit and fixing your leg up.

And so you continued limping along, hoping that you would soon hear Sebastian calling out to you.

As you opened the next room, it was finally bright enough to turn off your lantern. It was a long hallway with tall glass windows looking out into the ocean. You moved closer to one, admiring and fearing the inky abyss that stretched seemingly endlessly in every direction.

Your thoughts were cut off abruptly when Eyefestation quickly swam up to the glass, invading your mind with whispers and shouts in a million different voices. You doubled over from the physical and mental assault, vomiting and scrunching your eyes closed.

You slowly crawled along the floor, pain searing through your head, feeling around for the exit with your hands. As you faintly heard the hiss of a door opening the pressure in your mind finally retreated.

Your were definitely worse for wear now. You were nauseous, bleeding, had a splitting headache, had nearly no supplies, and were unable to do anything other than pathetically crawl onwards.

You were convinced you were going to die down here.

Again.

But just a few doors later you heard a quiet voice hiss out at you:

"Hey, over here!"

Sebastian.

Safety.

You quickly located the vent and clawed weakly at the covering, finally getting it loose with a grunt. You dragged yourself through the tight space as you felt your vision dimming.

It was all you could do to finally get into the meager shop before you collapsed fully, your mind and vision going dark as you drifted away into unconciousness. The last thing you heard was a surprisingly panicked shout from Sebastian.

'Ah. He actually cares about me?'

It was the last though you could muster up before finally fully passing out.

...

It was merely 20 minutes later when you finally awoke, groaning in pain and taking note that your injuries were now bandaged. You looked up to see Sebastian. He was fidgeting with something in his hands, his brow furrowed and the tip of his tail nervously swishing from side to side. As soon as he realized you were awake he perked up and slithered over to you.

"Are you feeling ok? You aren't concussed, right? I bandaged you up and gave you some painkillers, but you really shouldn't take them on an empty stomach so let me know if you have eaten recently."

"Ah..." You slurred your words somewhat, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. "I don't think I got any injuries on my head, so no concussion. And I haven't eaten. How much for some food? And how much do i owe you for the medkit? I don't have that much research on me right now..." You trailed off as you saw Sebastian's face shift to annoyance.

"Are you serious?" Sebastian's voice raised and he looked offended. "Do you really think i'd charge you for something like this? How little do you think of me?"

"Oh....." You looked down in embarrassment. "I don't know i just.... i mean i consider you a friend. You're the only safety i have down here and you let me rest in your shop and-" You cut yourself off. "But... but i thought you didn't like me. I thought i was an annoyance..."

You looked down with a look like a kicked puppy as you continued in a small voice:

"I thought.... I thought i was just another expendable to you..."

Sebastian's face was sometimes hard to read, but the look of hurt he wore at that moment was clear as day.

"Y/N...."

'That's the first time he's said my name so softly...'

Sebastian cleared his throat before continuing awkwardly. "I know that... I am not always the most pleasant person to be around. But... I want you to know.. that.. out of everyone down here.. you are someone who i do truly appreciate."

You were stunned for a second. You had only ever heard sebastian either insult you or try to sell you something. The refreshing honesty and compassion in his tone was something you took a second to savor before you finally realized you should respond.

"Sebastian... I'm so glad you like me. I'm so glad you wanna be my friend. It honestly makes me so happy.... I- I-" You trailed off with tears in your eyes. A common sight yet one that managed to shock Sebastian this time around.

"Hey! Hey! Hey! Don't go crying after i just said i appreciate you! Do you really not wanna be my friend that bad!" Sebastian panicked, reaching an arm down to comfort you.

You laughed, your tears starting to dry up as fast as they started. "Noooo! You already said you like me!! You can't take it back now!"

Sebastian playfully jabbed at you with one of his much larger hands. "You're damn right! You're stuck with me now whether you like it or not!" He gave a smile full of sharp teeth, one that used to scare you but was now a comfort to see.

The two of you sat in comfortable silence for a while until you finally broke it.

"Hey... if we're friends now can you tell Painter to stop trying to kill me?"

"Hahaha... I think you'll have to take that one up with Painter yourself."

...

"Dammit...."

#x reader #✧byte writes✧#sebastian x reader #sebastian solace #platonic x reader #pressure sebastian #pressure roblox #roblox pressure #pressure game #sebastian solace x reader #pressure x reader #sebastian solace x you #roblox pressure sebastian #sebastian solace fanfic

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lovelybarnes · 2 years ago

Text

Flirting and Football- B. Barnes

Pairings: bucky barnes x reader Warnings: past assault of reader, as slow burn as i can, au so bucky is different although i tried to not make him so ooc, sort of enemies to lovers?, genuinely can’t remember anymore, crappy writing in the beginning because i started writing this a year ago but i swear it gets better i promise About: request!! Bucky barnes and a college au where reader is the only one who isn’t interested in him basically

The end of your pen rests between your lips, unused as you scan the textbook page in front of you, your eyes thinning occasionally as you read. Your study partner’s book lays open in front of her, ten pages behind, and notebook adorned with two sole words.

She’s reciting the events of a date she went on yesterday or the day before, although admittedly, you’d only caught detached words for the past double-digit minutes. Your careful attention had dwindled down to nods as you subtly tapped at your notebook, then not-so-subtly and finally disappeared altogether as you made miscellaneous noises.

You hum along now, eyes flickering from your notes to the material as you annotate pages with bright sticky notes.

She doesn’t seem to notice your disinterest, gushing about arms and hair, and the kiss that changed her life. The words don’t last too long in your mind, too cluttered with equations and vocabulary to make space for them.

“The girls told me he goes on a lot of dates but I can just tell I’m the one.”

You glance at your open computer, frowning at the slimming battery life, and purse your lips at the time. Sighing softly, you meet Quinn’s glazed eyes, offering her a tight smile you hope is somewhat believable.

“Is he in psychology too?” you ask, tapping on the notes the both of you were supposed to start when she began talking.

“Bucky? Oh no,” she laughs, the finger twirling her red hair pulling away to wave her hand dismissively. “He’s in sports or something. He's on the soccer team, you know.”

You nod. “Wow.”

“I know, oh my god.” She fans herself. “Did I tell you he basically won the last game?”

Probably. You duck your chin, highlighting a sentence. “Isn’t it a group effort?”

Quinn rolls her eyes. “Well, yeah, but he scored the winning goal.”

“Okay then,” you agree, deciding that you can finish your notes at your dorm. “I didn’t go to the last game, so what do I know?”

Quinn’s eyes go wide. “You didn’t go?” she exclaims, and you shush her, confirming. “Why?”

You shrug. “I had to do something.”

“You have to go to the next one tomorrow and see him in action. But don’t fall in love,” she warns with a giggle. “He’s mine.”

“Promise,” you reply hollowly, shutting your laptop. “Well, I have to go. This was helpful, though,” you lie.

“Oh, yeah, totally. I have to go too, rest up for the big game tomorrow. Gotta be there early to support Bucky,” Quinn informs. You stack your books to carry them back to your dorm.

“Right,” you respond, standing. “I hope everything goes well with him,” you say as you walk out.

She shoots you a big grin and a nod, her face bright as she agrees.

It’s cold when you step through the doors, bouncing on your feet and hugging your things closer to your chest as you begin to walk toward your dorm. You move to pull out your phone from your back pocket, quickly unlocking it to get to your contacts list. You press on Bruce’s contact and listen to the two beeps until he picks up.

“I hate you so much right now,” you greet, cutting his cheery hello off.

“What? What did I do?”

“‘I’ll be there!’ ‘How could I miss studying physics?’” you mock, imitating his voice. “You left me there, and I was stuck listening to Quinn's monologue about how the quarterback or whatever is the love of her life!”

“What quarterback?” Bruce asks.

“Does it matter? Honestly?” you rebut, taking care to watch your surroundings as you bully your friend. “Your quarterback wouldn’t cheat on you so I’m assuming it’s one that’s not Thor.”

“Okay, okay, I know. I’m sorry about ditching you. Thor and I just finished, we can come by and pick you up at the library. And Thor is a defender. Different sport entirely.”

“Whatever and ew,” you complain. “And I’m already on my way. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“What? I told you to not walk home alone. Just wait for me.”

“Don’t worry. The dorm isn’t that far and you’re not exactly the most threatening anyway,” you remind. “I’ll be fine. ”

“Fine. Keep me on the line and be careful,” Bruce tells you.

“Of course,” you quip. A pause drapes over the two of you, the silence only interrupted by the steady sound of your footsteps on the concrete. You turn, leaves crunching underneath your shoes and you can practically hear Bruce relax somewhat, knowing that you’re nearby. You put him on speaker to hear better. “How’d it go with Thor today?”

“Really good.” The golden thread of happiness threaded through Bruce’s words comes through clear and clean. You can imagine him as he talks into the phone, glancing at Thor to make sure he can’t hear as he plays with his fingers. “I’m really sorry for leaving you there.”

“You’re not,” you amend. “But it’s fine. I’m glad you’re happy.”

“I am,” Bruce confirms.

“I don’t know how you find the time to juggle everything. It’s kind of terrifying,” you laugh, expecting him to tease you back, but his answer comes back honest.

“I know you think of boyfriends and whatever as distractions, but it’s the opposite. It’s not juggling if I have help carrying everything.”

You push your tongue against your cheek, listening to the rustling of the trees. You grab your keys as you arrive at your dorm door. “I’m here.”

“Finally.” You roll your eyes, opening the door to see your roommate and her brother inside.

“Hey Wanda, Piet.”

Wanda smiles at you and Pietro winks before greeting Bruce through your phone.

“Okay, Bruce, are we studying tomorrow?” you ask him, balancing your things in your arms. When Pietro notices, he stands, taking your books from you and setting them down on your table. You thank him and pat his arm.

“Before the game? Sure,” he replies. You take him off speaker, pulling your phone to your ear, not noticing that the mention of the game has caught Pietro and Wanda's attention.

“You’re going?” you question. “I thought Thor was benched.”

“He’s off!” There’s a whoop you recognize as Thor’s that makes you smile. “Which is why it’s an important game we need to go to.”

“We?” you echo.

“We as in you and I,” Bruce verifies.

“Wait, I have to go too? Why?” you whine.

Pietro cuts in, “You have to go! How will we win without our lucky charm?”

You purse your lips and squint at him. “Didn’t you guys win last game?”

“Still! Come on, please,” he insists. Wanda joins in, offering to bake you cookies.

You search your brain for excuses. “I have things to do.”

“If it’s not ‘stay home and binge a series,’ I'll let you skip,” Bruce chimes.

You frown as the siblings grin.

“Yeah, you’re going,” Bruce declares. “They’re not that bad and you know it. Besides, Thor wants you to braid his hair. You know my fingers always get tangled.”

“Fine,” you sigh dramatically. “But I want it noted that it’s only because I really like cookies.” You focus on Wanda, who nods enthusiastically. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Bruce repeats your words before you hang up, and at the click, you let yourself fall on your couch.

Wanda kisses your head and pats your shoulder comfortingly. “It’s going to be fun.”

“Standing in the middle of students I don’t know as they yell at a ball does not sound fun to me,” you disagree, but she ignores you.

“Even Vis is going,” she argues. “And you know how excited Thor gets when you braid his hair.”

You mutter incoherently.

“We’ll leave at three,” she instructs with a smile.

“I could be doing so many useful things right now,” you hiss at Bruce, remembering the half-written essay you have saved on your laptop, a string of frustratedly typed letters highlighted and waiting to be replaced with something coherent typed just beneath it.

Bruce had made you leave just as you began to taste the word you were looking for, assuring you that going out to see a game would somehow give your fried mind the jolt it needed. With little argument and the promise you’d committed to with a hook of your pinkie, you’d sighed and shut your laptop, leaving your apartment early to see the team before the game.

You could recognize some faces thanks to Pietro forcing you out to a few team celebrations and the occasional game you never paid much attention to. Although he’d laid off a while ago when Bruce and Thor started dating, your best friend had dragged you to every soccer-related event he didn’t want to go to alone. Pietro never minded your absence as much as Bruce did, always satisfied as long as you celebrated or consoled him afterward.

The word you’d been wracking your brain for suddenly comes to mind when you sit next to Bruce on a bench, pulling your phone out of your pocket to note it down, not noticing when the entire soccer team begins to leave the locker room, spilling into the hall where you’re slumped with your best friend.

Thor bellows your name excitedly when he spots you both, heading over. You glance up to give him a smile, quickly continuing to type the stray thoughts you’d been trying to catch when he turns, an extravagant arm extending as if to present you to the few guys with him. “This is the lovely lady I told you all about. She is very smart.”

You laugh at his introduction, tucking your phone back into your pocket. “Thank you, Thor.”

“Of course! And you all know Bruce, of course.”

There are chimes of agreement and greetings for your friend, a few of the players coming up to you. Pietro arrives first, as always, and pecks your forehead. “I, for one, am very glad you came to cheer us on.”

“We’ve heard a lot about you,” another says, huge and blonde, but his features are softened by an open grin. “I’m Steve.” He juts a finger at the brunet next to him, his hair tied up into a neat little bun at the nape of his neck, blue eyes shining as they observe you. “That’s Bucky.”

You smile at them, nodding. “Nice to meet you. I’ve actually heard a lot.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow, pleasantly surprised. “Really?”

You stare at him blankly, opening and closing your mouth like a fish. “I meant Steve.” Steve looks startled. “I saw his work when I was volunteering at the art show last month. It was great, I actually bought the piece with the lilies!”

“Oh.” Bucky blinks blankly, tongue poking into his cheek before he clears his throat and manages a lift of the left edge of his lips. “‘Makes sense someone so pretty would have good taste.”

You stare silently at him for a second, relieved when Steve’s surprise takes a second to process.

“Wait, me?” Steve points stupidly at himself. “My art?”

“It was amazing, I couldn’t let it slip by!”

“I told you,” Bucky tells him, elbowing his arm. He, unlike the other players, wears a dark sleeve over the entirety of his left arm, all the way up to his fingers. His fingertips, jagged pink, peek out. “I wish you woulda let me go. I could’ve seen the art and met her sooner.”

His friend sends him a furtive glance. “Is this your first time coming to a game?” Steve wonders as he turns back to you.

You shake your head. “Pietro is my roommate’s brother and Thor’s my best friend’s boyfriend. They drag me here when they feel like it, but it’s my first time being back here.” You gesture to the hall. “I’m usually a little late because Bruce drives like a grandmother.”

Bruce sighs, sending you a short glance that you respond to with a gentle nudge of his shoulder.

Blue eyes nods, careful to give you his full attention. “Well, I think you should come around more often.”

You scan him for a second. “Why?” you ask genuinely.

He pauses as he begins to explain, eyes pinched in confusion before Thor’s booming voice cuts him off, reminding you that you need to braid his hair. You give them a final smile before standing. “Duty calls, I guess.”

“So you’ll come around?” He calls after you, frowning when you respond with a transparent smile and ingenuine thumbs up. “Huh,” he says.

“What?” Steve responds, a little slowly, knowingly. He knows well what is making Bucky’s features crease in that way, but he’d prefer hearing it from his friend’s mouth.

“Just… wondering why I’d never seen her before. Pretty.”

“Uh huh.” Steve nods disbelievingly. Knowing he isn’t going to be able to push it out of his friend, he begins to walk toward the field, not waiting up for Bucky, the man caught up in his thoughts. “‘Thought it was because the line didn’t work,” he finally tells him, catching Bucky’s attention.

“What’re you talkin’ about, punk? What line?”

Steve snickers. “Any of ‘em.”

The next time Bucky sees you is across the courtyard, arms wrapped around books, your fingers curved protectively around the edges of your laptop. You struggle as you talk to someone he recognizes, bouncing lightly on the balls of your feet as you reach to brush strands of hair away from your eyes.

Why you don’t have a backpack like every other person is beyond him, but it’s the last thing on his mind when your eyes meet his and you smile and wave. Yeah, he knows how to handle this—the attention, the blushing, the flattery.

The hand he raises to wave back freezes awkwardly when he realizes your attention isn’t on him, but rather following something behind his shoulder. His hand lowers as he feels Pietro brush past him and over to you, Wanda following close by. She catches Bucky’s actions and sends him an amused look.

You accept the kiss Pietro drops on your forehead and greet Wanda excitedly, too busy chatting with her to notice the two pens that slip from your pile.

Bucky sniffs, tugging his varsity jacket tighter and deciding to embrace his mistake, walks over to you.

“Hey,” he greets, your name coming out like silk, shooting you a smile. He bends down to pick up your pens, handing them to you with a cajoling rise of his lips.

You return it a pause later. “Hey, um—thanks…” you struggle for a second before you’re cut off.

“Bucky!” the classmate that you were talking to exclaims, and Bucky realizes it’s Quinn, the girl he’d gone out on a date with a while ago. “I saw you on the field yesterday,” she tells him, twirling a strand of red hair around her finger. “You were amazing.”

“I appreciate it,” he thanks her, his eyes flickering back to you for a second, spotting you beginning to step away with a short wave and an elbow to Wanda's side. “I should go, I needed to talk to her,” he starts, acting quickly. “But it was nice to see you again. You look great, I like your necklace.”

Quinn’s fingers reach to pinch at the pendant on her chain, tilting her head at Bucky as she beams. “Thank you!”

Bucky nods, turning to find you gone. He looks around, surprised, but finally catches sight of you turning a corner with your friends. Before he can head toward you, Quinn catches his arm.

“Aren’t you going to ask me out again?” She smiles at him, eyes wide and shiny.

He winces, forcing himself to not glance back at you. “You’re a really great girl, Quinn, but I don’t think we’d work out. I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” Quinn says quietly, not returning the apologetic smile he sends her. He twists his lips and apologizes again before jogging over to you, slowing to match your pace when he finally catches up.

“Hey again,” he quips, offering you a smile. You return it kindly, twirling your pens between your fingers.

“Hey, Bucky.” Probably accidentally, you enunciate his name in a way that makes him realize you didn’t remember it when he came up to you earlier, and he bites back an embarrassed blush. “It was a good game yesterday.”

“Thank you,” he replies easily. “How was I?”

You cock your head at him. “Fine? You… were a soccer player.”

Pietro laughs, pulling you closer. “He’s asking if he lived up to the stories,” he clarifies, shooting Bucky a look. “‘Does another pretty girl think I’m great too?’” he mocks, the imitation edged in his accent.

You hum in understanding, turning back to Bucky. “Stories?” you echo. Your features bear no likeness to the pull Bucky is used to with girls, nothing implying the agreement or validation he’s usually welcomed with.

“Oh, you know,” Bucky starts with a nonchalant shrug, “of the ‘insane stamina’ and ‘could totally carry a bus’ variety. You know, the ‘Winter Soldier’ name.”

Your eyebrows raise. “‘Winter Soldier?’” you repeat, words bolded in an unconscious drama.

“’S my nickname,” Bucky explains sheepishly. You continue to stare at him for a second before cracking a smile.

“Bucky Barnes, right?” you ask him. He pushes his tongue against his cheek at the blow to his ego and nods. “Which one were you again? All the uniforms are the same, I can only recognize Thor and Piet.”

Pietro hoots. “Fifteen, baby!”

Bucky eyes you, his cheeks pulling with an amused lilt. “You wound me, doll.”

“I wound you?” you giggle, unable to help it. “This is our first conversation and I have the power to wound you. I don’t know how I feel about having this power over a stranger.”

Bucky gasps, reaching out to grab your hand with his ungloved hand and wrap it around an invisible knife to plunge it into his chest. He chokes as he mimes nursing his wound. “Just digging it in deeper, aren’t you? Vixen.”

“Oh, come on, you expect me to have learned your number after knowing you for five minutes?” you exclaim with mild indignance, a whisper of amusement betraying it. You click your tongue. “You were fine, I’m sure,” you respond finally. Wanda jabs an elbow into your arm and whispers something to you. Your eyes light up. “Oh, you’re seventeen! The ball hogger! You do realize you’re in a team, right?”

Pietro claps, nodding approvingly at you. “And me, little flower?”

You roll your eyes. “You were fast. Like always.”

“That’s code for ‘the best out there,’” Pietro tells Bucky.

“I think the code for that is Bucky Barnes,” Bucky retorts, turning back to you. “‘Got a favorite player yet?” He asks you.

You tilt a brow at him. “On the soccer team?”

“Yeah,” Bucky confirms.

“Based off of what?” You counter.

“Anything.”

“Oh.” You think. “Then no.”

Pietro clears his throat loudly.

“What if I get you the best seat possible next game?” Bucky offers.

You laugh, shaking your head. “I’m good where I am.”

“She barely pays attention anyway,” Wanda informs. “All she does is complain.”

You nod. “And I can do that in any seat.”

“Alright… what if you wear my jersey at the next game?” Bucky continues.

You raise an eyebrow. “And you’re convincing me, right?”

“You should be swooning right now,” Bucky argues accusingly, but his words are tinged with a grin.

“Oh, my bad,” you deadpan, placing a hand on your chest and rocking on your heels. You flutter your lashes at him and melt your lips into a watery smile. “Oh my, golly! Benson’s sweaty jersey!”

“Bucky,” Bucky grumbles. “Bucky’s sweaty jersey.”

“Right,” you reply with an attentive nod, laughing quietly. Your attention is drawn by another building and you turn. “I gotta go, but please keep the jersey far away from me.” You point at Bucky and then wave at Wanda and Pietro. “I’ll see you guys around.”

“Me too!” Bucky shouts after you. You only reply with a thumbs up Bucky can tell is sarcastic even if he can’t see your face, slipping past a closing door. Bucky purses his lips, looking after you. “Huh.”

A hand slaps down on his shoulder, and Pietro's laughter bubbles from behind him. “Nice work,” he lies.

Entirely suddenly, your mind feels vignetted with inky stress. You suppose it was predictable, having ignored the weight your responsibilities had lain on your shoulders for as long as you had, but it’s exhausting nonetheless. You blink slowly at your document in a lousy attempt to soothe yourself, feeling as though you were staring at it through a tunnel.

You yawn as you splay yourself out on your bed, stretching your legs out as far as you can. Your fingertips brush your pillows as you let your eyelids fall closed for just a second, thoughts and reminders of the rest of the things you need to do lining your entrance to sleep, but the door is so inviting, the red tape of your to-do list blurring.

Your ringtone cuts in when you begin to reason with yourself, back straightening fast enough to give you whiplash when you open your eyes again. Your hand slams around your phone, blinking fast as you read Bruce’s contact name.

“The thing,” you mumble, remembering Bruce’s insistence that you went to something. You answer his call and fight to not let yourself fall back on your bed, free fingers moving to rub at your temple.

“Hey, are you ready?” Bruce asks, the sounds of conversation in the background.

“Sure,” you answer tiredly, looking down at yourself. Whoever it is you’re going out with can’t be too picky. “Ready for what again?”

“The team’s win? We’re going out to eat at an actual restaurant and everything.”

You purse your lips. “Are we going to a bar?”

There’s a moment of silence on his end, only highlighted by the muffled voices that converse. “...No.”

Nodding earnestly, you stand, stretching and shaking your limbs out in an attempt to wake yourself up, but the attempt is mocked when you yawn once again. You catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror and wince, tilting your chin up to get another angle. “Then, yes, I’m ready. I guess.”

“That's great!” Bruce praises. “Because we are outside.”

You frown, grabbing a hair tie from your dresser before walking out of your room, surprised to see your apartment empty. “We?” you repeat as you look around, confused. “Are Wan and Pietro with you?”

“They’re probably already there. And ‘we’ as in I picked up Thor, Steve, and Bucky.”

You grunt in response, shutting off the lights and plucking your keys from the counter before locking up.

“You know Bucky. He’s not that bad.”

There are sounds of protest and you catch an offended ‘that bad?’ before you hang up, waving to Bruce’s car. The door to the back opens before you can touch the handle, a grinning face and shiny blue eyes welcoming you. “Hey, doll, you look great.”

“Bunny,” you greet, ducking your chin in a nod. Bucky gets out of the car, extending a hand to invite you inside.

“I don’t mind that one.” Bucky winks.

You shake your head, crawling inside and saying hi to Steve, nose wrinkling when you realize you’ll be sandwiched between the two guys, and turning when you notice Bucky getting in again. You tug on your seatbelt with a polite smile to Steve, bumping into hard muscle when you aim for the buckle.

“You tryna cop a feel? Could’ve just asked,” Bucky tells you, bumping you gently.

“Oh please,” you scoff, poking him with the metal thing. “Excuse me, seatbelt. Bruce isn’t that great of a driver. He’s in his twenties and gets night blindness.”

Bucky pats your hand gently and takes the belt from you, clicking it into place for you.

“Nice and safe, don’t worry, doll.”

You set your lips into a thin line and look straight ahead, pushing your phone into the space between your thighs so you don’t lose it. “How’d you do on your Norse mythology exam, Thor?” you ask, recalling the nerves with which he’d told you about it a couple of days ago.

“Wonderful! I really enjoy the subject. Thank you for helping me study,” Thor replies cheerily.

“You didn’t even need to,” you assure, stifling a yawn. Bucky frowns.

“Did you get some sleep?” Bruce wonders, eyeing you at a red light.

“Yeah, I drank some coffee,” you respond.

“Not the same thing. Not even close.”

You laugh. “I’ll be fine,” you promise. “Stop worrying.”

“I’m always worried,” Bruce grumbles.

“Hey, how was art today?” you ask Steve, nudging his arm gently. Bucky’s brows furrow, urging Steve to look at him and read his mind with an intense stare. Steve does not.

“You were right. I was being too judgemental,” Steve sighs. “I should’ve listened to you.”

“Listened to who?” Bucky buts in. “How did you know Stevie had art today?” he continues, trying to keep his tone light.

“We talk.” You shrug.

“Oh,” Bucky starts, glaring at Steve. “Do you?”

“Yes.” You nod before actually yawning that time. “I’m sorry.”

“You should sleep more,” Bucky comments, watching you shake your head wearily.

“I have things to do,” you defend. “I sleep enough, it’s the stupid car ride, I always fall asleep in cars,” you defend. “But if it pleases you, I’ll sleep the entirety of tomorrow.” Your voice lacks the thick sleeve of satire you tend to use with him, more vulnerable in your exhaustion. Although your request is still sarcastic, Bucky can tell you know you need it.

“It will,” Bucky says.

For the most part, the conversation ends there, the group splitting into their own things during the car ride. After a few minutes, Bucky feels your head fall softly on his shoulder.

He stops paying attention to what Thor is saying, instead focusing on the way you edge toward him in your sleep, nudging your nose into his shoulder. He can see the way your lashes lay on your cheeks when you’re so close and the pretty bridge of your nose.

You’re more open than he’s ever seen you, eyes shut and lips parted with gentle breaths, and he can’t stop staring at you.

Then the car goes over a harsh bump, and Bucky wants to do everything he can to hold you still, but your eyes flutter open and you sit up, meeting his eyes for a second. “Sorry.”

“It's no problem,” Bucky assures, wanting to keep examining the lines of your face, but you clear your throat, looking forward, and Bucky has no choice but to do so too.

The surprise Bucky feels when he spots you at the celebration party is no match for the sweet excitement at the bottom of his stomach, immediately pulling his sleeve further down over his arm and brushing away loose strands of his hair. It would be embarrassing how much he cares about what you think of him if it weren’t so ridiculously important to him.

He busies himself with getting a drink for you, finding himself wondering if you’d come before, only to go unnoticed by him. There’s a startling burst of anger at himself with the thought, and Bucky blinks, eyes continuing to drift to you. Resolute, he moves toward you but pauses as he observes you.

The look on your face is one Bucky has never seen before—though he hasn’t seen many looks on your face before—but it settles so naturally on your features that it is difficult to argue that it’s unfamiliar. You look intense, but the way your eyes scan Wanda's boyfriend—who’s been dubbed Vision—is dangerous. Cocky.

You say something and your entire face relaxes resolutely, but your eyes remain expectant and arrogant, unamused with your companion’s reply.

Vision—who Bucky has heard is never wrong—sure seems wrong in whatever argument he’s just lost against you, and you know it.

“How’re my favorite geniuses?” Wanda pipes up suddenly, forcing Bucky’s daze away, appearing from an unknown place to sling an arm around you. You snap out of the look, your face softening, but the pleasure of being right dances across your features. Bucky clears his throat and takes a sip from his beer, stepping toward you.

“Oh, you know, out-geniusing the other,” you reply, glancing at Bucky as he walks up behind Vision.

“Hey Dolly,” he smiles. “I thought you had too many books to read to go out.”

“I finished them all,” you respond. “And ‘Dolly’? How old are you?”

Bucky clicks his tongue. “What would you prefer, sweetheart?”

“My name,” you state, then squint at him, cocking your head. “Do you remember it? I imagine it’s hard to keep track.”

“Of course I remember.” Bucky scoffs. “I don’t think I could forget.”

You breathe out a laugh. “Right, I’d imagine asking her out to swing dance without it would be pretty hard.”

“Are you asking me to swing dance with you?” Bucky retorts.

You snort. “Yeah, sure.”

Bucky holds out his hand expectantly, covered arm at his side.

Your eyes thin resolutely at him, scrutinizing the details of his face before you shake your head. “You’re ridiculous,” you criticise.

His hand drops and he pouts. “C’mon, pretty please.”

“Do you know what music you swing dance to?” you ask him, wagging a finger to refer to the booming music drowning most sounds inside the house. “Because this isn’t it.”

“I need to take advantage of the fact that you’re here, doll. You said so yourself you don’t go out much,” he complains.

“Yeah, this is why!” you reply, your last words getting louder as the music impossibly gains volume.

“What?!” Bucky shouts, moving closer to hear you better, but you laugh and shake your head, telling him something he can’t make out. When you realize he can’t hear you, you give him a pout.

“And I was just about to say yes,” you say sadly.

“Wha—” Bucky’s cut off by the sharp shattering of glass. With a cringe, your eyes widen as you look behind him, eyes flickering back to him expectantly. He turns and groans. “I have to check that out. I’ll be right back!” he pledges, walking away to see a deadly amount of broken alcohol bottles on the floor, the stench of their contents burning his nose.

When he comes back, you’re gone.

The disappointment that blankets over his shoulders at the fact is just as surprising to him.

You’re in your bubble at the library, a little clueless to everything going on around you as you thumb the corner of a page, your pinky hovering below your book’s cover. You’re a few pages away from something exciting, teeth digging in with anticipation for it, when someone enters your field of vision, a large figure plopping down on a seat in front of you.

You spare them a glance and are surprised to find Bucky, sporting a large grin and his varsity jacket. You observe him suspiciously for a few moments, having never seen him even near the library, before returning your attention to what you’re reading.

“So, you’re actually here, huh?” he asks, and you shush him, shooting him a look to lower his voice. “Sorry.”

“Why are you here?” you question lowly instead, still not putting down your book.

“Anyone can come to the library.” Bucky points out, your name playfully scornful. You level a look at him.

“Yes. Why are you here? With me? You didn’t know my name until, like, two days ago.” You’re careful to keep your voice down.

“First of all,” Bucky starts, beginning to list off his fingers. “We met two weeks and three days ago.”

“Did we?” you drone, attempting to concentrate on the lines of your book once more.

“And, how do you know we don’t just have alternating study days?” Bucky points out.

“I am here every day,” you inform. “And if that were the case, why would you be here right now?” you rebut. “What would you be studying for? Coaching?”

“Maybe I wanted to switch things up,” Bucky defends. “And I’m not studying coaching. I’m studying biomedical engineering.”

You meet his eyes at the revelation, unable to keep the surprise off your face. You fold down the edge of the last page you read offhandedly and let your book flutter closed. “What? Quinn said you were in… sports.”

“Well,” Bucky sucks in a breath as if what he’s about to tell you is a revelation. “Soccer is a sport.”

“I know,” you affirm blandly. “But are you actually in biomedical?”

“Yeah,” Bucky nods. “What, do you not believe me?” he asks, raising a gloved hand to his chest. “I must say, I’m very disappointed in you perpetuating harmful stereotypes.”

“I’m just surprised. You’ve never talked about it before.”

“We’ve talked four times,” Bucky points out. “Although I want it clear that I have tried to make it more.”

“Yeah, what’s that about, by the wayt?” you wonder, setting your elbows on the table and dropping your face into your hands, cocking your head at him. “From what I’ve seen, you have your fair pick of girls and guys.”

“I wouldn’t say that—”

You laugh quietly. “Sure.”

“But I like you,” Bucky explains, shrugging. “You’re smart and pretty and you interest me.”

You scan his face, squinting. Astonishment tints your chuckle. “You are so much better at this than I thought you were.”

“Sorry?”

“At first, I was like ‘this guy? This is the Becky people won’t shut up about?’”

“Bucky,” he corrects swiftly.

“But I see it now. The charm. I’m not falling for it, but I see it.” You nod appreciatively and open your book once again to continue reading.

Bucky frowns in front of you, reaching over to insert an abrupt hand in between the pages. “What are you talking about?”

Sighing, you peel his fingers off the pages and meet his eyes, startled to see their intensity, crinkles at their edges, his lips pinched in a pout. You gasp. “Oh my god, you’re doing it now.”

“Sweetheart, it’s something that just happens naturally, I’m not doing anything.”

You stare at him for a moment before shaking your head, turning back to your book. “You are insufferable.”

“And you’re beautiful.”

“And you’re ridiculous.”

“Go out with me, c’mon,” Bucky urges, smiling now. It’s stupidly sweet.

You click your tongue. “Dates are a waste of time.”

“I’ll make it worth it. Promise.”

“I don’t have time to go out with guys I’ve talked to four times,” you explain.

“Alright, so if I talk to you more, you’ll go out with me?”

You wrinkle your nose. “I don’t… I’m not liking where this is going.”

“I will talk to you every single day from now on,” Bucky vows.

“Oh, I was right,” you groan. “I just mean you don’t know me. My favorite color, my favorite book, my order at my favorite restaurant, things like that.”

“I will know all of that,” he pledges.

You laugh disbelievingly. “Okay, Borky.”

A cocky little smirk plays on his lips as he winks. “Bucky,” he says archly.

You learn his name. Completely. Totally. Unmistakably.

It’s hard not to, not when he becomes a constant in your life and not with a name like that.

James Buchanan Barnes. It rolls off your tongue too nicely all of a sudden.

He talks to you every day. Just like he said he would, even if it’s a two-minute conversation over text where he makes sure you get home safe and asks about your day. It would be overwhelming if it didn’t make you smile so much.

He doesn’t get upset when you answer two hours later because you were distracted with work, asking you how Linda the librarian was and if she liked the cookie he got her three days ago.

You relay her enthusiastic message, deciding to brush over the wink and coy smile she sent you at his mention. Then maybe, because you’re finished with your work for the day, you shove aside your notebook and bite back a small smile when he tells you how pretty he thought you looked in the glimpses he had of you today.

Organizing your books into a neat little pile, you message him and Bruce that you’re heading home. And you intend to, you really do, but then Bucky insists you call him the next time so he can walk you home, and you’ve suddenly been sitting at your table, uselessly leaning against your things for ten minutes.

You shoot up when you realize, lightly bewildered with yourself, gathering everything into your arms as quickly as possible, and shoving your phone into your back pocket. You hope Bruce isn’t getting too worried as you push open the library doors, hurrying down the steps and onto the path you usually take. You’re alert as always, careful to listen past the crunching of leaves beneath your feet and watch for shadows that edge past yours, digging your keys out of your pocket to hold them in the spaces between your fingers.

It’s three minutes in when you begin to feel unsettled. Your phone has vibrated three times in your back pocket in the past two minutes, but the darker section of your path is coming up, and chills rush up your neck as you imagine what the distraction could cost.

A shadow follows nearby, inching closer and closer until your hands are shaking and you’re on the verge of running.

Fingers wrap around your arm and you shriek, books slipping from your arms when they wane. Stumbling back, you tug yourself away from the intrusion, breaths coming out in big, wet gasps when you turn. Bucky’s wide blue eyes meet your glossy ones, hands up in surrender when he catches the tremble of your bottom lip.

A tear streaks down your cheek in profusing relief that it’s only him, the anger indistinguishable beneath it as you stumble into Bucky on wobbly knees, his name braided in a whimper. His arms settle around you hesitantly, guiltily.

“You scared me,” you whisper. “Don’t you know not to sneak up on people?”

“I'm sorry,” he replies sincerely. “I didn’t think—”

“I'm just relieved it’s you,” you interrupt, fingers fisting his shirt. You’re far away, stuck in a memory very far away, and yet it feels enough like you’re standing in it. Your grip is a vice, forcing him closer still until the pads of your fingers can feel the warmth of his skin beneath his shirt.

Bucky murmurs your name, a large palm stroking up and down your back in comfort. His voice is mournful. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

You snap out of it at the nickname, pulling away from his embrace as if you’d awoken. He doesn’t startle, only stares at the furrow of your brow and the light that reflects off of your cheeks. Swallowing hard, you blink away the rest of your daze, eyes falling on your things scattered on the ground.

“My computer,” you remember, frantically dropping to your knees to search for it.

Bucky doesn’t pry, kneeling next to you to help pick up your books, taking the ones you’d stacked up sloppily into his arms. You carry your laptop with a careful grip, relatively unharmed.

“I should get going,” you tell him, motioning to take your things from him but he refuses, ushering you into his car.

It’s silent for a while after you halfheartedly agree, obviously still embarrassed. Bucky’s hesitant to probe, but the guilt at what he could’ve reminded you of gnaws at his gut.

You can feel his stare each time he glances at you curiously; cautiously, as if you’ll burst into tears spontaneously.

“I was attacked once.” Your voice is quiet, soft for the obvious teeth the words pierce you with. “Walking home from the library,” you explain. “It’s why Bruce doesn’t like me walking home alone.”

“You… someone…” Bucky pinches his lips into a tense line, fingers tightening around the wheel. “Why?” It’s painfully incredulous.

You look down at your lap, the left edge of your lips pulling into your cheek. “I was alone. It was easy.” What’s left to say seems painful for you to push out. “He didn’t like me very much.”

“I'm sorry,” Bucky offers after a tense second, unsure of what else to say and how angry he can be for you.

“For what? You didn’t have anything to do with it,” you retort, offering him a weak smile in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“For scaring you,” Bucky insists sincerely. “For the fact that it happened in the first place.” You don’t respond, watching as trees and lights flash past the window.

“It really wasn’t as bad as you think. The label makes it seem worse,” you palliate. “He hit me once and pushed me against a wall. A bruise was the worst of it. Both physically and to my bank account.”

Bucky’s frown stays, quiet blanketing the both of you.

“So, why’d you come get me? How’d you know I was only on my way?” you chime suddenly.

“I wanted to check up on you. You weren’t answering your phone.”

You pause, meeting his eyes with an inquisitive pinch to your features. “So you drove to find me?”

“Technically, I just wanted to drop by your apartment to make sure you got home safe, but that sounds better, so let’s go with it.” Bucky shoots you a grin. An olive branch.

You accept it as you mimic the sweet curve of his lips. “Ah, yes, and that’s how Barnacle gets ‘em. Being charming and funny and sweet—”

He lets a light chuckle slip past his lips, sparing you a delicate glance. You’re already looking at him, softer in your gaze than he’s ever seen you.

He hums inquisitively. “You think I'm charming and funny and sweet?”

You laugh openly, shaking your head but not negating his words. You hug your laptop closer to your chest, constellations reflected in your shadowed eyes as you look through the window. “I think—” you inhale in relief. “We’re here.”

Bucky slows to a stop when he reaches your dorm, shutting off the car and stepping out as you pack up. You only notice his actions when your fingers slip past the handle once you move to open your own door, huffing air out of your nose when he smirks wantonly at you.

“Thank you,” you grunt, climbing out and clutching your things.

You walk ahead, listening to the door slam and the subsequent sound of shoes quick against the pavement until he walks steadily beside you. “So, you wanna do that again soon?”

You laugh, motioning to grab your keys. “Do what again?”

He steals the jingling set from your fingers, moving hurriedly to the door when you make a noise hald surprise half indignation. He jams a silver one in, cringing when it doesn’t fit. You glower as you reach him, eyeing his hands as they continue to shove the wrong key in the lock. “It's the bronze one—no, the other one. How do you not—”

The door swings open, a satisfied smile parting Bucky’s face.

“Thanks,” you sigh, taking back your keys as you step inside. He stands outside awkwardly, kicking a pebble around with his foot. You squint doubtfully at him after you’ve set your things down and he’s not following behind you like you thought he would be. “What’re you doing?”

“You have to invite me in,” he explains.

“What, like a vampire?”

He blinks. “Yeah, like a vampire.”

You grin toothily. “Vucky…” It drips in an exaggerated accent.

“It's cold out here,” he reminds.

“Maybe you should go home then,” you suggest.

His face drops for a second and you find yourself feeling a tug of something sickening at your stomach. Like a reflex, the offer leaves your throat before you can help it.

“Or. Come inside.” At his hesitant posture, you suck in a bubble of air. “Do you want to come in? You’re welcome to.” I want you to.

He stares at you long enough for you to squirm before a smile breaks through his face. “Really?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, flimsy regret already churning in your gut. “Yeah. Just come on in already. It’s cold outside, dummy.”

It’s startling the first time you miss Bucky's ever-constant presence.

You’d rather not admit it, but it’s hard not to—not when he finds you between classes to carry your books, teasing you about your lack of a backpack but always leaving you with only your laptop and a pen in hand. You can’t help the smiles when he “coincidentally” bumps into you at your favorite coffee shop enough times to have your order ready when you arrive on your tea day.

His goofy jokes while you study at the library get less annoying and, annoyingly, more endearing. You suddenly know a whole lot about biomedical engineering and Bucky. You know his sister’s favorite color and can spout stories about Steve before he grew five times his size like you were there yourself.

It's infuriating, you think, but you don’t mind as much when Bucky's making you laugh with lovely crinkles at the edges of his eyes.

“I like the ocean,” you say sometime at the library, books spread on the table, ignored. He looks up from his notebook in surprise, putting down the pen you’d lent him two weeks ago. “It’s the reason why my favorite color is blue.”

His own blue glitters as he nods, listening. “‘Thought it was because of my eyes.”

You reward him a laugh and a roll of your eyes. “I really wanted Atlantis to be real when I was little,” you tell him. “And mermaids. Even if they were the ugly ones that murder you,” You confess in a rare moment of transparency, meeting his eyes before you clear your throat, bringing your attention back to your laptop.

“I like space,” Bucky offers. “It's endless.”

You nod in acceptance, clearing your throat as if to rid yourself of what you’ve given him.

“You collect those squished pennies, right?” Bucky asks.

You’re startled that he remembers, and it takes a second for your brain to catch up. “Uh—yeah. Why?”

Bucky turns to dig around in his bag, pulling out something small and bronze and shiny with a brilliant smile. ”I went to this little souvenir shop the other day and found one of those machines.” He extends it to you and flips it slowly between his index and middle. “It has a little fuzzy monster thing on it. I don’t get it, to be honest.”

It never crossed your mind that he would do that for you. A startling line of electricity runs up your arm when your fingers meet his, quick to take the penny from him. “Thank you,” you mutter, observing the coin in the light. The large eyes of the embossed little monster stare back at you. “This is really nice of you.”

“It’s not big deal,” Bucky shrugs. “I just thought you’d like it.”

Honey fills your throat. Gulping, you glance at the clock, nearly relieved to see it’s time for you to leave. “I gotta go,” you tell him, gathering your things. The smooth edges of the penny dig into your palm. He stands in tandem, rolling his shoulders.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll walk you.”

“You don’t have to,” you begin.

“I want to. Besides, it would kind of feel weird not to after so long.”

You nod along. “Right.”

He ducks his chin in affirmation, picking up his stuff too. Furtively, he lightens your own load.

You notice but know better than point it out and argue, remembering how you ended up bedrudgingly carrying only a pen last time.

“Does Sam still have your car?” you ask as you leave the library.

“Yup. One more week, he says.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Well, he’s been saying that for two, so…”

You laugh, staring up at a big tree vignetted orange.

Bucky nudges you lightly as you begin to drift away, preventing you from walking into the street. He guides you past a fissure in the sidewalk as you gasp at something in a boutique’s window. “There’s a sale at the bookstore!”

“Wanna go tomorrow?” Bucky asks.

You nod. “Can we?”

“Sure, we’ll just leave the library a little earlier,” Bucky suggests, balancing the books in his arms.

“Someone’s sure of themselves,” you tease. “You’re walking me home tomorrow, too?”

“Of course. I have been for months,” Bucky points out with a shrug.

Your jests die on your tongue as you realize he’s right, the discovery shocking when the memories of your solitary walks are further away than you had thought; suddenly, you remember that the dog you’d pointed out two weeks ago was more for his benefit than yours.

“Weeks,” you argue weakly, throat suddenly dry.

“Weeks could definitely be months,” Bucky reasons.

You ignore him, stopping in your tracks. “Why?”

A frown tugs at his lips as he pauses as well. “Because weeks add up to months?”

“Why have you been walking me home every day for months?”

“‘Thought it was weeks?”

“Bucky,” you say, a little urgent.

He shrugs boyishly, near flippant but your things in his arms don’t let you believe that. “I don't want you to walk alone.” Then, “I wanted to make sure you got home safe.”

Shocked pupils dart around wildly and it’s difficult to swallow before you steady yourself, clearing your throat. Your features are pinched in a sort of raw determination—open, honest. “Thank you.”

He smiles and it’s soft as he shrugs lightly, nearly nonchalant.

Before you let yourself get too caught up in the curve of his lips and realize you’ve imitated it unconsciously, you look away, clearing your throat in relief when you spot your door.

“Right. Um, thanks again.” You take your things from him before he can think twice about it, speed walking to your door.

“Wait—” he stammers out, confused and too late when you give him a wave and a quick goodbye before slamming the door shut.

You swallow hard on the other side of the door, wide eyes staring aimlessly into the darkness. In the dreaded stillness, you can feel the heat that creeps up your neck and floods stickily into your face, the prickling static that needles into your palms. Shakily and illicitly, a hand drifts up to your chest, pressing to feel the thundering beating of your heart.

You curse to the silence, letting your eyes flutter shut in candied disappointment.

Bucky thinks you’re acting weird.

No—he’s sure you’re acting weird.

He knows you now, can recognize the sarcastic lines of your cheeks when you wrinkle your nose and poke fun at him. He’s memorized the genuine curve of your lips when he’s said something so cheesy it circles around to sweet. He knows you at your angry and at your happy, but he doesn’t know this.

You’re being nice to him. Sticky nice. Not you-nice.

He tries teasing first, poking a pencil into the flesh of your arm and asking if you’d fallen in love or something. You’d scoffed, blinked fast, and swatted him away. But you didn’t say no.

He’s aware he’s a fool to think so large of a lack of something, but he can’t pretend like it doesn’t inspire something in him, something like hope, like nectar, sticky in his throat.

He wonders if it clogs words up in yours—if it’s the reason you’re so quiet.

You stare through your computer, steam from your tea disappearing into the air as you blink. There’s a sweet indent in between your eyebrows, similar to the one you get when you study something you don’t completely understand, usually accompanied by the nail of your thumb between your teeth. But this one is lighter, more unintentional. You’re struggling with something but he can’t figure out what.

Your eyes flicker up to his, glinting in the light when you catch them on you.

“What?” you blurt. It’s louder than you intend, and you purse your lips in that embarrassed way that you do, shrinking down into your seat. “Why are you staring at me?”

“You’re pretty,” he says honestly.

He waits for your usual flustered reaction and you give it to him, but it’s vignetted with something, different in the quick blinks of your eyes and the thumb you brush over your nose.

“I'm hungry,” you complain, ignoring his compliment.

“I'll buy you something,” Bucky responds immediately, already pulling out his wallet.

“You don’t have to,” you remind. “I wasn’t asking, I was just—”

“I know, it’s fine,” Bucky insists.

“I can pay. It’s my food.”

“It’s just a meal.” He squints at you. “You never pass up a chance of food on me.” He presses the back of his palm against your forehead and leans in closer. “Are you feeling okay?”

You heat up beneath his touch, shaking him off with a scowl. “You make me sound awful. Fine. Buy me my food then.”

Bucky raises his hands in surrender, wallet between his index and middle finger rising with his shoulders. “I will.” He squeezes your shoulder before he walks away, dipping down to your ear to whisper, “And you’re not awful.”

You huff, pinching your lips together as you watch him get in line, nudging his fingers into his wallet to take out money.

Arbitrarily, you’re annoyed. Bucky Barnes is infuriating, with his long charcoal lashes and lilting chuckle and nonchalance in giving things you want without your asking.

Your laptop screen darkens with your lack of attention, and you’re left staring at yourself, scrutinizing the thin lines around your eyes as you squint. You’re being ridiculous; you can’t be angry over Bucky being a sweet guy.

“They musta’ known you were coming,” Bucky whistles, balancing a bowl and a small bag already darkened with grease spots in his arms. You take the bowl from him, warmth seeping into your fingertips.

You furrow your brows at him when you pop the lid off, barely realizing you’d never told him what to get. “You got me cavatappi pasta,” you realize. You look upset.

“Yeah?”

Distressed, you snatch the bag from him, shoving your fingers inside to pull out two large chocolate chip cookies. “And chocolate chip cookies.” Your voice rises and falls with a slightly unhinged twinge, features pulling as you examine what Bucky got for you. Your comfort food; the token you’d never explained to him.

“Yeah. It’s what you always get. And I know you always want two cookies but only get one because you’re afraid you won’t finish it, but we can split it or you can save it, or—what are you doing?”

You sweep everything into your arms, holding the food tightly behind your books.

“I have to go.”

“What? We just got here.”

“I have an appointment.”

“For what?”

“For—things—it’s—” you huff. “I have to go.”

“Are you sure you don’t need a ride? I have my car back, you know,” Bucky offers, already beginning to get up, but you shake your head, his actions hitting something in your chest.

“I'll be fine, thanks for the…” you exhale sharply. “I'll see you later.”

You run off, ignoring his confused call of your name as you slam the door behind you.

Hot soup dribbles down your fingers as you speed walk back home, but you barely notice, struggling to remember why you’d rejected him before.

“I hate him,” you mumble, fully dishonest as you struggle with your keys. “I hate him so much.”

“Hate who?” Bruce asks from the table, sparing you a glance from his computer. His eyebrows join as he takes you in, every panting and crazed inch of you, mouth parting and head tilting. “Uh.”

“Bucky,” you reply, setting the a la carte box down hastily. You drop the cookies next to it.

Bruce stares at you.

You make a big gesture with your hands toward it, pursing your lips. “He bought me that. Just—insisted. He's so—” you sigh frustratedly. “I didn't even—he bought me cookies.”

“Okay.” It's long and hesitant. “And that’s bad because…” he begins to shake his head. “You don’t like cookies?”

Your shoulders drop.

“You hate cookies and pasta. You think they’re awful,” Bruce tries.

“No! I love soup and cavatappi and—he’s ruining everything! He's such an idiot!” you rub your face, nuzzling your nose into the crevice between your joined hands.

Bruce examines you for another second before: “Oh.”

“What?” you snap, meeting amused brown. “What?”

“Nothing,” Bruce muses, but his lips are set in a careful smile, amusement poorly hidden. “Just that you finally learned his name.”

His thoughts are pathetically obvious in his tone, lips in a thin line and eyes crinkled.

“Don’t,” you warn. “Bruce Banner—”

“I didn't say anything.”

“Do not think what you’re thinking,” you demand. “He’s a player and a distraction and—”

“Okay.” Bruce has never been one to argue, but his one word answer makes you more frustrated than anything else he could’ve said.

You puff and gather your food, striding to your room with a glare at your best friend.

For the first time since you met Bucky, you follow through on an excuse to miss the game. It’s not a majorly important one—although Bucky pouts when you tell him either way, insisting that he needs you there for good luck—but you still feel a strange ache at the bottom of your stomach when the game begins and you’re too far away to cheer for him.

The edges of your lips are downturned, brows pinched as you stare at your phone before you realize what you’re doing and snap your attention away.

Scoffing, you shake away thoughts about soccer and the memory of Bucky's sweet blue eyes when he’d teased you, a strange tone of real sadness beneath his playful jests.

You pause, lifting your hands from your computer to eye the time once again. Furtively scanning the work you’re nearly done with, you allow yourself the distraction and grab your phone, fingers dancing in anticipation when your lock screen is littered with icons of messaging apps.

You click Bucky’s name first, smiling softly as you read a quickly typed summary of the game he probably sent after the first half was over. He sounds hopeful and excited, like he always does when he talks abouts soccer, but he signs off with a mispelled reminder that he misses you and a red heart. You check Wanda and Bruce's messages next, your face falling when you learn the second half hadn’t gone as well.

Tugging your bottom lip between your teeth, you glance at your work again and then at the clock, taking a quick breath before you force yourself to write a quick conclusion you promise yourself you’ll revise when you get home.

The game is over by the time you arrive, easily finding a parking spot in the midst of everyone’s departure. You hear disappointed grumbling as you make your way inside the stadium and cringe, striding toward the locker room.

Your name in Bruce’s voice makes you pause, turning to meet his pulled, bushy eyebrows and pinched lips. “What’re you doing here?”

“I finished early,” you explain. “And you said the game wasn’t going great so I thought I'd come and make sure the team’s okay.”

Bruce's features morph into something like realization and then into his poor poker face, lips pursed so tightly they’re edged white. “Right. The team.”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, since it’s the whole team, I should let you know most of them are in the locker room moping, but Bucky wanted to leave early.” Bruce looks pointedly to the right.

“What? Why?”

Bruce shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe he said something about seeing you, but since you’re here for the team—”

“Shut up, Bruce.” You squint meanly at him, making him swallow a laugh as you spin around and continue on your path.

You bump into Bucky when you turn a corner, familiar hands coming to rest on your arms distractedly before his eyes brighten in recognition. He says your name in surprise, shaking you gently as if to check that you’re real. His hair is damp from the quick shower he’d just taken, dark spots from water droplets around the collar of his gray shirt. He smells like soap and Bucky and it makes you a little dizzy.

“Hey, I heard about the game,” you say. “I wanted to check up on you.”

“Oh. I was just coming to see you. I told you that you were our lucky charm.” Bucky laughs but it’s not completely honest, his disappointment about the loss shining through.

You frown, unsure of what to do. Suddenly, you shove your hands into your coat pockets, pulling out a crinkled baggie in each one. “I brought you something.”

Bucky steps back, eyebrows furrowed as he notices what you’re holding. “Are those orange slices?”

Nervous now, you let your arms drop. “Yeah. I, uh—figured they’d maybe give you a boost and—” You cut yourself off, laughing awkwardly. “It was dumb.”

“My mom used to bring me orange slices after soccer practice,” Bucky mumbles.

You perk up. “Yeah. You told me about that and I thought maybe you’d like them.” The end of your sentence lilts like a question, answered by the quick movements of Bucky's fingers when he takes a baggie from you and pulls it open, taking a slice out to grin happily at it.

He dips his fingers in again and hands another to you, bumping his own small slice against yours. “Cheers.”

As soon as he bites into it, the juice from the fruit runs down his fingers, eyelids falling closed in a delighted hum. You barely realize the sap has streaked sticky orange down your arm, too.

He breathes out your name as he opens his eyes, a dazzling blue in the fluorescent lights of the locker room hall. “I forgot how…” He shakes his head, drifting off, and takes the other bag from you, pulling you to him. He sighs big and warm, rumbling through his chest.

You rub your nose against his sweatshirt, breathing in deeply. There's the fresh scent of citrus and then the lavender body wash you’d bought for him faint beneath his own distinct smell. He thanks you blithely, a lot lighter.

You shrug it off and force yourself to pull away, shivering at the loss even if you initiated it. “Do you want to get something to eat and watch that new episode of The Great British Bake-Off we missed last week?”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, hand drifting down to pull yours along. His skin is sticky and sweet against yours, orange juice smearing on your palm, but you can’t find it in you to care.

You feel sick when you step outside; a sticky, prickly rush that coats your throat in sap. It’s cold enough to make goosebumps rise on your skin, dark enough for the stars to drown in ink. Any appetite you had disappears, replaced with something clammier and painful, a twisting anxiety as a result of a bad day and a completely avoidable situation.

The bags with your food bump warmly against your knee, plastic handles pulling against the skin of your wrist. If you stay as you are, there will be indents of them once you finally put the bag down.

Something like dumb, chest-puffed stubbornness tugs incessantly at you when you contemplate calling Bruce to come pick you up, a biting voice snapping pathetic for even thinking about it convincing you to shut the door behind you, locking away the choice of warmth and safety and shame.

It’s very silent when you begin to walk, the crinkling of your bag loud and in tandem with your steps. You let it slide down and hook on your fingers, carefully aware of shadows that might peek out behind yours and off-space footsteps.

Lonely fingers curl in on themselves, missing the comforting frigidity of the keys you’d forgotten at home. Your dying phone vibrates in the tight grip of your hand, spurring your steps faster. A dark lump appears on your shadow’s shoulder, and you freeze, spinning around violently to face the street, empty behind you.

You turn back around hesitantly, breath trembling. You could’ve sworn you felt someone else behind you.

Eyes rounded and wet, you begin to walk again, feeling an uncomfortable heat in the space where your ribs meet. Your required cognizance turns frantic, making your fingers shake and oxygen difficult to get into your lungs. There’s an echo to your footsteps. When you blink, there’s the ghost of an unforgiving hand on the back of your neck, the sharp slam of your jaw against brick. You gasp when you open your eyes again, a hand flying to the aching skin of your neck as you spin.

Your eyes promise that there’s no threat lurking behind darkness, but your mind blares with an assurance that there is. Ducking behind a wall, you scramble for your phone, cheeks cold with air-slapped tears as you press the call button for the first contact your fingers find.

Bucky’s voice is confused and comforting when he answers.

“I think—I think someone is following me,” you whimper, pulling your legs to your chest. Your food warms the side of your thigh.

“What? Where are you?”

“I don’t know,” you cry. “I’m sorry, I should, it’s just—I was walking home from the restaurant and I heard something and I can’t concentrate, I can’t breathe—”

“Okay, it’s okay. Try to breathe, okay? Can you tell me what restaurant it was?”

You can picture the glowing sign, the faded wallpaper, the flowered curtains, but you can’t think, barrelling you deeper into panic. “I can’t remember—I—”

You can hear Bucky open his door. “Hey, it’s okay. Were you eating there or picking up to go?”

“To-go,” you answer tearfully, concentrating on the box pressing into your flesh.

“Okay. For you and Bruce or just you?”

“B-both of us.”

“You’re doing great, sweetheart. Try to take deep breaths, I think I—”

There’s a hollow click before it’s silent, the calm you’d been grasping at completely gone. “Bucky?” you plead. “Bucky?”

You pull your phone away from your ear, vision going blurry when you tap desperately at the screen and it doesn’t respond. Dead.

There’s a tremendous weight on your chest, your elbow knocking against the wall behind you with your attempts to draw in a breath. You shove your head in between your knees and try to remember Bucky’s voice, forget the cold fear that another clammy hand will reach for your hair and tug you up.

You need to get home. You can’t move.

You stifle your sobs with your leg, clawing at your shins and trying to think of anything else. You shove your hand in between your stomach and your legs, letting your phone fall to your thighs as the tips of your fingers reach the round hills of your collarbone. Your palm digs into your flesh until the beating of your heart pulses against your thumb, aching when you force it to stay put.

Thump, thump. “O-one,” you force, restraining your fingers from curling. Thump, thump. “Two.” A deep, shuddering breath that makes your mouth snap closed and your eyes flutter into darkness. Thump, thump. “Three…”

It’s how Bucky finds you, your nose deep between your knees, counting watery and muffled. He’s frantic when he sees you, panic like needles against his chest prickling to a pounding ache. He should be more cautious, stand still a few feet away for a few seconds, step slowly. If he were a little less in love, maybe he would; but he’s not, and the relief that you’re solid and no longer a tenuous voice on his phone is too much a relief.

He calls out your name and rushes forward, lowering himself down to his knees before he touches your arm. You flinch, shoving a strong hand against him, a horrible mix of anger and fear contorting your voice.

“It’s me. It’s Bucky.”

You still push yourself back against the wall, but your eyes finally meet his. “Bucky,” you test. “Bucky.”

It’s a silent, cold beat before you blink clearly, irises looking back a little less hazy. You murmur his name once more and promptly burst into tears, launching yourself into his chest. His arms wrap around you in tandem, pleasing the closeness your fisted fingers crave. He takes in your tears, steadily smoothing a hand over your back, desperation in the way he hooks his chin over the crown of your head.

“Are you okay?” he asks too soon.

You make a noise of which answer he can’t be sure of, so he gathers you up in his arms to push you away, only a little, only for a second to stare at you.

You grip at his shirt, cheeks shiny. And then, “I thought I was really gonna die this time.” Hearing your admittance causes a shift on your face, still crumpled and unready to deal with this. “Just for a second and—” Your lips twist to keep words back.

Bucky pulls you back in.

“Will you take me home?”

His compliance is wordless and patient, hooking a finger through your takeout and grasping your hand with his free one, guiding you to his car. He helps you inside, setting the bag at your feet before he buckles your seatbelt and pushes strands of hair away from your sticky face.

Your breathing steadies while he drives, concentrating on the cool puffs of air hitting your collarbone, the lingering warmth from the food you’re suddenly starving for. But the wash of panic has left a shameful residue and a subsequent otiose apology on your tongue, making the once comforting silence expectant.

Your chest weighs when you finally spot your door, fighting to pull words from your mouth at the dimmed lights, but Bucky beats you to it, clearing his throat without unlocking the door. His left hand lays clothed on his lap, face stormed with uncertainty, but there’s a resolute edge that makes him look at you.

“I’m sorry,” you start, misunderstanding.

“Why?”

You aren’t sure, only certain of how guilty you feel. “For… bothering you. For making you comfort me. I’m sorry that you had to see me like that."

“Don’t apologize.” He clenches his jaw. “I don’t want you to…”

He shoves his sleeve up, taking a deep breath as he pinches the fingertips of the glove. “I know that wasn’t something you were ready to share with me. I understand, I…”

His gaze is heavy, flickering between your face and the fingers peeling away his glove. He swallows hard when it’s pulled off completely, looking away from the sight of his skin.

You can’t help the way your eyes track down his arm. It’s scarred with angry raised lines, ending at his fingertips and disappearing into his shirt sleeve.

“I was in a fire once,” he says. “‘Got some scars too.”

“Is that why you wear—” You trail off at his nod. “Why are you… why are you telling me?” you ask, wincing at how the question sounds, but Bucky seems to understand what you mean.

He shrugs. “I don’t know,” he lies.

You blink at him, slipping a sure hand into his and squeezing. “Thank you.”

His eyes stay startled on your interlocked fingers, stubborn even beneath his gaze. He laughs hollowly then, squeezing back before he finally meets your eyes. “You, too.”

Your fingers are wound tightly around Wanda’s arm, the nails digging into her sweater giving away what your face is trying to hide. You’re zeroed in on Bucky's figure as he runs across green after blurry white.

The energy from the others who cheer in the stands makes you buzz, a rush of confidence urging you to jump to your feet when Bucky passes the ball to Pietro and then has it once again, close enough to the other team’s goal to make you clench a hand in anticipation.

With the flesh of your thumb between your teeth, you can’t help but lose your breath when it looks like Bucky's going to try to make it, only for it to be knocked out from your lungs when he crashes to the ground from the impact of another player.

Your mouth parts in a surprised o, tongue playing his name before you can stop it.

It's eerily silent in the stadium for a second as Bucky lies on the field, before it disappears into a fold of angry screams.

You’re not worried.

Bucky has never gotten hurt on the field before—”I’m too good,” he had promised you with an uneven grin, annoying in the way that he’s right—and the only times it’s seemed otherwise have been lies, a mere play he put on for the free kick. He had shaken his head disappointedly at you when you’d gotten worried, condemning you for not trusting him. He’s playful when he’s flustered.

So you’re not worried, because you know Bucky is fine.

Except he hasn’t moved in a little while too long and you don’t think it’s ever taken him this long to fake it. Although, maybe it feels longer because you can’t take your eyes off his figure.

You’re not worried.

Your fingers say otherwise, thumb tapping against your alternating fingers so frantically they get jumbled together, clumsily bumping into the crevices between them.

“Is he hurt?” Wanda asks.

“No,” you say automatically, stretching your fingers out like a starfish as if to rid evidence of your anxiety. “No, he’s fine.”

It's another moment that seems too long and the lines of Wanda’s worried face deepen, breaths a little faster. “He's not… he’s not getting up.”

“He’s fine,” you insist. “He has to milk it.” Glancing up at the timer, you nod definitively. “Yes, he has to milk it to get the penalty kick.”

“What?” Wanda asks, meeting your eyes in confusion.

“The hit didn’t seem that bad,” you lie unsteadily. “He has to milk it. He’s fine.”

Your panic escapes in the highs of your voice, something translucent hiding it when you clear your throat. He's still not getting up and it makes your breath comes out quickly. “He has to be,” you admit.

Wanda’s brows furrow, eyes searching your face once Bucky finally limps weakly to his feet, giving the ref a short nod. A sigh large enough to make you bend slips past your lips, caught in a relieved laugh as you gesture to him.

“I told you,” you tell her.

“He’s limping,” she points out.

“It’s fake,” you assure, fingers digging round shadows into your temples. “He’s doing his hero face, he’s completely fine.” It comes out more relieved than you thought it would.

He gets his penalty kick, makes it, of course, and it’s another few, a lot slower minutes before the game is over, but you’re making your way down thirty seconds before, too much attention on the game rather than your footing on the stairs.

You stumble over your feet, barely caring when the whistle blows to indicate the game is over, and turn in the direction of the hall to the locker room. Your anxiety nearly seems silly now, not as oppressive now that the soaked towel you’d been waterboarded with was dry. Yet, it still prickles at your fingertips, faint but enough to ache.

It's only a couple minutes before you can hear the pattering of feet, the stress that the outliers are Bucky, limping like he did on that field, nudging at your mind. The players wave at you, surprised, and your heart grows heavier and heavier with each passing team shirt that does not have “BARNES” on the back.

Then he’s there, completely fine and near the end of the line. He's grinning at the apparent win, letting Steve shove him proudly. His eyes widen in surprise when they catch sight of your own, saying something to his teammates without looking at them as he steps toward you.

“Hey, what’re you—”

Unable to help yourself, you throw your arms around his neck, the prickling disappearing the moment you touch him. He is hot and solid in your arms, but most importantly completely fine.

“Hey,” he coos, hugging you back.

You allow him a moment before you pull back abruptly and smack his arm.

“Ow!” he complains, grabbing your hand.

“You asshole! What’s up with the drama?”

“What, did I scare you?” Bucky teases, smirk dropping when your deadpan doesn’t glitter with playfulness. “Doll?”

“You took your sweet time getting back up,” you continue, ignoring his words. “You’ve never taken that long.” You’re alone in the hall now, eyes frenetic over his figure.

He softens then, chin pulling closer to his neck so his eyes can give you a reassuring smile. “Hey,” he says softly, tapping your wrist with his index, “‘m fine.”

“I know,” you contend, but it comes out a little relieved at hearing it in his voice. “I told Wanda that.”

His cheeks apple at your statement, amusement twinkling back in his eyes. “Of course. My girl knows I can't get hurt.”

You scoff at the term of endearment, nervous energy dissolving. “I'm not your girl.”

“Not yet!” he proclaims.

You wrinkle your nose, stepping away from him. “You stink. Go shower.” You pat his shoulder as a goodbye, beginning to head back out.

“Sure know how to charm a guy,” he mumbles, watching you walk away with a dopey smile.

You’re in your room, laying on your stomach with your computer in front of you and a drink Bucky had bought for you sitting on your bedside table.

He's sitting against your bed, scanning over a document. You should be doing something like it, but you can’t help but be distracted. He's quiet for once, features set in something not playful and not serious, a small knot between his brows indicating his concentration.

He looks pretty. You can’t be blamed.

If he notices your gaze, he’s kind enough to not point it out, although it’s unlikely. It’s undoubtedly heavy.

He’s staring down at his hand when he speaks up for what seems like the first time since hes arrived. His fingers dance nervously before he shoves them away from his view, edges of thick tissue peeking out as a bracelet on his wrist. “Do I make you uncomfortable when I flirt?”

You blink owlishly at him, unsure how to answer. He sounds so serious, guilty. “No.”

“If it makes you uncomfortable, I'll stop.”

“I know you would. But it doesn’t. Is something wrong?”

Bucky cringes. “You don’t really flirt back. I just want to make sure it’s not because I make you uncomfortable.”

“You don’t! I just… don’t really flirt. I don’t really think there’s a point if I’m not dating.”

“You don’t date?” He’s known this. To a point, which he thinks is not completely accurate now that he hears the way you say it.

“No.”

“Not even guys you like?”

“Especially guys I like, ” you clarify, cringing with the difficulty of putting so many feelings into so insignificant words. “Things get messy. It’s just… distractions and it’s never worth it.”

“You think love isn’t worth it? That it’s a distraction?”

You shoot him a look, huffing a little disappointedly, as if you’d expected him to understand something and he didn’t. “Why do people always twist my words into something so cynical?

I didn’t say that. Not love. I never said love, I just—it never ends well. It’s always something you pour so much into and get so little back.”

Bukcy shifts. “That’s not true. A relationship is fair, or at least, it’s supposed to be.”

“Ah, but see, ‘supposed to be’ and ‘is’ are two different things. I’d rather just skip the entire thing.”

Bucky frowns. “I don’t think you should.”

“You don’t think I should?”

“I don’t… I’m not telling you what to do, but I really think you should try. Love can be really great. And you deserve that.”

Your nails pinch at your fingers. “But what if it isn’t?”

“Then it isn’t.” You move to rebut, but Bucky continues. “But what if it is?”

You refuse to answer, chewing on your bottom lip.

Bucky gazes at you, waiting for a response before he realizes he won’t get one. He doesn’t push, turning back to his work.

“Why do you care so much?” you ask.

He sucks in a breath before admitting, “Mainly because I think you would really enjoy being loved. And very partially because I’m selfish.”

You hum. “You’re a really good guy, Bucky.”

“I try.”

You scowl lightly. “Incorrigible. Annoying. But really good.”

Bucky laughs. “Don’t forget—what was it you said about me? Charming? Sweet? Hand-to-heart hilarious?”

You launch a pillow at his head. “Nuisance is what I should’ve said.”

“Mm, a little contradictory but what’s life without some juxtaposition? Maybe I’m a man of many talents.”

The tip of your index finger shoves into his arm.

You fall into a peaceful silence once again when the laughter dissolves, your fingers busy away at your keyboard. There's a moment where you’re thinking, staring intently just past your computer and Bucky is staring at you, a thoughtful expression on his face, stony and all.

“Will you?”

It takes you a second to realize he’s talking to you. “Will I what?”

“Give it a chance.”

You want a moment to ponder it, because you know the right answer but you aren’t sure if you want to pick it. “Give what a chance?” you play dumb, but he doesn’t buy it.

You look to your side, unfocused eyes lazy on an ugly painting.

“Yeah, maybe.” You want to tell him it depends who it is, that you have very strict rules mentioning annoying brunets with blue eyes who walk you home from the library and never shut up, but you don’t, eyes travelling back to him slowly. His silence when they finally meet his own tell you he knows anyway.

Quickly looking back down, you avoid his gaze and continue to work.

You melt into his side, delightfully prickling when you lean in a little closer to take a sip of your drink. Eyes shimmering in the lame lights of the bar, you’ve never looked so openly bright, hardly containing your delight and everything you can spilling past anyway.

There are enough people in the place for it to feel rightfully uncomfortable, sweat-sticky skin bumping into the arm he has around your chair and making the heat rise, but Bucky can’t seem to notice.

It would feel plain ignorant to do so—to not focus completely on the stitched pride in the dips of your smile or the warmth of your palms as they splay flat on his arm.

It’s not enough to just have your fingers tug at him during conversations with strangers, he feels he should imprint the feeling of your touch like a branding.

You say his name in conversation, cruelly dragging your hand down to bracelet around his wrist and squeezing. You make a little shimmy with your shoulders that can’t help but make him laugh. He zeroes in on your lips, trying to make sense of what you’re saying.

You’re cute. You’re too sweet to be in this stuffy bar with him.

You turn to him brightly in the midst of another exclamation and he feels himself transported.

He can feel the end buzzer vibrating up to his fingertips, the breeze on the heat of his skin when he’d looked up, eyes searching for you like a habit.

Your features are shrunken into the memory, suddenly far away but still pulled into the biggest beam you could muster, hands clapping ecstatically.

“Bucky,” memory-you says liltingly, too clearly.

When he blinks, he’s back in the present, the tip of your index dimpling his bicep, your face close enough for him to count each individual eyelash. He grins without really thinking about it. “Bucky,” you repeat, a little harsher but still teasing.

“Yeah?” he responds finally.

“We’re complimenting you and you aren’t paying attention? Are you feeling okay?” you frown, lips downturned but the edges of your eyes still crinkled with happy lines. The back of your hand meets his forehead.

“Fantastic,” he says, his left hand vining up to hook around your fingers and lay them on his lap. “Just won a game, didn’t you hear? All by myself, too.”

You shake your head at him, turning back to who Bucky realizes is one of your friends. Carol, you’d said.

��See?” You say accusatorily.

Carol grins. “Yeah. Kind of hard not to when you describe it so thoroughly.”

That catches Bucky’s fluttering attention, an eyebrow shooting up questioningly in your direction. Your lips part in betrayal at Carol, and you begin to take your hand back from Bucky, but he hooks your wrist before you can.

“I think Maria is calling you,” you tell her. “You should go see what that’s about.”

“Now, now,” Bucky starts. “Actually, I think I want to know how thoroughly you talk about me, sweeheart.”

“That's my cue,” Carol laughs, dipping a beer at you both. “I'll see you guys later. Congrats on the game.”

She bounces to her feet and takes off, leaving the two of you alone. Bucky nudges a finger in between your ribs, making you jump and swat at him. “Hey!”

“You talk about me to your friends?”

You stare at him, bottom lip pushing out defensively in your tipsiness. “Well, the star football player is one of my best friends, shouldn’t I be allowed to brag?”

“Best friend, huh? Bruce gonna be jealous?”

You wave him off, making a small, stubborn sound. “He ought to get over it with how much he ditches me.”

“See, I would never.” Bucky presses his free hand to his heart in oath. “Star football players are very reliable. Scoring goals, keeping plans, etcetera.”

You grin at the reminder, something sparkling beneath your skin like static, jolting your fingers when it begins to brim. You splay an excited palm on his shoulder out of pure excitement, seeming to relive the night.

“I am so proud of you,” you say. Saccharine, words stout with a smile and pride. “You did so well today.”

You’re startlingly genuine, entirely proud. Bucky can’t bring himself to tease or flirt.

“Thank you.”

You smile prettily, the light in your irises shifting at his authenticity. “I am,” you insist.

You just want to tell him, for him to hear you and understand how much you mean it. Your pupils flicker to a spot above his shoulder, distant for a second as your face brightens more. You laugh disbelievingly.

“I don't know all that much about football but from what I do, you’re certifiably extraordinary.” You sound out the word, unwilling to mess it up when you mean it so much. You try again. “You made a really great play.”

“Impossible,” Bucky corrects completely unsubtly, but it’s soft, blurred by yellow light from above and buzz from you.

You observe him for a second. “I think you’re amazing,” you say thoughtfully, not in an effort to compliment but in a sort of realization. “What… type of person…” you start but don’t continue, tongue unable to keep up with everything running through your mind. The walks home, the paid lunches, the attention, the ability.

You inhale sharply, as if realizing you’re drifting off and trying to pull yourself back in.

Bucky knows what you expect—what he expects of himself—but he can’t bring himself to tease you, reiterate your words with an artful curve of his lips. He can’t concentrate enough to ignore the prickly warmth at the bottom of his stomach. He glances down at his watch.

“Should we go?” he says instead, casual but urgent. “It's late.”

He stands before you can process his offer, still a little drunk from stolen sips but only enough to make contrasts lighter. You blink up at him from your seat for a second before nodding, two short, stressed lines between your brows. He shouldn’t have been so abrupt.

Kinder, he helps you from your seat and guides you toward the door, keeping you away from stray elbows with benevolent redirection.

Your breath curls visibly in the air when you step outside, white and dissolving until it is replaced by another, longer exhale. You wrap your arms around your torso.

“C'mon,” he urges, guiding you to his car. “Let’s get you warm.”

“Should you be driving?” you ask as he searches his pockets for the keys, standing at the car door, watching him. “And what about the others?”

“Didn’t drink,” he answers, patting his coat pockets until he finds what he’s looking for.

You frown, slowly running through the night and realizing he’s right, recalling the sparkling water dripping moisture next to his jacket sleeve. The cold and the ennui knock a lot into focus.

He clicks open the car. “And this’ll force ‘em to call an uber. Worst comes to worst, I’ll drop by later to force them home. I just want to get you home first. No drunk footballers to puke on your feet.”

He rounds around to meet you, opening the door, and waiting patiently.

“Why didn’t you drink?” you ask. You’ve seen him drink before, tipsy in that breezy way where he’s a little flirtier with a little less filter. “You won a game. If you ever deserved it, it’s now.”

“I had to be able to drive you back.” He shrugs, cocking his head in the direction of the open car door. “Speak of the devil,” he starts pointedly, reminding you of your frigidity.

Still contemplating, you climb inside with furrowed brows, following Bucky's figure as he shuts your door, jogs back to his side, and settles into the driver’s seat. Rubbing his hands together, he turns to look at you.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Uh huh.”

He clicks his tongue. “Look at that. I think you’re a little drunker than I thought.”

“I am not,” you argue, looking down at yourself and seeing nothing wrong until Bucky reaches over to pull your seatbelt over you. “Oh.”

Bucky breathes out a little laugh, amused.

“I'm just…” You contemplate for a second, sinking into the rumbling of the engine when Bucky turns the car on. Immediately, heat slaps your nose. The glass meets your temple bitingly, jolting your sentence back on track. You turn to see Bucky's attention already on you. “Happy.”

“You’re happy?” Bucky repeats pleasantly, shifting the gear into drive.

“Yes. It was a good day today.”

You feel clearer now, the edges of reality crisper as you look out the window. “I know I already said it, but I'm really proud, Bucky. You win games and ace tests and don’t celebrate with a drink to drive me home. You’re kind of great.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, glancing at you.

You hum an affirmation, inhaling deeply. At some point, Your few-sip buzz dissipated into something different.

Sober, but influenced on the darkness of the sky and the roundness of the moon. It feels safe suddenly, a rush of energy jolting you straight. You stare at Bucky's profile. “Yeah,” you confirm clearly. “It's kind of disappointing, you know.”

Bucky is caught off guard, sparing you a look when he stops at a stoplight. “What?”

“I just thought you’d be different.”

“How?” His brows are furrowed.

You take a moment to ponder. “Not so… you. More of the unforgivably arrogant and ignorant jock variety.”

“So you were expecting me to be one of those cartoon stereotypes?” he teases, looking back at the road with an easier smile.

“Kind of,” you laugh. “But you’re not and that’s really great.”

The red light from outside drapes over his features, pulled as he searches the crevices of your face. In response, it slackens slowly, from thoughtful to a little dazed as you stare back. Without meaning to, you’re leaning in at the same time he is.

His skin flips green.

You fall away from him with a surprised exhale, blinking in confusion.

It takes a second for Bucky to look away after you have, and you consider yourself lucky there’s no one else on the road during the long moment it takes for his attention to switch back to driving.

He doesn’t want to just forget what happened. He doesn’t want to move on from this yet. “What does that mean?” he asks, your compliment playing on repeat in his mind.

You stay silent, trying to figure it out yourself. “I don't… I don’t know.”

He tries to remain unbothered, glancing at you once more to catch your focus unmovingly on him. He pulls into your driveway and turns off the car.

“What about going on a date with me?” he requests, a little more serious that usual but glazed in his usual tone. Unbuckling his seatbelt, he continues. “I'll dress up in that shade of blue you think I look so good in and we’ll go out to eat at that little hole-in-the-wall restaurant I'm still impressed you found. You’ll order that same thing you always do, and we can talk about that novel you’re reading—”

He doesn’t wait for the answer you’ve given before, stepping out of the car and striding over to your side.

You gaze up at him when he opens your door, your buckle unclasped in your hand. He's kind as he always is as he helps you out, hands settling on your shoulders to steady you when you nearly trip over a ridge in the sidewalk.

“Or… or we could go take a walk around the park. Or go to the movies, or the amusement park, or do laundry or taxes or—anything as long as it’s with you.”

And maybe it’s the easy smile, with the glitter of gold pride still sewn into his lips, or the genuine kindness he’s never failed to show you under the mask of the moon. Maybe it’s the proximity. Maybe you just can’t help yourself anymore. You kiss him.

He’s frozen for a solid moment, thick enough for you to start doubting yourself, beginning to pull away when he finally reacts, practically melting into you as his hands frantically pull you closer.

He pulls away hesitantly, torturously, a second later, eyes scrutinizing. “Wait, wait, wait, are you drunk?”

You shake your head, laughing gently at the thumb that pulls gently at the skin beneath your eye to make sure, urgently tugging you back into the kiss when he’s satisfied.

“‘Had to make sure,” he mumbles against your lips. “This can’t happen when you aren’t you.”

“It’s me,” you promise, pulling back. Before you can delve into your mind too deeply, you nod suddenly. “Yeah, okay.”

“Yeah, okay what?” he repeats, chasing after you to kiss you a few more times.

“I'll go out with you.”

His smile drops, fingers tightening around your hips. “Wait, really?”

You nod. “Yeah.” You grasp his arms tightly. “I should at least try, right?”ey

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psychoticallytrans · 1 year ago

Text

The problem with fetishization of people is not being associated with sex, it's the sexual entitlement that comes with it. It gets especially corrosive when the trait being fetishized is generally seen as unattractive, ex. being transgender, disabled, or any other minority status, especially those that affect physical appearance. "But you should be glad I think you're sexy! It's not like anyone else will want you. You should have sex with me as thanks." is an attitude that only leads to bad results for all parties.

Do note that consensual fetishization that is agreed on by all parties is a very different thing from general fetishization for the same reason that professional wrestlers are not arrested for assault and battery.

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cryptidcircuswrites · 5 days ago

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NIGHT ONE

!!- threats, implied physical torture, assault and battery, blood, sadomasochism, non-con (no smut yet)

Back

Toby was completely and utterly fucked.

He'd rushed out of the cabins in anger and embarrassment, not thinking about where he was going.

He'd broken into a house without making sure it was secure, without ensuring the resident wouldn't wake up.

The small silver lining was that you hadn't called the police on him.

The dark grey cloud was the fact that he was trapped in a basement, and you knew he couldn't die. Tim and Brian wouldn't know where to look for him if they even bothered to do so, and there was no telling whether his Master would deem this urgent enough to rescue him.

You'd had a particularly frustrating day at work. Shitty customers, a new policy that barely allowed you to do your job, that ever-present sense of a rope tightening around your chest that made you want to lash out.

Your silver lining was the intruder in the basement, deposited by some miracle into your lap.

He'd quieted down as soon as you shoved him down there, but you knew instinctively that he wasn't dead. No, you'd shot him twice-- he'd stayed upright, he'd begged you not to call the police, he'd barely bled.

No, you were certain he wasn't dead, and you fully intended to take advantage of his strange condition.

Speed limits were mere suggestions on your drive home, a rare sloppiness allotted in your excitement. You weaved through traffic, slamming the door to your old Honda and tossing your keys haphazardly on the counter.

The basement awaited.

Toby flinched as he heard footsteps descending into his prison. He'd healed overnight, only a faint bloodstain and a hole in his threadbare shirt as proof it had ever happened.

He looked up at you. The phone cord was looser now. You'd probably need to fix that, but for now, it was time to test him out.

He watched with wide eyes as you grabbed a rubber mallet from a toolbox. Five pounds wasn't heavy enough to do real damage. Five pounds was enough to hurt like a bitch, though.

"You're going to answer my questions and I won't kill you."

Toby, of course, smirked like he had a secret you didn't know about.

"D-drop dea-dead," he spat.

You swung the mallet at his jaw. Instead of more backtalk, a whimper and some blood were produced.

"What's your name?" A squeeze of his bruised jaw for good measure.

"T- cunt Toby."

"And why didn't you die, Toy?"

His eyes got even wider. They were still slightly wet from the pain of the mallet smacking into his face. He trembled deliciously.

"I ca-can't tell you!" a jerk of the neck. "Please don't- please don't- don't call the police! I'll do anything!"

It was just like your darkest fantasies-- a beautiful new pet at your disposal, willing to do anything to keep you from calling the authorities.

You could feel the warmth pooling in your abdomen already.

"Oh, I won't call anyone."

You strode toward your toolbox again.

"But you'll wish I did."

[---]

Teeth, scattered at your feet. Blood on both your clothes. Dark bruises on porcelain flesh.

God, this must be Paradise.

Toby breathed heavily, pupils blown. Maybe it was the head trauma. Maybe it was the throbbing in his cock. Maybe it was both.

He couldn't explain why he loved this so much- the pain, the bindings, the abuse- but he did. And by the looks of it, so did his captor.

He'd barely caught his breath before you captured his lips in a kiss.

His taste filled your mouth. You bit. You suckled. You devoured him. He was completely yours, your perfect little toy, and so you had to act.

You'd never taken a captive before like this, but Toby was different.

Legs were pushed apart. You felt him in your hand, half hard already just from being beaten up.

He squirmed a little, tried to protest, but ultimately submitted to you.

Toby wasn't sure what he wanted-- more, less, stop, continue, it hurts, it feels good. Blood pooled in his mouth. Blood pooled in his dick, twitching in your hand. Saliva foreign as well has his own, and the pain in his gums, and your vicious kiss--

Your cell phone began to ring upstairs. By the sound of the custom ringtone, your mother.

Damn her for cutting this short!

Toby shuddered, nauseous at the loss.

You assured him you'd be back, spitting in his mouth as a parting gift.

Toby ached, but he didn't dare touch himself. He closed his eyes against the floor to rest, feeling the dull buzz of regeneration and exhaustion setting in already.

#creepypasta fic #creepypasta smut #ticci toby x reader #ticci toby smut #ticci toby #ticci toby fanfic #dead dove fic

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jakeshands · 2 years ago

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teeth

pairing: park sunghoon x fem!reader

synopsis: if you had known that talking to sunghoon at a club would lead to watching him kill the people you love, would you still talk to him?

genre: thriller (?), strangers to lovers

featuring: enhypen, yunjin, sakura, and chaewon of lsfm, yeonjun of txt, winter of aespa.

warnings: death. lots of death, murder scenes that arent graphic but still descriptive, lots of mentions of blood, attempted sexual assault, mentions of sexual assault, physical abuse, mentions of stalking, sunghoon and all of enhypen are literally murderers so… profanity, toxic relationship lol, sunghoon possessive as hell he’s crazy, sunghoon punches yeonjun a couple times, mentions of a knife. lmk if i missed anything!

word count: 18.5k

author’s note, jakehands comeback and its with an 18k psychotic murderer sunghoon fic. blame enhypen’s concept film and daphne. this is heavily unedited so please ugnore any mistakes idk if i can be bothered to read through this. also PLEASE read the warnings. please im begging you. also i call winter by her real name “minjeong” in thjs fic because…actually idk why. i just wrote it like that. u will also see many cameos of other idols that arent included in the featured and the reason for that is bcs the featured people are more Important and have dialouge! anyway. enjoy😍 and Read The Warnings.

You weren’t a frequent partygoer. You often preferred staying at home and watching whatever videos popped up on your Youtube Recommended. You usually watch Youtube video after Youtube video before you end up passing out with your phone reaching the 20% battery warning. You found comfort in the familiarity of your Youtube algorithm. But going to clubs? That was a whole other side of the world you didn’t want to touch.

How unfortunate it was, for you, to have a friend like Huh Yunjin. She was everything you weren’t; popular, friendly, a social butterfly, and a total partygoer -- if there was a party nearby, Yunjin was there. She loved parties, she loved alcohol, and she loved making out with girls and boys. Yunjin also enjoyed dragging you to said parties.

So, there you were. Standing in a club with Yunjin to your left and a girl named Sakura to your right. You had only met her a couple of minutes ago, but you were already enjoying her company. She had big eyes, kind of like the cat you had when you were younger. Her smile was extremely pretty so it was no wonder Yunjin always tried her hardest to make Sakura smile.

Sakura was in her last year of college. Soon, thanks to Jessica Day, she’ll have a teaching degree. Sakura was fun to talk to, and Yunjin made sure to include you in any conversation she had with a new face, but you still felt awkward and out of place in a club full of drunk college students clearly having the time of their lives.

“Didn’t you hear?” Sakura exclaims next to you. She was talking to Kim Chaewon. You know of her -- softball captain, an SM Town model, and she moves through guys quicker than you expected.

“Hear what?”

“They found Jaehyun’s body,” Sakura says.

You find yourself more interested in Sakura and Chaewon’s conversation than the one Yunjin was trying to insert you in with another one of her friends named Somi. Jaehyun was the soccer team’s captain for your college. He was also in his final year, and he was getting ready to lead the soccer team to victory at the upcoming championship in a few months. Last week, Jaeyun went missing.

“They found his body?” Chaewon gasps. “Where?”

“Down by the lake,” Sakura responds.

Chaewon gasps again. This eggs Sakura on, her voice dropping and you strain to hear the words she says over the loud booming music filling the club. “He was stabbed twenty-one times,” is all you could hear Sakura say.

You stand straight and push yourself away from the wall you were leaning against. “I’m going to the bathroom,” you tell Yunjin, ducking to whisper it into her ear.

“Oh!” Her untoned blonde hair shifts as she faces you, “do you want me to come with? It’s probably better if I come with --”

“I’ll be okay.”

Yunjin narrows her eyes. “Are you sure? You do know about the recent murders, right?”

You give Yunjin a smile. “I’ll be okay.”

Yunjin purses her lips. “Call me if you get into any trouble, okay?”

You roll your eyes and back away from Yunjin and her little group of friends. “Okay, mom.”

You push your way through the crowded dance floor to reach the other side of the club. Yunjin was telling you all about this club on the ride over. It was a popular club, usually filled up to its maximum capacity fifteen minutes after the club’s doors opened. You could attest to that statement as the line you saw when you arrived at the club was already pretty long.

Since the club was a popular hotspot for young adults, every face you saw was a familiar face. People like Choi Yeonjun and Hwang Hyunjin, two of the most popular dancers on your campus, had taken over the dance floor. Girls and guys flocked to the pair of them like magnets and as you watched them move effortlessly on the dance floor, you couldn’t help but wonder if they were exhausted.

Then, in the corner of the club, tucked away in a booth with cocktails in hand, sat Yuna and Lia, their eyes peering out into the crowded club and giggling as they conversed with each other in between taking sips of their drinks. They were clearly gossiping as their eyes focused on Mark Lee flirting with Choi Yena.

You duck into the hallway leading you to the bathroom. Here, it was less crowded and the music sounded further away. You could finally hear yourself breathe, and you could hear your footsteps. Pushing open the door to the female’s bathroom, you’re met with the sight of a small line beginning to form.

You smile at the girls in front of you and take your place beside them, resting on the wall beside the hand dryer. Fishing out your phone, you text Yunjin to let her know you reached the bathroom safely, before switching over to Candy Crush.

You’re able to get to a stall in no time, and as you exit the stall, feeling a bit lighter, you’re shoved to the side as a girl with her hand covering her mouth and her friends all rush into the stall. The sound of retching echoes around the bathroom. You step up to the sink and wash your hands when someone nudges your shoulder.

“Here,” Bae Sumin hands you her mascara. She’s friends with Yunjin, that’s how you know her. “You should probably retouch your mascara. Have you been wiping your eyes?”

You look in the mirror. Your mascara was slightly smudged and you smile at Sumin. “Oh, I didn’t realize.”

Sumin smiles. “Girls help girls.”

You hand Sumin back her mascara after touching up your eyelashes and you exit the bathroom, adjusting the length of your black cocktail dress so it covers more of your thighs when you bump into something hard.

You squeak and stumble back, raising your head to see a person standing in front of you. His eyes are dark and his face is hardened. Not a single emotion escapes from the male figure in front of you and your stomach drops. There’s a sinister aura clouding him and your heartbeat quickens. “S-sorry,” you stutter meekly, your eyes dropping to your feet.

“It’s okay,” his voice is warm. It contrasts his appearance; icy face, black clothes, and eyes that raise goosebumps. “You should look where you’re going next time. Especially in a club like this.”

You glance up and smile at the male in front of you. “I’ll remember that.”

“I should probably apologize as well,” the male says after some thought, “I’m in a bit of a rush so I didn’t see you. So, sorry, are you okay?”

Instead of your heart dropping to your gut, it begins to flutter.

Your cheeks redden. “Oh. I’m okay. Seriously. And you don’t need to apologize!”

There’s a whisper of a smile on the male’s face. “Alright. Enjoy the rest of your night, and stay safe.”

Your eyes follow the male as he rushes past you. “You too!” You call out, your heart racing.

After gaining no response, you compose yourself and step back out into the club. Everything is the same as it was before; Lia and Yuna gossiping in the corner, Mark flirting with Yena, and Yeonjun and Hyunjin owning the dance floor.

Yunjin makes eye contact with you as you approach the small space Yunjin and her friends occupy against the wall of the club. She beams as you and all the nervousness and awkwardness filling your body float away. Maybe going to clubs and partying wasn’t so bad.

—-

You groan and let your head drop onto the desk beneath you. The first lecture of the day just ended and even though you thought you were prepared for the course, this upcoming assignment proves how wrong you were. You would never be prepared for any of the assignments your creative writing class has.

Standing, you exit the classroom with your ears still ringing. After Yunjin had pulled you onto the dance floor, you found yourself dancing alongside Yeonjun. You allowed the older to put his hands on your hips as he guided you through the songs playing in the club and you found yourself having fun -- a lot more fun than you usually would have curled up on your bed watching Youtube video after Youtube video. As you think back to last night, you also remember the way your skin crawled with the feeling of someone watching you, but when you looked over your shoulder, you couldn’t see anyone.

Shuddering, you step into the sun and begin your brisk walk over to the cafe where you regularly meet up with Yunjin after lectures. It was probably nothing. Since you were having so much fun last night, maybe your brain had decided to try and drag you back down into the pits of distaste and regret of entering unknown territory.

Entering the cafe, you smile at the barista and join Yunjin at your usual table. She was hunched over a piece of paper in front of you, her eyebrows drawn together. “Why are you staring at the paper like that?” You ask, digging around in your shoulder bag.

“I’m writing lyrics,” Yunjin replies.

“With your mind?”

“I wish,” Yunjin groans, leaning back on the chair.

You giggle and power up your laptop. At the same time, the cafe door jingles open and a breeze rushes through the room. Someone laughs loudly and your attention is drawn to the group of boys entering the cafe.

Yunjin’s eyes widen and she sits straight in her chair. “No way. They come to this cafe too?”

You realize who the group of boys were -- Lee Heeseung, Park Jay, Sim Jake, and Park Sunghoon. They’re part of a larger group of seven. Often, whenever you mentioned the university you were attending to outsiders, immediately they thought of that group of seven. If your university was mentioned, seven names would be mentioned after.

You don’t know much about the group. They keep to themselves and never mingle outside of their small social circle. You don’t really see them around campus that much, but you are aware of how all of them excel in academics. You’re aware that Sim Jake is on the soccer team. You’re aware Lee Heeseung is on the ice hockey team, and you’re aware Park Sunghoon was a former figure skater.

Park Sunghoon.

Your eyes pass over the taller male and a realization strikes you. His handsome face; his cold aura; his silver hair and full lips -- you bumped into him at the club. You shrink in your seat and hang your head, muttering profanity.

Your cheeks flush when you think of his warm voice, and the gentle look in his eyes when he apologized. The contrasting nature of Sunghoon surprises you. You never thought someone with such a cold face would have such a warm voice -- a warm heart.

“Yunjin,” you lean across the table, your voice quiet. “I bumped into Sunghoon last night. In the club.”

Yunjin’s jaw drops. “You did?! Why didn’t you tell me? He didn’t hurt you, did he? Did he try to murder you?”

“Huh?” You were confused. “Why would he want to murder me?”

“You haven’t heard the rumors?” Yunjin asks.

“Jen, I only come to campus for my lectures,” you remind her.

“Right. Anyway, there’s a rumor going around that Sunghoon’s the one doing all the murders. People think he’s some kind of psychopath.”

You raise your eyebrows and glance over at the group of four. Jake and Sunghoon are grinning as they tease Jay who stands between them. “Psychopath?”

“Sunghoon was apparently seen with Jaehyun before he was reported missing,” Yunjin explains. “And apparently someone saw Sunghoon washing blood off his hands in a public bathroom a couple of nights back.”

You hum and sit back in your chair. “I don’t think it was Sunghoon. He apologized to me last night even though I bumped into him.”

Yunjin purses her lips but doesn’t say anything. You glance back over at the four boys and you immediately make eye contact with the topic of your conversation. Park Sunghoon’s staring back at you, his face is stoic, and your heart tremors. You attempt a hesitant smile and Sunghoon’s the first to look away.

—-

A week later you end up outside an unfamiliar house. Beside you, Yunjin is talking to a girl named Kazuha and you’re left alone to look up at the mansion-like house in front of you. People are still swarming in and out of the house and you begin to feel claustrophobic even though you haven’t entered the house.

“Jay’s house,” a voice says behind you. Turning around, you smile at Ryujin. Lia and Yeji are standing behind Ryujin, bickering with Seungmin and Hyunjin but you pay them no mind. “The first party he’s thrown in a month. His parents banned parties in their family vacation house because of the last party. His parents are out of town for the next month, though, so Jay’s going to throw all the parties he can.”

“This is their vacation home? Why do they need a vacation home in Seoul even though they live in Seoul?” You gaze back at the house in amazement.

“Rich people,” Ryujin responds. “Filthy rich.”

Yunjin reaches out and grabs your forearm. She exchanges a few words with Ryujin and then you’re being pulled into the house. It was loud and overcrowded and everywhere you looked there was alcohol. Yunjin has to practically shout to talk to you, and the flashing party lights force you to squint as you look at the person talking to you.

Sakura was by your side once more and Chaewon was also there. Chaewon greets you with a smile and immediately launches back into her conversation with Sakura. With help from Sakura, you ease into their conversation and Yunjin shoves a plastic cup of some strong alcohol into your hand. You’ve only taken a sip and the bitter taste that spilled down your throat was an uncomfortable taste.

“Jaehyun’s death has been ruled a homicide,” Sakura was saying, deeply interested in Jaehyun’s case. “The police don’t have any leads, though, so it’s basically a cold case.”

“How do you know all this stuff?” You ask Sakura.

Sakura smiles and taps her ears. “I hear everything. I’m easy to miss in a room.”

“She’s like a mouse,” Chaewon giggles.

“A mouse draws attention,” you point out. “No one likes mice.”

“I’m a fly on the wall, then,” Sakura cuts in. “Whatever I am, I’m a professional eavesdropper and gossiper.”

“Yunjin was telling me about the Park Sunghoon rumor,” you decide to test the waters. Surely Sakura and Chaewon know more about these rumors than Yunjin. “Is he really a psychopath? Did he really kill Jaehyun?”

“Park Sunghoon,” Chaewon says, rolling her eyes. “I grew up with him.”

“He is a very cold person,” Sakura muses, sipping whatever was in her plastic cup.

“Sunghoon was an odd boy,” Chaewon continues. “I don’t think he has emotions. Or empathy. His sister broke her ankle and he forced her to walk home.”

“Really?” You gasp. Maybe, Park Sunghoon was a cold person with a cold heart.

“Even some of the lecturers are afraid of him,” Sakura says, her tone all-knowing. “That’s why he easily passes hard classes -- they’re all too afraid to fail him.”

“Sunghoon liked killing things when he was younger,” Chaewon says, scowling. “I caught him stabbing a large rat and then opening up that rat.” Chaewon shudders. “The look on his face when he caught me still haunts me to this day.”

“Sunghoon also has a temper,” Sakura adds, “I’ve heard from people he’s done group projects with, that he threatened them all if they didn’t do his part of the project for him.”

You begin to feel queasy. The Park Sunghoon you’re hearing about from the people around you isn’t the Park Sunghoon you encountered all those nights ago. The Park Sunghoon you encountered was warm. He has a warm voice, and his apology was warm.

You down the rest of the alcohol in your plastic cup even though you don’t like the taste. “I need to pee,” you excuse yourself from Chaewon and Sakura and begin walking aimlessly. It would be nice if you were able to find a bathroom, but this house seems to be endless -- everywhere you walk, there are people dancing and kissing. Everywhere you walk, there is alcohol and familiar faces.

Eventually, you find some stairs and make your way up to the second floor. You pad down the hallway, the music still present but a lot more muffled. Aimlessly, you twist and turn through the maze of a hallway and eventually end up in an empty hallway.

Leaning against the wall behind you, you hang your head in your hands. All you can think about is the way Sunghoon’s eyes slightly softened when he apologized to you, and the gentle way he spoke to you when he apologized. You felt like you were going insane.

You hear quick footsteps approaching your empty hallway and you stiffen, your heart racing beneath your ribs. A familiar face rounds the corner and your face softens into a smile. Lee Jaeho was in your sociology class. He was kind to you, and always helped you study for the upcoming exams.

Jaeho seemed to be a bit dazed though. He wasn’t walking straight and when he saw you, a bright smile broke out across his face. His words slur together when he greets you and pulls you into a hug, and you know he’s off his face drunk.

“I was looking for you!” Jaeho slurs as he pulls out of the hug, still gripping to your shoulders. “I was told you were in the bathroom but I couldn’t find you! I got so worried, Y/N.”

“Ah, I’m sorry,” you apologize with a gentle smile.

“It’s okay,” Jaeho grips your hand in his and pulls you down the hallway.

“Where are we going, Jaeho?”

“We need some privacy.”

Your heart races. “Oh. Why?”

Jaeho pulls open a door and pushes you inside. The door closes and Jaeho rests his back against the door. Your hands sweat and you rub them against your skirt. “Jaeho?” You ask, unsure. “Why are we in a room?”

“Y/N,” Jaeho sounds sure of himself, even if he’s slurring his words. “I like you. I’ve liked you ever since we first talked in Freshman year.”

“Oh,” you feel speechless, “thank you for telling me, Jaeho.”

“You like me back, don’t you?”

“Oh,” you feel taken aback.

“I see the way you look at me.” Jaeho takes a step closer and you take a step back.

“What way do I look at you, Jaeho?”

Jaeho smiles but it’s a different smile. The smell of alcohol invades the room and your breath hitches. “You look at me like you want me, Y/N. I want you to.”

The back of your knees hit the bed behind you and you fall back onto the bed. Jaeho hovers over you and you feel helpless. “Jaeho,” you don’t know what to say. “I don’t like you like that. I think you’re a nice friend --”

“Don’t fucking say that shit,” Jaeho growls. Within a few seconds, his whole demeanor changes and your helplessness turns into fear. He pushes you further back onto the bed and climbs on top. Instantly, your fight or flight response kicks in.

You squirm about on the bed as Jaeho tries to keep you still. Your legs kick up and you shake your head from side to side. “Let go of me, Jaeho,” you beg, your eyes burning.

“Stop moving,” Jaeho hisses, his hands squeezing your arms tightly.

You cry out. “Jaeho --”

One of Jaeho’s hands curls around your throat and you can’t breathe. You attempt to gasp for air but it's pointless. Your legs still kick and your free hand tries to pull Jaeho’s hand away from your throat. Your eyes burn and tears begin to trail down the side of your face.

“You’re such a fucking bitch,” Jaeho groans.

Jaeho loosens his hand from restricting your right hand to the bed and you take this second of freedom to slap Jaeho across the face. Since he’s drunk, his motor movement is unbalanced. His grip loosens around your throat in shock and you use both of your hands to push Jaeho away.

You scramble off the bed and race over to the door.

“Y/N --” Jaeho calls your name. He grabs your wrist as you go to tug open the door.

“Let go of me,” you hiss, anger overtaking the fear.

“Y/N -- I’m sorry -- I --” Jaeho stumbles over his apology, the alcohol influencing his words and actions.

Turning back around, you see red and backhand Jaeho across the face. His head turns sharply to the side and his cheek begins to bleed -- the rings on your fingers must’ve cut into his skin from how hard you backhanded him.

Jaeho turns to look at you and fear replaces the anger you were feeling previously. With a racing heart, you tug open the door and race down the hallway, Jaeho calling your name as he follows you out. Tears stream down your face as you try to find your way back to the party. Maybe you should’ve asked Yunjin to take you to the bathroom.

Impulsively, you open a door leading to another room and dive inside, shutting the door behind you. You slump against the wall beside the door and cover your mouth with your hand as Jaeho goes charging past the room. Your chest rises and falls rapidly and you can’t stop the tears.

You don’t know how long you spend in the dark room, your hand pressed to your mouth to muffle your whimpers, when the door opens suddenly. Your hand falls away from your mouth and you whimper as you fall away from the wall.

The silence is loud and you slowly look up, hoping who you see isn’t Jaeho but Yunjin.

Park Sunghoon stands above you, frowning. “Y/N?”

Your hands cover your face as you break out into sobs. Relief floods your body. You’re glad that it wasn’t Jaeho who opened that door, but Sunghoon -- who is perceived as a psychopathic murderer and you should probably feel even more afraid, but you don’t. Because facing a suspected murderer is better than being assaulted at the hands of a friend.

Hands gently pull your own away from your face. A finger tilts your chin up and you’re looking at Sunghoon again. He’s crouching in front of you, his eyes soft. His thumbs press against your cheeks and brush away the tears streaming down your cheeks. You feel warm in Sunghoon’s presence.

“Y/N,” Sunghoon says your name again. “What happened?” His voice is light. It’s not like Jaeho’s tough and demanding tone.

You only shake your head and cry some more in response. You can still feel the phantom squeeze of Jaeho’s hands on your throat.

The fingers curled around your chin tighten ever so slightly. “Y/N,” Sunghoon’s voice is deeper and a bit demanding -- like Jaeho’s voice moments before, but you don’t feel scared, you still feel safe. “Tell me what happened.”

You inhale sharply and focus on Sunghoon’s face. His eyes are no longer soft, instead, they’re the familiar darkness you saw when you first met him. His lips are screwed into a straight line. His face is cold, but his hands and his heart are warm. “Jaeho,” you whisper. “He --” gently, your hand brushes against your neck. “He strangled me.”

Sunghoon doesn’t say anything. His hands slip away from your face and he rises to his feet. “Your friends are worried about you, Y/N. Let’s go back to the party.” You take his outstretched hand and stand. You wipe away the last of your tears and follow Sunghoon out of the room.

“Did Jaeho do anything else?” Sunghoon asks. You have to quicken your pace to keep up with Sunghoon’s long strides. He easily moves through the house which reminds you that he’s friends with the owner of this house.

You don’t say anything in response to Sunghoon. Should you tell him or not? Would he believe you or not? Would he excuse Jaeho’s actions by saying he was drunk and drunk people don’t know what they’re doing?

“Y/N,” Sunghoon interrupts your thoughts. “I asked you a question.”

“He didn’t do anything else,” you say quietly.

Sunghoon huffs and grips your shoulders, forcing you to stop walking. The two of you stand in the middle of the dark hallway, Sunghoon’s face close to yours as he bends down to meet your eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Why do you care so much?” You retort, curiosity finally appearing through the fear you felt. Why did Sunghoon care so much about you? And what Jaeho did to you? You don’t even know Sunghoon. You just know he attends your college and hangs out with six other boys. (You also know about the rumors, but you don’t care for them because Sunghoon’s shown he’s not the psychopathic murderer the rumors say he is.)

“Because no man should ever lay his hands on a woman,” was Sunghoon’s response. “So, I’ll ask you again. Did Jaeho do anything else?”

Sunghoon’s eyes shine with intent -- he meant what he said. You find some kind of relief looking into Sunghoon’s eyes, you would have someone on your side. “Jaeho, he -- he said he liked me, and then he --” you break off your sentence and shrug. You can’t seem to force the bitter words out of your mouth. He almost forced me to have sex with him.

“I understand,” Sunghoon says in response. He turns away, but you catch his hand.

“You won’t tell anyone, will you?” You ask Sunghoon.

“Do you want me to?”

You shake your head. “Please don’t tell anyone. Don’t tell my friends. Can you keep this between us? Please?” Your eyes are wide as you beg Sunghoon, and you grip his hand tightly. You really don’t want anyone finding out about what happened between you and Jaeho.

Sunghoon smiles softly. “I’ll take it to my grave, Y/N.”

“Thank you, Sunghoon,” you sigh in relief.

“There’s no need to thank me yet, Y/N,” Sunghoon hums. “Which Jaeho are we talking about, by the way?”

“Lee Jaeho,” you descend the stairs leading to the party with Sunghoon. The music sounds louder than it was before. “He was in our Freshman sociology class.”

“I hated that class,” Sunghoon grumbles.

You giggle and Sunghoon’s eyes light up.

—-

The morning after, you exit your lecture with your phone buzzing away in your pocket. Jaeho had been trying to contact you all day, and now that it was late afternoon, you were beginning to grow tired of his spam messages.

Scowling, you reach into your pocket and pull out your phone. Jaeho’s messages fill up your lock screen and as you scroll through all his messages to try and find a worthwhile notification, the glare of the sun fades away.

“Y/N.”

Looking up, Sunghoon is standing in the way of the sun beaming down on you. “Sunghoon,” you were surprised to find the male outside your lecture. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you,” Sunghoon responds easily. “Where are you going now?”

“To the cafe on campus. I usually meet up with Yunjin there after all our lectures are finished,” you explain to Sunghoon as he falls into step beside you.

“I’ll walk you there,” Sunghoon says, smiling softly.

Your heart flutters.

“Has Jaeho tried to talk to you?” Sunghoon asks.

Your smile is tight. “He’s been messaging me all day. It’s getting annoying.”

“Will you hear him out?”

“Fuck no. I’ll never forgive him for what he did, even if he was drunk.”

“Being drunk is no excuse, Y/N,” Sunghoon says.

You hum. “Yeah. How do you even know who I am, anyway?” You look at Sunghoon eagerly, the curiosity within you brimming. Ever since Sunghoon uttered your name last night, you had been curious -- how did Sunghoon know who you were? And why did he care this badly about you? It wasn’t like you were in the same circle as him. You’ve been holed up in your dorm for most of your college life, and the one time you go out to party, you somehow get involved with Park Sunghoon.

Sunghoon laughs like you just asked him an incredibly bizarre question. “Y/N, we had classes together freshman year. Don’t you remember?”

“Of course I remember!” You splutter, your cheeks heating up. “I didn’t expect you to remember.”

Sunghoon raises an eyebrow. “You’re not easy to forget, Y/N.”

It’s like you forget how to function. You’re not easy to forget. Who just says that? You can’t breathe and you can’t feel your heart beating. Your fingers feel numb and your stomach is an ocean of butterflies. And this is all because of Sunghoon. The so-called psychotic murderer.

“You can’t just say that, Sunghoon!” You exclaim, your cheeks heating up.

Sunghoon shrugs. “It’s true. You were the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen -- still the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

(Sunghoon’s words were driving you crazy -- why? Because it’s been two years since your last relationship. Having someone talk about you like this is only furthering your growing infatuation with the taller, brooding boy.)

“I was always jealous whenever you talked to other guys.”

“Excuse me?” You were taken aback by this piece of news. Sunghoon was jealous? Back in freshman year?

“I wanted to be the one you talked to,” Sunghoon admits with ease. “I wanted all of your attention.”

You truly don’t know what to think. Sunghoon’s words are driving you crazy. There’s so much to take in. There’s so much to discover you probably won’t sleep at all tonight.

“Oh, we’re here,” Sunghoon doesn’t sound too happy. It’s a shame your heart feels the same way. You don’t want to leave Sunghoon’s side, but from the way Yunjin’s looking at you from inside the cafe, you won’t be allowed to ditch this hangout.

“Thank you for walking me, Sunghoon,” you say. “It was nice talking to you.”

“Likewise. Do you have my number?”

Seriously. Sunghoon never fails to surprise you.

“No.”

“Do you want my number?”

You pull out your phone in lieu of a response.

“Text or call me if you see Jaeho,” Sunghoon says, waving goodbye after you exchange numbers. “I’ll answer right away.”

You snort and Sunghoon frowns. “I’m serious, Y/N.”

You hate how his words warm you.

“See you around, Sunghoon.”

“Definitely,” Sunghoon grins and you step into the cafe, exhaling deeply.

—-

An alumnus of your university was found dead in the alleyway beside your dorm building. His name was Taeyong. You remember him as the senior that always vaped during his lectures. He was a nice guy, though, always ready to help out anyone who asked for help.

You can’t help but shiver every time you pass by the crime scene all taped up with yellow tape hindering anyone from entering the scene. It’s been a few days since Sunghoon walked you to the cafe -- that was also the day Taeyon was killed. His time of death was put at around 11:30 PM. His death has also been ruled as a homicide.

You’ve been texting Sunghoon often. Most of the texts are short and dry, but seeing Sunghoon’s text notifications amidst all of Jaeho’s makes your heart leap in excitement. Anything to do with Sunghoon sends your heart into overdrive after his smooth talking a couple of days back.

Other than Sunghoon’s texts brightening your day, you’ve been on edge walking back to your dorm in the late hours of the evening. You can’t help but feel like someone’s watching you walk back to your dorm. Your spine always tingles and your heartbeat is loud in your ears as you walk home. You don’t listen to music anymore, opting to stay alert in case you’re the next victim of whoever is killing the students who attend your university.

“You’re still talking to Sunghoon?” Yunjin asks, peering over your shoulder as you text Sunghoon while you were both at the cafe.

“Yep.”

“He’s a murderer, Y/N.”

You snort and glance at Yunjin. “It’s rumored he’s a murderer. I don’t understand why anyone would listen to what comes out of Minjeong’s mouth anyway. She’s always talking bullshit.”

“Y/N…” Yunjin sighs.

“I know,” you reply softly. “But I’m fine. Seriously. Sunghoon treats me nicely. You don’t have to be so afraid, Jen. I know you mean well, but can’t you trust me?”

“Fine,” Yunjin scowls. “But just so you know, I have an ‘I told you so’ ready.”

You grin. “Of course you do. I should probably get going, my shift starts soon.” You rise from your sit and wave goodbye to Yunjin as you exit the cafe. You work at a nearby convenience store, the owner of the convenience store was quite nice so you didn’t mind working there, but the shifts you got were sometimes not ideal.

Today, you had the five to ten shift. When you got there, you exchanged a few words with your coworker that was leaving and then you begin to serve the customers entering the store. Slowly, the amount of customers entering the exiting the store dies down and you begin to pass the time by playing games on your phone.

You’re so focused on the game you’re playing that you don't hear the familiar bell jingling to alert you to a new customer, nor do you hear voices loudly discussing what they wanted to buy. You curse under your breath as you fail the Candy Crush level once more, and someone clears their throat.

The familiar faces of Jay, Heeseung, and Jake all stare at you as a blush quickly rises to your cheeks. “Oh. Hi! Sorry about that,” you push your phone out of view and begin to scan their items. “Would you like a bag?”

“Sure,” Jay says.

It’s awkward as you scan their items.

“You’re Y/N, right?” Jay finally breaks the silence.

“Yeah.” You don’t know why your heart begins to race.

“Why are you involving yourself with Sunghoon?”

“Pardon?” You glance up at Jay, frowning.

“You’re aware of the rumors, right?” Jay asks with a shrug, “I just don’t know why you would hang around Sunghoon.”

You snort. “I think I should be the one asking you that. You’re his friends, after all.”

“Brothers,” Jake pipes up. “We’re brothers. We grew up together.”

“Oh,” you smile at Jake. “That’s cute.”

“Look,” Jay says, bringing your attention back to him. “All I’m saying is that you should be careful, Y/N.”

You ignore Jay and read out the total showing on your screen. “Are you trying to say there’s some truth to those rumors?” You ask as Jay searches for his wallet.

Jay looks at you for a long time. You begin to feel uneasy and your stomach swoops. With the way Jay’s looking at you, there must be some kind of truth to the rumors swirling about. Maybe Sunghoon is a murderer. Maybe you’re his next victim.

You try to play off the unease you feel. “Whatever. I’m my own person, I can make my own assumptions about people. I don’t appreciate people telling me who I should and shouldn’t talk to, or hang out with. Would you like your receipt?”

“Sure,” Jay holds his hand out. “Keep the change, though. I don’t need it.”

“Sure, whatever.” You hate how easily Jay got underneath your skin.

“Look, Y/N, just be careful, okay?” Jay says gently. “You have Sunghoon’s number, right?”

You nod your head.

“Don’t be afraid to call it. See you around.” Jay nods his head at you and turns around, leaving the store with Jake. Heeseung hangs back and turns to you, smiling lightly. “Could I have the change? Jay may not need it, but I do.”

“Sure,” you hand Heeseung the change.

“Jay means well,” Heeseung says, pocketing the change. “He’s just… overprotective.”

“I guess that’s understandable.”

“And, seriously, don’t hesitate to call Sunghoon when you need to escape a…sticky situation.” You watch as Heeseung’s face lights up while he talks and you feel as though you’re being left out of an inside joke.

“Heeseung,” Jake calls out, poking his head into the convenience store. “C’mon, we have things to do.”

“See you, Y/N.” Heeseung salutes you goodbye before exiting the store, leaving you all alone.

The three boys leave you alone with your thoughts for the rest of your shift. Your shift rushes by quickly, and before you know it, you’re exiting the convenience store into the windy night. Shuddering, you tug your coat closer and begin your walk back to your dorm.

Pulling out your phone, you shoot Yunjin a text to let her know you’re on your way home. After pocketing your phone, a hand reaches out and clamps over your mouth before pulling you into a nearby alley. Your shrieks are muffled by the hand and your arms are restrained as you’re pulled further into the alley.

You’re thrown onto the ground, your knees scraping the ground harshly, and your palms begin to sting. Huffing, you push your hair out of your face and look up to see Jaeho standing over you. Your eyes widen in fear and you struggle to stand. Your legs feel numb and your heart is racing at an incredible pace it makes you feel lightheaded.

“Jaeho?”

“Y/N,” Jaeho doesn’t sound happy. The tone of his voice sets you on edge and you immediately begin to search for a way out. “Why haven’t you been responding to me?”

You look back at Jaeho. “You pulled me into an alley to ask that?”

“Don’t play with me, Y/N,” Jaeho threatens. “If you scream no one will hear you.” He takes a step forward and you take a step back, hitting the cold brick wall.

“You’re a piece of shit, Jaeho, that’s why I wasn’t responding.”

Jaeho slaps you across the face. It stings and you take a deep, shuddering breath. Your hands curl into fists and you try to keep your emotions under control.

“How many more times do you want me to say sorry, Y/N? I was drunk, I wasn’t thinking straight -- I didn’t mean what I did that night. Why are you acting like such a bitch about it? You know you can reject me, right? I’m not going to make a big deal about it.”

“I’ve already rejected you, Jaeho,” you spit. “I did it the night you almost tried to have sex with me, and I’ve been doing it for the past few days by not responding to you. God, can’t you take the hint? I’m not interested. You’re so stupid.”

Jaeho takes a step back and holds up his hands. “I obviously don’t remember you rejecting me while I was drunk. But, thank you for finally giving me a clear rejection. Now, I’ll apologize once more. Sorry, Y/N. Can we be friends again?”

“Why the fuck would I want to be friends with a rapist and an abuser, Jaeho?”

“You fucking bitch --”

“Get away from me!” You shriek, using all your strength to push Jaeho back. He stumbles over the trash bags sitting behind him and there’s a loud whacking sound as his head makes contact with the edge of the large garbage container. Jaeho slumps to the ground, not moving.

You’re suspended in time. You stare at Jaeho’s lifeless body. Something weird simmers in your stomach and you contemplate turning and leaving Jaeho to rot away in this alley. A car backfiring sends the world spinning and you snap out of your daze.

“Holy shit. Fuck. Fuck. Jaeho?” You rush over to Jaeho and reach out to shake him. He flops around lifelessly. “This is so not funny, Jaeho. Fuck. Wake up!” After a minute of trying to shake Jaeho awake, you sit back on your heels and bury your head in your hands. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” You repeat over and over.

Your hands shake as you pull out your phone. You open up Yunjin’s contact information but gnaw on your bottom lip as your finger hovers over the call button. You look back at Jaeho lying lifelessly in front of you, the side of his head bleeding profusely before you exit Yunjin’s contact and click on Sunghoon’s.

It only rings once.

“Y/N?”

“Oh my god. Sunghoon. I -- I need your help.”

“Y/N? Where are you?”

“Sunghoon, I think I just -- oh my god.”

“Y/N. Where are you?”

You break out into loud sobs. “I didn’t mean to do it. I swear, Sunghoon. I swear.”

“Y/N --”

“I’m down some alley,” you say between your sobs. “I don’t know where I am. Jaeho dragged me here.”

Sunghoon swears and you hear muffled voices. “Stay where you are, I’ll find you.” The call ends and you’re left alone with Jaeho’s lifeless body. You try to muffle your sobs and steady the beating of your heart but it doesn’t work as images of Jaeho hitting his head against the metal garbage container replay over and over.

“Y/N.” A voice shouts down the alleyway some minutes later. Then you hear footsteps rapidly hitting the ground and slowly, Sunghoon comes into view. “Y/N,” he says again, this time in relief.

Sunghoon pulls you up and cups your face gently. He wipes away your tears again and smooths out your hair. “What happened, Y/N? Are you hurt? Are you okay?” His rapid questions and the warm concern in his eyes make your head hurt. You just want to be in your dorm already, tucked beneath your blankets next to Yunjn.

“Sunghoon,” you whisper. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to kill him.”

“What? Kill who?” Sunghoon’s hands grip your face tighter and he pulls you close. His whole demeanor changes after hearing your previous words.

“Behind you.”

Sunghoon turns and finally sees Jaeho’s body -- except, you see him sitting up. You gasp and break free from Sunghoon, crouching down beside Jaeho. He blinks a couple of times and glances around his surroundings as though he was trying to remember how he got here.

“Jaeho,” you cry out. “Oh my god I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to --”

Jaeho grabs your wrist tightly, a vicious sneer carved on his face. “You slut. Are you trying to kill me? Why would you fucking push me like that? You’re not getting away with this, Y/N.”

“No -- Jaeho -- I --”

“Y/N. Move away.”

Looking over your shoulder, you see Sunghoon staring down at both of you with a cold expression. A metal pipe dangles in his right hand.

“Sunghoon?”

“Move away,” he repeats, now looking at Jaeho.

You move to the side, Jaeho’s hand easily slipping away from your wrist.

“When did you get here?” Jaeho’s sneer falls off his face as Sunghoon corners him against the garbage container. Jaeho’s eyes flit over to you. “Did the fucking bitch call you? Of course she did. Y/N starts arguments she can’t finish because she’s pathetic. All bark no bite.”

Sunghoon crouches down in front of Jaeho and presses his fingers against the cut on the side of his head. Jaeho flinches. Pulling his fingers away, they’re covered in blood, and the smile that spreads across Sunghoon’s face chills you to the bone.

Slowly, Sunghoon licks Jaeho’s blood off his fingers. You can’t look away.

“What the fuck, man?” Jaeho exclaims.

Rising to his feet, the smile slips from Sunghoon’s face. He raises the metal pipe in his right hand and swings it through the air, whacking Jaeho in the head with it. The boy cries out and sprawls across the concrete, his hands coming up to clutch the side of his face.

Sunghoon doesn’t stop. He swings the metal pole through the air and hits Jaeho again. And again. This time, with two hands. Jaeho can’t defend himself as Sunghoon hits him in the head with the pole over and over again. You can’t move, your hands covering your mouth as you watch blood splatter the concrete beneath Jaeho, the brick wall beside him, the garbage container behind him, and Sunghoon in front of him.

Sunghoon stops once Jaeho is no longer whimpering in pain. The bloody metal pole drops to the ground and Sunghoon turns around, brushing his hair away from his face. There’s a bloodlust look on his face that uproots your body and you begin to move away from Sunghoon as he steps forward.

“Get the fuck away from me,” you warn shakily.

Sunghoon doesn’t listen and he continues to walk closer.

“I’m serious, Sunghoon. Why the fuck did you do that?”

“Do what, Y/N?” Sunghoon asks.

“I’m not in the mood for this. You just fucking murdered Jaeho.”

“He was going to die anyway,” Sunghoon shrugs.

“What the fuck,” you whisper. “You’re crazy.”

Sunghoon grins in response and you open your mouth to scream. In a matter of seconds Sunghoon has you pushed back up against the brick wall, a hand over mouth while his other arm is lightly pressed against your throat.

“Are you fucking dumb, Y/N?” Sunghoon hisses. “Why the fuck would you scream? You do know this is now considered a crime scene, right? If you scream, you’ll attract attention, and I don’t think you want attention right now considering you watched me beat Jaeho to death.”

Reality finally sinks in for you. “Oh my god,” you say. “You killed Jaeho and I -- I watched. Oh my god. I didn’t stop you. Oh my god.” Your head spins and everything feels woozy. Your knees give out but Sunghoon is there to catch you.

“Y/N, listen to me,” Sunghoon demands. “Let me make a call. And then, I’m going to walk you back to your dorm. You’ll take a shower, eat something, and maybe drink something, and then you’ll go to bed, okay? Let me handle Jaeho. I’ll come for you when everything has been handled. Do not call or text me, okay?”

You don’t say anything. You still feel like you’re floating.

Sunghoon’s hands squish your cheeks as he shakes your head from side to side. “Y/N. Say something. I need to know you understand me.”

“Yes.” You blurt. “Okay. I understand.”

Sunghoon smiles gently and you don’t understand how he could smile like that after ruthlessly murdering someone. You feel Sunghoon kiss your forehead. “You did a good job, okay?” Sunghoon pulls away from you and helps you to the ground, letting you draw your knees to your chest. “You should always call me before you call anyone else, okay? I’ll always be there to help you.”

You nod your head.

Sunghoon tsks. “Repeat after me, Y/N. You’ll call me before you call anyone else.”

“I’ll call you before I call anyone else,” you repeat in a small voice.

Sunghoon smiles, his hand running through your hair and caressing your cheek. “Good girl.” He stands and walks away, and you bury your head into your arms.

—-

Be normal is what Sunghoon whispered to you two days ago before he allowed you to enter your dorm. You needed to act normal and that’s what you did. You made sure to engage with Yunjin and politely talk to any of her friends who hung out with the both of you during the two days after you watched Sunghoon murder Jaeho.

You haven’t seen Sunghoon in two days, nor have you contacted him. You’ve seen his younger friends around campus but you don’t have the confidence to approach them.

You’re having nightmares now. Jaeho is always present and you always wake up sweating. You haven’t gotten much sleep so you move through your school days zombie-like. The nightmare is always the same scenario; Jaeho’s chasing after you. He corners you in an alley and he beats you to death with the exact metal pole Sunghoon used on him.

News of Jaeho’s disappearance spread quickly across campus. His friends were the last to see him -- he had walked out of his apartment without telling them where he was going. At any mention of Jaeho, you freeze up. You can’t help it.

The doors to your lecture theater swing open and you’re drawn back to the present. The headmaster of your university, who you’ve only seen a few times, enters the lecture hall flanked by two policemen. A ripple of whispers runs through the lecture hall and your heart begins to beat quicker.

“Is L/N Y/N here today?”

All eyes turn to you and you shrink into your seat.

“Miss. Y/N would you please come with us? We have a few questions to ask,” one of the police officers addresses you. You pack up your things and slide out of your seat. Everyone is watching you as you walk over to the headmaster and the two policemen. You already know what this will be about.

There’s a brisk silent walk over to an empty lab. The headmaster exchanges a few words with the two policemen before he leaves you alone in their company. Your head is bowed as you sit at one of the tables, a microscope beside you and a petri dish in front of you.

“L/N Y/N?” One of the policemen asks.

You raise your head. “That’s me.”

“I’m Officer Kim and this is Officer Jeong. We have a few questions for you regarding the disappearance of Lee Jaeho.”

You nod your head.

“First, I’ll ask you an easy question. What was Jaeho to you? A friend?”

You open your mouth but struggle to answer. Was Jaeho a friend? You think back to the night at the party when he lay his hands on you without your consent. He lost the privilege to be called a friend the moment he climbed on top of you -- but, he was drunk and he had apologized to you numerous times. Doesn’t that restore the title of friendship?

“Yeah, we were friends,” you agree softly.

It’s silent as Officer Jeong notes some things down. “We managed to retrieve Jaeho’s phone,” Officer Kim says, pulling out a sealed bag containing Jaeho’s phone. Your heart skips a beat and your eyes widen. They found his phone?

“His phone?” You question.

Officer Kim nods his head. “We found it discarded on the roadside. Obviously, it’s been smashed, but we were able to retrieve the chip.” Officer Kim eyes you. “Do you know what I’m about to ask you?”

You don’t respond. Your hands curl into fists beneath the table and your nails dig into your palms.

“Why had Jaeho been texting you frequently up until his death? And why weren’t you responding?”

“That’s a private matter.”

Officer Kim smiles. “Private or not, we need to know.”

“I don’t think you need to know.” You don’t want to admit the truth. You don’t want to tell the police that Jaeho had assaulted you. Admitting it to Sunghoon was terrifying enough but to officers of the law?

“Can I be frank, Y/N?”

“Sure.”

“You’re a prime suspect in this investigation. I think you might want to tell us everything you know, otherwise you may end up being convicted for something you didn’t do.”

You lower your head and stare at the tabletop. Your fingernails dig deeper into your palm. “I wasn’t responding because he assaulted me.” You were scared to look at the police officers. You were scared to see what their expressions were. “He assaulted me and he was texting me apologies but I was ignoring him because I didn’t want to forgive him.”

It’s silent and you slowly look up. Officer Kim gives you a gentle smile. “Thank you for telling us, Y/N.”

Officer Jeong writes something down and you nod your head. “I have another question for you,” you watch Officer Kim place a sheet of paper on the table. On the paper, is a printed-out screenshot of an Instagram DM.

“Park Sunghoon sent Jaeho a threatening message on Instagram two days before his death. Park Sunghoon mentioned you by name, telling Jaeho to stay away from you or he will do something he won’t regret. Did you know about this?”

You stare at the piece of paper and read Sunghoon’s message to Jaeho. Something swirls around in your stomach and you shift uncomfortably in your chair. “No,” you respond. “I didn’t know about that.”

“Do you have any idea as to why Park Sunghoon would send that message?”

“He found me,” you say, swallowing thickly, “after Jaeho assaulted me. I told him what happened. I didn’t expect him to send Jaeho that message, he’s just a bit….” you think back to the night Jaeho was murdered. Sunghoon didn’t hesitate to pick up your call, he found you in a matter of minutes, and he promised to take care of everything for you. “He’s a bit overprotective.”

“Alright. Thank you.” Officer Kim slides the piece of paper away and clears his throat. “Earlier, we interrogated Park Sunghoon as he is the suspect at the top of our list. We were able to confiscate his phone for a few hours and we found that you had called him on the night of Jaeho’s disappearance at 10:10 for two minutes. Jaeho’s roommates told us Jaeho left the apartment at ten o��clock. Ten minutes before you made the call.”

“I did call him.”

“Why?”

You have two choices -- do you tell the truth, or do you lie? Do you blame Sunghoon for Jaeho’s murder, or do you allow the blame to fall on someone else? Do you throw Sunghoon to the pack of wolves, or do you live in misery and guilt for the rest of your life?

“I called him because he usually walks me home at night,” you tell Officer Kim. “I work at a convenience store and my shift ends at ten. Ever since Jaeho assaulted me I have been scared to walk alone in the dark. Sunghoon offered to walk me home after each of my shifts.”

“Okay,” Officer Kim nods his head. “Your shift ends at ten, but you called him at ten past.”

“I was waiting for him. I can’t walk home alone in the dark anymore, I get scared and sometimes have panic attacks. I don’t care how long I waited for Sunghoon, I was just happy he eventually showed up after I called him.”

“Okay,” Officer Kim smiles once more. “Thank you. One last question. How would you describe your relationship with Park Sunghoon?”

You’re not sure what that has to do with the investigation, but you answer anyway. “It’s…Complicated.”

“Alright. Thank you for your time, Y/N.”

“No problem. Can I go?”

“Yes, you can. We’ll be in touch.” Officer Kim waves you goodbye. You gladly grab your bag and leave the classroom, exhaling in relief as you shut the door behind you.

“They got you too, huh?”

You snap your head to the side. “Sunghoon!”

The silver-haired boy grins and beckons you over to him. “Hello, Y/N, long time no see?”

You scowl. “Fuck you, Sunghoon.”

Sunghoon grabs your hand. “Let’s go somewhere private, Y/N. There’s a lot we need to talk about.”

“Yeah,” you snort, “especially about how you’re a fucking psychopathic murderer.”

Sunghoon grins at you from over your shoulder. You feel unsettled but you allow Sunghoon to drag you across campus. You thought you would be more angry seeing him, but instead you feel oddly comforted -- and that terrifies you.

—-

Sunghoon takes you to his apartment. It’s flash like you expected, and Jake is lying on the couch in the living room when you enter. The television is blaring loudly as Jake watches some crime documentary on a channel you’ve never heard of.

“Do you want anything to eat? Or drink?” Sunghoon asks.

“No. I want to talk about what happened with Jaeho,” you hiss, glancing at Jake who was fully absorbed in the documentary.

“Don’t worry about Jake,” Sunghoon informs you, pulling out a can of coca cola from the fridge. “He’s also killed some people. He helped me with Jaeho, in fact.”

You stare at Sunghoon, and then at Jake. “What -- what the fuck.”

“I kill people, Jake kills people, Jay kills people -- we all kill people,” Sunghoon says bluntly.

You don’t know what to say. You stare at Sunghoon, your bag dropping to the floor and your heart pounds in your chest. “Why -- why are you telling me this? What if I go to the police?”

Sunghoon laughs, leaning against the kitchen counter. “You won’t tell anyone, Y/N.”

“But what if I do?”

Sunghoon smirks. “Then I’ll have to kill you. And I don’t want to kill you, Y/N, you’re too pretty to be killed.”

“You’re disgusting,” you spit.

“I’m disgusting and yet you’re standing in my apartment.”

You scowl at Sunghoon.

“How did the interrogation go? What did Kim ask you?”

“He asked me about Jaeho,” you reply, “I had to tell him about Jaeho assaulting me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Sunghoon says gently.

“No you’re not,” you retort. “You’re a psychopath, you don’t feel things.”

Sunghoon hums. “That’s true, Y/N, but I feel things for you.”

“I also lied,” you tell Sunghoon. “They asked me why I called you and I lied. Happy?”

Sunghoon beams. “Very.” He reaches out to pat your cheek. “You’re a very good girl, Y/N.”

“Whatever,” you mumble, hating the way your heart leaps at Sunghoon’s words.

“So,” Sunghoon gestures for you to take a seat at the dining table. “Do you have any questions?”

“How much time do you have?”

“For you? As much time as you want,” Sunghoon replies.

You scowl. “Shut up.”

Sunghoon laughs and sips his drink. “So?”

“Fine. How did you know where I was?”

“Easy. I’ve been following you home most nights, but I couldn’t that night because I was having a group meeting. Since I knew the path you take home, I was able to find you easily.”

You gape at Sunghoon. “You’ve been stalking me?”

Sunghoon shrugs. “Well, when you put it like that it doesn’t sound good.”

“Why have you been stalking me?”

“I was following you because I wanted to make sure you were safe,” Sunghoon replies smoothly.

“Oh. Okay.” You know you should be throwing a fit and telling Sunghoon that stalking you was wrong, but the way Sunghoon smoothly admitted to stalking you, made your chest feel warm. You don’t know how to describe it, but the idea of knowing Sunghoon was keeping you safe did something to you.

Sunghoon raises his eyebrows but he doesn’t say anything.

“Why did you kill Jaeho? Why are you a murderer? What the fuck is happening? Are you the one doing all the killings?”

“I killed Jaeho because he deserved it, Y/N,” Sunghoon says. “He shouldn’t be walking around without consequences for his actions.”

You eye Sunghoon as he talks, and a thrill runs up your spine. You don’t know how to describe your emotions. You don’t know how to describe the fire that’s burning in the pit of your stomach. The way Sunghoon is speaking -- the way his eyes look -- it’s all so thrilling. A pretty face with a twisted mind. Something within you keens to know more. The idea that Sunghoon is willing to kill for you does something.

“Killing Jaehyun was easy,” Sunghoon grins. It’s a maniacal grin. You shift in your seat and edge closer. “He was indebted to Heeseung. Couldn’t repay Heeseung, so we killed him.”

“Just like that?” You ask, your heart thumping wildly.

Sunghoon smiles at you. It’s softer and he tilts his head, “just like that, sweetheart.”

“You killed Taeyong, too?”

Sunghoon’s smile reveals his teeth. His tongue licks his teeth and he calls out to Jake, who pokes his head over the back of the couch, his honey-blonde hair falling over his face. “You killed Taeyong?”

Jake’s grin is ecstatic. His eyes light up and he nods his head like how a dog wags their tail. “Hell yeah, dude! You should’ve been there, it was so fucking satisfying. Seeing him slump to the ground?” Jake presses a hand to his cheek and sighs. “I’d do it all over again.” Jake falls away from the back of the couch, tuning back into the documentary and you turn back to Sunghoon.

“You’re all fucking crazy,” you exclaim, astonished and breathless.

“Fucking crazy and doing what everyone else is afraid to.” Sunghoon reaches out and plays with the strings of your hoodie. You edge closer to Sunghoon and stare at him, all the anger you felt for a few minutes had evaporated. You felt a weird sense of comfort and longing. It made you feel sick, but the longing overpowered it. Sunghoon killed Jaeho for you. He followed you home to keep you safe. No one’s done that before and any sane or rational person would fear for their life and beg the police to keep them safe but you -- you want to know how far Sunghoon will go.

“So. No other reason for killing Jaeho? And for stalking me? And giving me your number?”

Sunghoon hums, his index finger brushing your chin as he wraps the string around his finger. “Well, I guess there is another reason.”

“Which is?”

Sunghoon looks at you, his eyes dark and your gut drops to your feet. “I love you, Y/N,” his voice was deep and you feel goosebumps rise across your skin.

“You don’t know me, Sunghoon.”

“Do I have to know you to love you?”

You draw away from Sunghoon, the string unraveling from around his finger. “You’re crazy.”

Sunghoon chuckles and leans back in his chair, pushing a hand through his hair. “I know. That’s all you’ve said in the past five minutes. Do you have anything other than you’re crazy, to say?”

You stare at Sunghoon. You have many things to say, many sentences running through your mind. Where to begin? How do you say what you’re feeling? How do you admit to Sunghoon that you don’t mind him doing all this for you?

You grab Sunghoon by the collar of his shirt and kiss him. It doesn’t take long for Sunghoon to respond. His hands cup your face and he pulls you close, leaving you on the edge of your seat. You kiss him with everything in you. You give and Sunghoon takes. He stokes the fire burning within your stomach and you just want him to devour you. Sunghoon bites down on your bottom lip, his tongue slipping past your lips, and pleasure rushes through your bloodstream. You want more of Sunghoon. More more more more more --

Your phone vibrates against the table. You leave it, but it keeps on vibrating and Sunghoon is the one to part. You chase Sunghoon’s lips, but he keeps you away, his thumb resting against your bottom lip. “You should answer that, Y/N.”

“Okay,” you say breathlessly. You reach for your phone, not taking your eyes off Sunghoon. “Hello?”

“Y/N,” Yunjin cries, jolting you. Her sob rips loudly through the phone and Sunghoon gives you a questioning look. Behind you, Jake’s phone rings out and he groans, pausing the documentary to answer the phone. “Haechan’s dead, Y/N.”

—-

It’s been two long days since the death of Haechan. Yunjin was in the library when it happened, that’s why she called you sobbing. Haechan was only a couple of bookcases behind her when the murder occurred, and it really shook her up.

You had raced down to the campus library hot on Sunghoon and Jake’s heels. The phone call Jake had got at the same time as you was from Heeseung, who was, in fact, the one who killed Haechan. When you arrived at the crime scene, Heeseung was talking with Beomgyu and Jeongin, tightly huddled next to each other.

Yunjin threw herself into your arms and sobbed against your shoulder as you watched Sunghoon and Jake usher Heeseung, Beomgyu, and Jeonging away from the library.

You haven’t heard from Sunghoon since then and you feel like you’re going insane. Maybe kissing Sunghoon was the wrong idea, maybe you shouldn’t have kissed him, maybe if you told him how you were feeling, he wouldn’t be leaving you on delivered and never coming to class.

You stand in front of the full-length mirror in your dorm, brushing your hands against the black dress tightly hugging your features. You’re going out tonight with a goal in mind; Sunghoon. You need to see Sunghoon, you need to pick up where you left off two days ago.

“Yunjin,” you shake the girl lying in her bed asleep.

She groans and rolls over, rubbing her eyes. “Y/N?”

“Do you want to come to the party Minho’s throwing tonight? It’s some birthday bash for Changbin at some club. I’m hoping to see Sunghoon tonight, but I’m sure Sakura will be there, she’s friends with Minho, right?”

Yunjin stares at you for a very long time. “Are you fucking kidding me, Y/N?”

You stare at Yunjin, taken aback. “What?”

Yunjin scoffs and shakes her head. “I was literally almost murdered and all you care about is Sunghoon? You know, not once during the past two days did you check up on me, or offer a helping hand -- all you talked to me about was fucking Sunghoon. Some friend you are.” Yunjin rolls back over, her back facing you.

The silence in the room is loud. “I’ll bring you back some ice cream, Yunjin,” you say in a meek tone. She doesn’t respond, so you gently pad out of the dorm, shutting the door quietly behind you.

Walking out into the cool air, Yunjin’s words echo through your head. Had you really been that awful to her? When you think back to the past few days, all you can think about is Sunghoon, so maybe there was some truth to Yunjin’s words, maybe you were obsessed with Sunghoon at the moment, but surely you had offered comfort to Yunjin? She was your only friend, after all.

But, it’s whatever. If you somehow earn Sunghoon’s attention and buy ice cream tonight, then all the problems in your life will be solved.

The line in front of the club was already long. You didn’t mind the long wait because you kept yourself occupied with thoughts of Sunghoon. Sunghoon, Sunghoon, Sunghoon. He was all you could think about. Flashes of deep brown eyes, flashes of silver (almost white) hair, and a pink mouth curved into a kissable smile. He was addictive.

Entering the club, you scan the crowd. It was dark so it was hard to make out faces, but you catch sight of familiar faces -- Soobin, Yeonjun, Yena, Yuri, Chaewon, Seungmin. But no Sunghoon. Cursing, you approach the bar and order a drink, your fingertips hitting the bartop in a rhythmic manner as you continue searching the club over and over.

Minutes pass by and still no sight of Sunghoon. You knock back your third drink of the night, your tongue licking up the last remnants of your drink when the crowd parts and Yeonjun approaches you, his hair now a deep blue.

“Y/N,” Yeonjun smiles. “Nice seeing you here.”

“Yeonjun,” you smile back. “You too.”

“You look good tonight.”

“Really?” Looking over his shoulder, you finally see Sunghoon. He’s talking to Minjeong. Bitch.

“Really,” Yeonjun agrees. “Care for a dance? With me?”

You take Yeonjun’s waiting hand and he leads you to the dance floor, pushing his way into the middle where the music is the loudest. The loud club music mixes with the alcohol consuming your bloodstream and you lose all inhibitions. Yeonjun easily guides you through the rhythm of the music and his hands carefully wander across your body.

Yeonjun’s lips carefully ghost over the back of your neck. You melt into his arms and tilt your head to the side, his lips falling onto the side of your neck, artfully decorating them in little kisses and bites, his hands gripping your waist tighter as your dancing begins to turn sensual.

Your hand cups the back of Yeonjun’s neck and you turn your head, your heart in your throat. Yeonjun pulls you closer -- if that was even possible -- and his breath is hot on your lips and then you’re being pulled apart. You stumble into the dancers in front of you, who grumble in annoyance but you shrug them off and glance to see who pulled you and Yeonjun apart.

Sunghoon is towering over Yeonjun, his eyes dark and aura brooding. You notice his hands are curled into fists and before Yeonjun could say anything, Sunghoon is punching him. You watch Sunghoon punch Yeonjun a few times before you sink into the crowd surrounding the one-sided fight that was occurring -- you couldn’t bear to watch Sunghoon beat up Yeonjun, but you also know that Sunghoon will realize you’ve left and he’ll come for you.

You inhale deeply as you step out of the club. It’s 12 AM and the streets of Seoul are still alive. You walk aimlessly through the streets to get your thoughts and feelings under control. When you eventually confront Sunghoon, you want to be able to say what you want to say without stumbling over your words.

Sharply, you turn down an alleyway and walk until you reach the dead end, turning around, you place your hands on your hips and glare into the dark night. “Sunghoon, I know you’re there,” it’s silent for a few beats. “You fucking piece of shit,” you tag on belatedly.

Still nothing.

“What gives you the right to punch Yeonjun after ignoring me for two days? You don’t own me, Sunghoon. I can dance with whoever I want, and kiss whoever I want.”

Finally, you see Sunghoon’s figure appear at the end of the alley. He approaches you like how a lion stalks their prey, except you don't cower away. Sunghoon’s face is stoic, and his eyes are dark. His right hand is bloody but you don’t care, you only care about what Sunghoon will say to you.

“You can’t kiss Yeonjun,” Sunghoon answers gruffly.

“Why not?” You challenge.

Sunghoon grabs your face and kisses you in response. It’s a rough kiss, one which surprises you. You stumble into the cool brick wall behind you as Sunghoon cages you. Sunghoon’s kiss is demanding and it’s leaving you breathless as you attempt to keep up with his passion. His hands wander across your body -- over your butt and your breasts, his hands going where you want them to go. You whimper as Sunghoon bites harshly on your bottom lip, drawing blood that tastes metallic but you don’t care. You hook one leg around Sunghoon’s waist and push him closer to your body. You crave Sunghoon’s warmth.

Sunghoon draws away, and once again you’re left chasing his lips. “When you come to a club dressed like a slut, Y/N,” Sunghoon says, his voice rumbling deep in his chest, “guys will think they’re able to kiss what’s mine.”

“I’m not yours Sunghoon,” you whisper, letting Sunghoon’s thumb brush over your lip to wipe away the blood dripping down your chin. “We kissed once.”

“I also stalked you. And Killed Jaeho for you,” Sunghoon reminds, his tone firm.

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” you retort, “you just did it.”

Sunghoon laughs and it chills you to the bone. “But you liked me doing that. You liked the idea of me stalking you, and you liked watching me kill Jaeho.”

You can’t deny it. Sunghoon kisses you again, but it’s gentle. His thumbs brush your cheeks in a soothing rhythm. Sunghoon moves his lips across your face -- he kisses your cheeks, your nose, your forehead, and then he dips down to kiss your throat. Raising his face to look at you, his eyes are soft. “You’re mine, Y/N,” his voice is also softer like he’s trying to lull you into his warm embrace but he doesn’t need to try. You’re already aching for his warm embrace.

“Ask me,” you whisper, your voice trembling, “ask me to be yours. Ask me to be your girlfriend. Ask me to love you.”

Sunghoon kisses you again. He’s addicting.

“Be mine. Be my girlfriend, Y/N.”

You hum, smiling softly. “Will you take me out on dates?”

“If you want to, then I will.”

You pull Sunghoon in for a kiss. “Take me on dates and I’ll love you. It’s simple, Sunghoon.”

Sunghoon traces your lips with a gentle finger. “Being mine has rules, Y/N,” he says in a low voice. “And if you break them, I’ll have to break you.”

Your pulse is loud in your ears. Anticipation hangs in the air. You want Sunghoon -- all of him. “I’ll follow them,” you promise Sunghoon.

“You don’t even know what they are, Y/N,” Sunghoon chuckles.

“I don’t have to know the rules to know I love you.”

Sunghoon kisses you desperately, your back digging painfully into the wall behind you, but you ignore the pain because Sunghoon’s warmth is overwhelming. “Rule number one,” Sunghoon pants out, his lips moving against yours. “You’re mine. Y/N.”

—-

Sunghoon’s presence has been overwhelming but it’s the good kind. All week you were around Sunghoon. Everywhere you went, Sunghoon was there. His rules were easy to follow -- when you see Sunghoon, you go to him, no matter if you’re with your friends. You can’t talk to any other men aside from Sunghoon and his friends. If you want to go out, you have to ask Sunghoon for permission, because Sunghoon has to know where you are, and when you’re dressing up to go out to a club, Sunghoon has to approve your outfit, and above all, you listen to Sunghoon. You listen to what he says and do what he asks, no questions asked.

If you were the sane, logical girl from last year, you would be searching for a way out of Sunghoon’s obsessive grip but now -- now you’re a girl who craves this kind of attention, who finds a thrill in knowing that you have all of Sunghoon’s attention for yourself. You find a thrill in knowing Sunghoon would do anything for you, and it should disgust you, but it doesn’t.

Sunghoon’s car rumbles gently beneath you. His hand grips your thigh possessively, the other lazily holding onto the steering wheel as he drives through Seoul. He was taking you on a date today, to a park to have a picnic.

“I like your skirt,” Sunghoon says, grinning as he pinches the hem of it.

You lay your hand over Sunghoon’s. “I wonder who picked it out.”

Sunghoon sneaks a look at you, his eyes dancing in amusement. “Perhaps you should give the person who picked it out a kiss.”

Giggling, you reach across the gap between you and Sunghoon and peck his cheek. “Thank you,” you say gently against his ear. Sunghoon’s hand squeezes your thigh tightly. You giggle again and slump against the seat, staring out the window again.

It’s a nice day. The sun is shining and there’s a gentle breeze in the air that keeps you feeling comfortable. Sunghoon takes your hand and leads you through the park to a secluded area. He tells you to stand there and look pretty as he lays out the picnic blanket and the basket full of food he had picked out for the both of you.

Sunghoon helps you out of your shoes, and then he helps you get comfortable on the blanket. He keeps you tucked between his legs and you relax against his chest, his arms circling your waist and keeping you warm. The breeze tickles your shoulder and you giggle softly, and then you feel Sunghoon drop a kiss on that same shoulder.

“Are you feeling hungry, Y/N?”

“A bit. What did you pack?”

Sunghoon shifts, keeping one arm circled around your waist while he reaches to pull the basket closer to him. “I brought some fruit,” Sunghoon pulls out a mandarin. “I’ll peel it for you,” Sunghoon’s mouth brushes your ear and you shiver.

You watch as Sunghoon’s hands deftly peel the mandarin for you. “Open your mouth,” Sunghoon says. He feeds you each mandarin piece and your heart swells. Sunghoon was a dream. He was your dream. He was your ideal man -- Sunghoon would kill for you, maybe even die for you. But he was also sweet, and loving, and caring.

“Tell me more about you,” Sunghoon says, his chin resting on your shoulder as you relax further into his embrace. “What’s your favorite color?” His fingers trace over your bare thigh. You ignore how it tickles.

“Pink. I like soft pink. Not bright pink, but a mellow, warm pink.”

“I hate pink,” Sunghoon says, sounding amused.

“I’ll make you love it.”

Sunghoon hums and kisses your shoulder. “I bet you will.”

“What about you?” You turn your head slightly to catch the side of Sunghoon’s face. “What’s your color?”

Sunghoon pulls away from your shoulder to look at you. He smiles. “I liked green, but these days I think I like the color of your eyes more.”

You blush and duck your head, covering your face with your hands. “Shut up, Sunghoon.”

He laughs heartily, his chest moving against your back. He kisses the top of your head. “Any siblings?”

You shake your head. “I’m an only child. What about you?”

“I have a younger sister,” Sunghoons says, though the tone of his voice wishes he didn’t.

Chaewon’s words from the party echo through your head. “Is it true you made your sister walk home with a broken ankle?”

Sunghoon scoffs. “She deserved it.” He doesn’t elaborate and you sit there in silence, letting his words simmer in the air. That should’ve been a sign for you to leave Sunghoon behind, go to the police and beg for a restraining order, or attempt to flee the country. But, you choose to sit between Sunghoon’s legs and intertwine your fingers with Sunghoon’s.

“And your parents? Are you close with them?” You ask Sunghoon.

“I cut them off as soon as I got to college,” Sunghoon admits bluntly. “What about you?” He brushes some stray strands of hair behind your ear.

“I’m close with them,” you murmur, playing with Sunghoon’s fingers. “They will probably want to meet you.”

“I’d love to meet them, then,” Sunghoon says, “after all, they created you.”

Your giggle floats through the air and Sunghoon manhandles you around to face him so he can kiss you intensely. You’re reeling from the sudden kiss, but soon you melt into the kiss, enjoying the feeling of Sunghoon warmly pressed against you.

Pulling away, you push your cheek against Sunghoon’s chest to listen to his heartbeat. Your legs are curled up as Sunghoon holds you close, playing with the ends of your hair. “Sunghoon?” You ask gently and he hums in response. “How did you -- why did you --” Sunghoon cuts you off to kiss you again. You let him kiss you for a while.

“That’s a story for another day, Y/N,” Sunghoon murmurs, his forehead resting against yours. “Let’s not ruin the mood of our date, yeah?”

You can only agree.

—-

You’re walking into a familiar club a couple of days later with Yunjin. Your eyes glance down at your phone once again, rereading Sunghoon’s texts. First, he approved of your outfit and complimented you so passionately you still blush as you read his message, and second, Sunghoon had told you he’d be arriving soon. Your stomach was on fire at just the thought of seeing Sunghoon again tonight, at a party.

Beside you, Yunjin looks at you before abandoning you in favor to seek out her friends. You let Yunjin go. She’s been giving you the cold shoulder ever since you never returned back to the dorm without the ice cream you promised her. You’ve also been blowing her off lately in favor to hang out with Sunghoon, but you could care less about Yunjin’s cold shoulder. You have Sunghoon to crawl back to at the end of the day, anyway.

You head for the bar and order a drink. You look out at the club, eyes trained on the entrance as you wait for Sunghoon. Minutes pass and the club continues to fill up. You keep checking your phone for a message from Sunghoon, but you still receive no text from him.

People pile up at the bar around you, and behind you, you hear a familiar, grating feminine voice. Shooting a side glance over your shoulder, you catch a glimpse of curly black hair and smoky eyeshadow. Minjeong sat behind you with her posse, and her voice was loud enough for you to hear.

“Did you hear the rumor about Sunghoon?” One of Minjeong’s friends asks her.

“Which one? The one about him murdering Jaehyun, or the one about him being a freak?” Minjeong asks in her annoying snarky tone. You’ve never liked Minjeong, in fact, you’ve always had a rivalry with her ever since high school. You two were the top students in your high school and when Senior year came around, both of you were vying for valedictorian. In the end, you snatched the spot from her, and from then, Minjeong’s been obsessed with stealing everything from you -- even your ex-boyfriend.

“No, the one about his relationship with Y/N,” her friend clarifies. “People are saying he’s blackmailing her into being his girlfriend.”

Minjeong laughs loudly at that. “If anything, Y/N’s the one doing the blackmailing. She’s a pathetic freak. Though, Sunghoon’s more of a freak than her so it’s a perfect match!”

Her friends titter obnoxiously and you order another drink from the bar. Minjeong was beginning to get on your nerves for the thousandth time, except this time, you might end up doing something about it rather than being the one to take the high road.

“What did you mean when you called Sunghoon a freak?” Another one of Minjeong’s friends asks, her tone curious and it makes your blood boil. What right do Minjeong and her friends have talking about Sunghoon like that?

Minjeong snickers. “Didn’t you hear? Apparently, in Freshmen year, he was caught entering a girl’s dorm and stealing all her underwear. When the campus security went through his room, they found all sorts of panties and porn magazines. He’s a peeping tom, Jimin, a freak. I guess he and Y/N deserve each other.”

Slamming the glass holding your drink onto the bar, you turn in your chair and glare at Minjeong. All her friends freeze up at the sight of you, but Minjeong only smiles slyly. “If I were you, I would watch your fucking mouth, Minjeong,” you warn.

“All bark no bite,” Minjeong taunts.

All bark no bite. Jaeho said that before Sunghoon murdered him. Your blood boils. You hate that saying.

“Sunghoon’s a fucking freak and you know it, Y/N.”

Grabbing your drink, you pour the remainder of the alcohol over Minjeong’s head. She shrieks and her friends flinch away. “Say that again.” You grab Minjeong by the shirt. “Say it, Minjeong.”

Minjeong opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Rolling your eyes, you shove Minjeong off the barstool and she goes crashing to the ground. All her friends crowd around her, some shoot you dirty looks but you ignore them. Minjeong had it coming.

“Y/N.”

Turning around, you see Yeonjun standing there with a swollen nose and a black eye. Your eyes widen and you glance around the room searching for Sunghoon. Where was Sunghoon?

“Yeonjun, hi.”

“Y/N, listen to me,” Yeonjun grabs your hand. You flinch and try to pull away, but Yeonjun’s grip only tightens. “You need to get away from Sunghoon.”

“Yeonjun, what the fuck --”

“Y/N,” Yeonjun’s begging at this point. “You don’t deserve someone like him. He’s a psychopath, Y/N, you’re not safe with him.”

You scoff and finally tug your hand out of Yeonjun’s. “Thank you for the warning, Yeonjun, but I think I can make those kinds of decisions on my own.”

“Y/N, you aren’t listening. Sunghoon’s a fucking murderer--”

“Sunghoon!” You beam as you see the silver-haired male appear behind Yeonjun.

Yeonjun tenses up and turns slightly to see Sunghoon towering over him. Sunghoon doesn’t say anything as he brushes past Yeonjun and grips your wrist tightly, pulling you through the crowd and out of the club. You stumble over your feet in an attempt to catch up with Sunghoon’s fast pace and long legs.

“Sunghoon!” You call but he ignores you. Once he’s free from the club, he veers to the right sharply and shoves you up against the side of the club. You’re hidden away from the long line of people waiting to enter the club, the shadows protecting you from anyone who peers down this small alley in between two clubs.

“Why the fuck were you talking to Yeonjun, Y/N?” Sunghoon glares at you, his eyes fiery.

Your heart skips a beat and you reach for Sunghoon’s hand. “Sunghoon, I didn’t want to talk to him.”

“Don’t fucking lie, Y/N. I thought you understood my rules clearly. I specifically told you to not talk to Yeonjun.” Sunghoon was seething. You’ve never seen him this angry.

“Sunghoon,” you try to placate him. “He talked to me. I never want to disobey you, Sunghoon, you have to believe me. I don’t want to talk to Yeonjun but he came up to me and started a conversation with me.”

“Are you telling the truth, Y/N?”

You nod your head. “Of course, Sunghoon. You’re the only one I want.”

“Good girl,” Sunghoon breaks into a smile and cups your face with his hand, planting a kiss on your lips. “Head back into the club, I have something to take care of.”

“Okay,” you murmur, “be safe?”

“I always am,” Sunghoon kisses you again. “You look good tonight. It’s a shame I can’t be with you longer.”

“I’ll wear this dress for you another night, I promise,” you smile at Sunghoon, squeezing his hand.

“Alright. Text me when you’re leaving the club. And text me when you get home.”

“Of course.”

—-

Walking through campus, something rustles underfoot. Glancing down, you see Yeonjun’s missing poster beneath your foot. Choi Yeonjun has been missing for the past three days. You screw up the missing poster and dump it in the nearest trash can. They won’t ever find Yeonjun’s body, Jay made sure to dispose of it carefully.

Sunghoon had called you the next morning after Yeonjun attempted to ward you away from Sunghoon. It didn’t work, of course, because you loved Sunghoon and you wanted to be with him, psychopath or not. You and Sunghoon met up at a cafe on campus, he bought your breakfast for you and he explained why he had to leave you alone in the club.

Yeonjun’s death was all his fault. He had it coming.

After Sunghoon explained Yeonjun’s murder to you, you kissed him and said thank you. You knew you could always count on Sunghoon to protect you and keep you save from the people trying to interfere with your relationship.

Days passed after Sunghoon admitted to being the cause of Yeonjun’s disappearance. The hunt for Yeonjun is growing hopeless as each day passes and no one steps forward with any information regarding Yeonjun’s disappearance.

You’re working at the convenience store again. It’s a boring night but thankfully you only have an hour left. You flick through a magazine that was supposed to be on display in front of the counter but since there were no customers, you were passing time by snickering at the tabloid.

The door opens and the bell above it rings. Glancing up, you see Minjeong approaching you. You push the magazine to the side and wait for Minjeong to speak as she stands at the counter. Her eyes survey the gum sitting nearby, and she grabs a strawberry flavored packet.

“You should keep a leash on your boytoy, Y/N,” Minjeon says nonchalantly, flicking through the same magazine you were previously reading.

“I don’t need to listen to this shit from you.”

Minjeong hums. “I think you do. I saw him, a couple of nights back. The night you ruined my green dress at the club, remember?”

You smile. “I remember it fondly, Minjeong.”

“I think it was around three am? I saw your boyfriend fighting with Yeonjun. It didn’t look like a friendly fight, Sunghoon was kind of…scary,” Minjeong shrugs and your heart begins to slow down. “Eventually, Yeonjun got into Sunghoon’s car.” Minjeong places the magazine back on the rack and looks at you. “Kinda crazy, huh? That I saw Yeonjun hours before he was reported missing, and he was with your boyfriend.”

“Your total is three dollars.”

“Three dollars for a packet of gum?” Minjeong frowns.

You smile but it’s tight, unfriendly. “Capitalism, Minjeong.”

Minjeong hands you a five dollar note. “You know what’s even funnier?”

“What?”

“I saw Sunghoon later. I think it was 5 AM? I am a party girl, after all, and he was climbing out of his car alone.”

You give Minjeong back her change. “Have a good night, Minjeong.”

Minjeong tuts. “I’m not finished, Y/N. He was climbing out of the car covered in blood, Y/N. You know what that means, right? Your psychotic boyfriend murdered Yeonjun.”

You can hear the clock in the staff room ticking as you and Minjeong stand in silence. You don’t know what to do. You’re in shock. You can’t believe Sunghoon had been so irresponsible. You can’t let Sunghoon go to prison.

“Why haven’t you told the police yet?” You ask Minjeong.

Minjeong shrugs, tearing the plastic wrapping off the gum packeting. “I didn’t believe what I saw at first. And then when I did, I wanted to talk to you before I went to the police.”

“Why would you want to talk to me?”

“Because the police might question you, Y/N,” Minjeong pulls out some gum and offers the packet to you. You shake your head. “And I don’t know what your relationship with Sunghoon is like, but I know how hard it is to be in an abusive relationship and get questioned by the police. They’re ruthless.”

Finally, an out to this situation appears. You soften your eyes and fidget with your fingers, glancing away from Minjeong. “Oh.” You stare really hard at a packet of chips, not bothering to blink as your eyes begin to water.

“Y/N?” Minjeong asks softly.

“Minjeong. Can we -- can we not talk about this here? Can we meet somewhere privately?”

Minjeong nods her head. “Of course, Y/N.”

“And can you not tell anyone about us meeting up? I -- I don’t want Sunghoon to know and I don’t want you getting in trouble in case he finds out you know. .”

Minjeong nods eagerly. “Of course, Y/N. Where do you want to meet?”

“There’s an alleyway not far down. It’s across from the Chinese takeaway place. My shift ends at ten, so it’ll take me a few minutes to get there.”

Minjeong smiles gently. “I’ll wait for you, Y/N. Thank you for trusting me with whatever you’re about to tell me.”

You smile at Minjeong. “Of course.”

Minjeong bids you goodbye and when she’s out of sight, you dry your eyes and reach for your phone, firing a quick text to Sunghoon. He answers back immediately and you grin, placing your phone down and reaching for the magazine you shoved aside.

The remainder of your shift passes by slowly. Your nerves get the better of you and by the time Seungmin arrives to take over, you’re racing out of the store. Your pulse is loud in your ears as you approach the alleyway where you told Minjeong to meet you.

You see her standing down the alleyway, a little way from the enterance. The glare of her phone lights up her face. Clearly distracted, you duck down and pick a broken brick up from the ground, hiding it behind your back as you walk over to Minjeong.

“Y/N,” Minjeong smiles and turns off her phone, pocketing it. “How are you?”

“I could be better,” you respond, keeping up your innocent, scared appearance. “I just didn’t know what to do or who to tell,” you start, biting your lower lip nervously.

“It’s okay,” Minjeong reaches out to rub your arm. “You can tell me.”

“Sunghoon he…he told me he murdered Yeonjun,” you confess to Minjeong.

Her eyes widen. “Oh, Y/N.”

“I was terrified at first,” you continue, “but then after a while, I thanked Sunghoon for doing that.”

“What?” Minjeong frowns, confused. “You thanked Sunghoon for…murdering Yeonjun?”

You shrug. “Yeonjun had it coming.”

“Y/N, what the fuck --”

“Sorry, Minjeong, but you weren’t supposed to see Sunghoon with Yeonjun,” you give her a smile before you swing your hand holding the brick through the air and smack Minjeong on the side of her head with it. Minjeong sprawls to the ground, her temple bleeding.

You drop the brick and pull out your phone, calmly dialing Sunghoon’s number as you stare at Minjeong’s unconscious body. “I knocked out Minjeong,” you tell Sunghoon, “she saw you with Yeonjun the night you killed him.”

Sunghoon doesn’t say anything. He hangs up and in seconds he’s by your side, staring down at Minjeong’s body. “Do you want to finish what you started, Y/N?” Sunghoon asks, picking up the brick, “or would you like me to finish?”

“You can finish. Do you want me to call Jake?”

“Yeah, tell him to get his ass down here with Jay and Heeseung and bring my car. He’ll know what to do.” Sunghoon hands you his phone and you turn away, not wanting to see Sunghoon bash Minjeong’s head with the brick.

Jake sounded eager as you talked to him on the phone. Fifteen minutes later, Jake appears with Jay and they jog down the alley. Sunghoon’s car is parked in front of the alley, blocking anyone from looking down the alley.

“Where’s the body?” Jay asks.

“Heeseung couldn’t make it,” Jake says as he, Sunghoon, and Jay crowd around Minjeong’s dead body. “He had to handle something with Beomgyu and Jeongin. Probably a drug deal gone wrong.”

“Of-fucking-course,” mutters Sunghoon. “Fucking stoners.” He glances over his shoulder. “Go wait in the car, Y/N. Jungwon will keep you company, and we’ll talk about this later, okay?”

You nod your head and walk down the alley, opening the car door and sliding into the backseat. Jungwon sits in the driver’s seat, his fingers tapping the steering wheel as he glances out the tinted windows. “Hey, Jungwon,” you place your bag on the car floor and pull out your phone to play Candy Crush to pass the time.

“Hey. Killed Minjeong, huh?”

“Knocked her unconcious. Sunghoon killed her for me. She knew too much about Yeonjun’s disappearance. Came to me while I was working and confessed everything to me.”

Jungwon snorts. “Her first mistake. Why didn’t she go to the police first?”

“I think she was concerned for me,” you respond absentmindedly. “Thought I was in an abusive relationship with Sunghoon.” That gets a kick out of Jungwon and he laughs heartily.

“Little does she know,” Jungwon sighs after getting his laughter under control, “you and Sunghoon are a perfect match for each other.”

—-

Sliding into the passenger seat beside Sunghoon, he greets you with a kiss. It was the first day of spring break and Sunghoon was driving the both of you down to visit your parents. They were over the moon when you told them you had a boyfriend and told you they wanted to meet him over the break.

“They’ll love you,” you reassure Sunghoon as he pulls away from the curb.”You’ll definitely win them over.”

Sunghoon grins, his dimple peeking. “Everyone loves me, Y/N.”

“I love you more though,” you respond, sulking.

Sunghoon takes your hand and kisses the top of it. “I know you do, Y/N.”

“Oh!” You perk up, “Yunjin wont be rooming with me after the break. I’ll have the dorm to myself for the rest of the semester and then I’ll have to move out. Should we move in together during the summer break, Sunghoon?”

Earlier, before Sunghoon came to pick you up, Yunjin broke the news to you. You were expecting this, now that you think about it. Ever since you began dating Sunghoon, you and Yunjin grew apart. She didn’t approve of you dating Sunghoon, and you didn’t like her disapproval. What was so wrong about you dating Sunghoon? Yunjin often complained whenever you blew her off, but as it became more frequent she began to leave you alone in the dorm like at the beginning of the year when the both of you weren’t as close.

You didn’t care than Yunjin held a grudge against you for blowing her off and dating Sunghoon because, at the end of the day, you always had Sunghoon and you would chose Sunghoon over any of your friends any day.

“I like that idea. Should we move in together?”

You nod your head. “It would be so much fun living together, Sunghoon. Late nights, I can cook you dinner, and we can watch as many movies as we want! Maybe we could get a pet too!”

“A cat?” Sunghoon asks.

“Anything you want, Sunghoon,” you respond warmly. Sunghoon steals a kiss from you at the red light and you giggle, smiling bashfully and leaning forward to turn up the radio, the playlist Sunghoon made for the two of you playing.

The drive to your childhood home was only a couple of hours. Usually, the drive was boring since you had no one else to join you, but now that you had Sunghoon with you on the drive, he made it more fun. Cracking jokes and playing silly games with you, he left you breathless.

“Home sweet home,” you murmur as Sunghoon pulls up the driveway.

Sunghoon parks the car and pulls the keys out of the ignition. His hand cups your chin and guides your lips to his. He kisses you in his car, outside your house. “Cute house,” Sunghoon says after leaving you breathless. “I can imagine you growing up here.”

You blush. The front door of your house opens and your mother and father step onto the porch, waving happily when they see you. “Come on,” you reach out to pinch Sunghoon’s cheek, “let’s meet the parents!”

Climbing out of the car, you rush up the porch to hug your parents. “I missed you so much, darling,” you mother says, petting your hair.

“I missed you more, mom,” you respond, pulling her in for another hug.

“My baby girl,” your father says fondly, rubbing your cheek with the back of his hand. “How have you been?”

You beam and hug your father tightly. “I’ve been well. University has been so much fun. I miss your homecooked food, though.”

Your mother and father chuckle. “We’re glad you’re back home, darling. This break will be so much fun.”

Glancing over your shoulder, you watch Sunghoon approach you and your parents. Your smile broadens and you tuck yourself into Sunghoon’s side, “this is my boyfriend, Park Sunghoon.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Sunghoon says, shaking your father’s hand.

“You too, son,” your father says, “anyone who can make my daughter this happy is okay in my book.”

Sunghoon smiles, peeking down at you. “Seeing her happy makes me happy.”

Your father sends you a wink and you blush. Sunghoon takes your mother’s hand and kisses the back of her hand. “It’s a delight to meet you, Mrs. L/N, you created a wonderful daughter.”

Your mother’s laughter is light as it floats through the air. “Come on in, I’ll show you to your room and then you can unpack the car.”

Reaching for Sunghoon’s hand, you squeeze it gently as you step into your childhood home. Sunghoon squeeze your hand back, and when your parents weren’t looking, he sneaks a kiss on your temple. The love in your heart for Sunghoon swells tenfold.

After moving everything from Sunghoon’s car and into the house, your father takes Sunghoon away to tinker in the garage while you sit in the kitchen, watching your mother prepare dinner. “Remind me long you’ve been dating Sunghoon, sweetheart?” Your mother asks.

“Three weeks,” you respond.

“Oh. I didn’t know this was a new relationship. The way you spoke on the phone made it sound like you’ve been with him for a while.”

You shrug, peeling the shell of a pistachio. “We’ve known each other for a long time. Three weeks feels like three months with Sunghoon. I love him. And didn’t you tell me if you love someone, that’s more than enough?”

Your mother sighs, kneading out the dough. “I guess so. Just, be careful, Y/N, okay? I don’t want you to rush into a relationship and make a mistake that could cost your life.”

You giggle. “You don’t need to worry about me, mom, Sunghoon is the one for me.”

Your mother smiles at you from over her shoulder. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Your father enters the kitchen and kisses your mother’s cheek as he reaches for the fridge. “Sunghoon’s up in your room, Y/N, if you want to see him. We’ll call you down when dinner’s ready,” you father says. “I need some alone time with your mother.”

You dash out of the kitchen and up the stairs to your childhood room. You burst into the room and leap onto your bed, crushing Sunghoon. He groans and pushes you off him as you giggle, flopping back on the bed beside him. “How are you, Sunghoon?”

“I’m having fun. Your father is nice to talk to,” Sunghoon responds. “It’s making me miss my parents.”

You coo reach out to caress Sunghoon’s cheek. You throw your leg over Sunghoon’s waist and cuddle up to him, your hand falling down to rest on his chest. You close your eyes and begin to doze off, feeling relaxed and comfortable in Sunghoon’s embrace, but your boyfriend shakes you awake.

“Y/N,” he says softly. “I have something for you.” He gently pulls you upright and turns to shift through his overnight bag. It doesn’t take long for him to procure a small jewelry box and you gasp softly as Sunghoon turns to you with a big grin on his face.

“I saw this at the jewelry store yesterday. Jake was shopping for his mom since her birthday is coming up. I saw this and thought of you.” He opens the box and you gasp, staring at the thin gold ring sitting between the cushions.

Sunghoon takes it out and you hold out your hand. “It’s a promise ring,” Sunghoon tells you softly. “You’re my forever, Y/N.”

“Oh, Sunghoon,” you admire the ring. It’s a small gold ring with a flower sitting in the middle. You don’t recognize the flower so you look at Sunghoon in question.

“It’s your birth flower, Y/N,” Sunghoon explains, pinching your chin playfully.

“Oh. I didn’t even know such a thing as birth flowers existed.”

Sunghoon laughs loudly and leans forward to kiss you. “Don’t worry, baby, I know everything about you.”

You laugh against his lips and draw him back in for a kiss. You spend the rest of your time with Sunghoon kissing him and admiring the ring in the golden sunlight until your father calls you both downstairs.

Dinner was enjoyable, though you could tell your parents felt a bit unsettled as you show them the promise ring Sunghoon got you, and how you both explained your plans to move in with each other next year. The unsettling feelings carries into the night when Sunghoon was up taking a shower and you were helping your parents clean up dinner.

“Y/N, honey,” your father starts softly. “Don’t you think you’re rushing this relationship?”

You glance up from where you were washing the dishes. “What? No? I love Sunghoon, and I want to be with him forever.”

Your parents share a look. “Y/N,” your mother says, “are you sure?”

“Why are you being like this?” You ask your parents, placing down the brush you were using to wash the dishes. “Shouldn’t you be excited for me? I finally have a boyfriend who loves me and cares for me.”

Your father nods. “We are, but it just feels like you’re going too fast. You’ve only been dating for three weeks, Y/N.”

“But I love him,” you insist. “I love Sunghoon. And you’ve always told me that when I love someone, I shouldn’t let them go.”

Your mother sighs heavily. “Alright. If you believe that you and Sunghoon will last, then we’ll back off.”

“But don’t say that we didn’t warn you,” your father adds.

You finish washing the dishes in silence. You don’t bid your parents goodnight as you walk up to your room, your mood sour. Sunghoon was already in bed, tucked beneath the covers as he scrolled through his phone, probably replying to the group chat he has with his friends.

“Hey,” you mutter, pulling out your pajamas.

“Hey,” Sunghoon responds, placing down his phone. “Are you okay, Y/N?”

“No,” you respond tersely, changing out of your clothes and into your pajamas in front of Sunghoon. “My parents were being annoying.”

“Oh?”

“I’ll tell you about it after I finish washing up.” You grab your toothbrush and face wash and dash over to the bathroom next to your room, not wanting to bump into your parents. After finishing washing up, you crawl into bed with Sungoon and curl up next to him.

“What’s on your mind, Y/N?” Sunghoon brushes a hand through your hair.

“My parents think we’re moving too fast,” you grumble. “They’re trying to tell me what to do in our relationship. It’s annoying.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Sunghoon says gently. “Would you like me to talk to them?”

You shake your head. “No, it’s okay, Sunghoon. Let’s just sleep. We’ll have them convinced that we aren’t rushing this relationship by the end of the week.”

Sunghoon kisses your forehead and helps you lie down before pulling you close against his chest. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight, Sunghoon.”

You didn’t get much sleep. You were standing in front of the milk at the nearby supermarket zoning out. After your mother asked you to get some milk, you began your slow, sleepy walk down to the nearest supermarket.

Sunghoon has been silent all morning and you hope what you told him last night didn’t ruin his mood for the rest of the trip. Finally snapping out of your daze, you grab the milk your mother asked for, approached the register and paid.

You took your time walking home, enjoying the fresh morning air. You begin to plan how to prove to your parents that you and Sunghoon’s relationship wouldn’t crash and burn in a few years. So far, the plan you thought of wasn’t exactly going to prove to your parents that you and Sunghoon were a forever couple, but as your unlock the front door, you realize that you don’t need your parents’ approval. It’s your life. Not theirs.

Putting the milk away, you realize how quiet the house is and a chill creeps up your spine. “Mom?” You call out, “dad?” There’s no response. “Sunghoon?” You search the first floor, but your parents were nowhere to be found. Climbing the stairs, you stay alert.

Sunghoon wasn’t in your room, and your parents weren’t in theirs either. You notice the bathroom door was shut and your heart begins to race. You hope that maybe your mother and father left to go on their morning walk and Sunghoon was taking a shower.

Pushing open the door to the bathroom you smell the metallic smell of blood before you see the scene in front of you. Your parents lay lifeless on the bathroom floor, their abdomen split open with the amount of stab wounds issued to their upper body. Blood is spilled across the floor, all over the cabinet and the white walls.

Sunghoon was on his knees, hovering over your father as he slashes at his chest a few more times. “Sunghoon,” you whimper, your knees almost giving out.

The knife he was holding drops to the floor. He looks up at you and you gasp once again. Blood covers his face, it drips down his cheeks and his chin. You watch as Sunghoon reaches up to wipe the blood of his face, but his hand was also bloody. He drags his bloody hand across his mouth, getting rid of no blood. It was futile for him to wipe his bloody hand across his mouth. His hand drops back down into the pool of blood surrounding Sunghoon and your knees finally give out.

You collapse, your hands splashing the blood pooling at the entrance of the bathroom. “Sunghoon,” you whisper. You can’t take your eyes off the lifeless bodies of your mom and dad. “What did you do?”

Sunghoon beckons you over. Your body automatically moves to Sunghoon, blood seeping into the fabric of your jeans. Sunghoon’s bloody hands come up to cup your face. The blood is cool against your face, but you don’t flinch away from Sunghoon.

He leans down and kisses you. All you can taste is the blood of your parents but you don’t push Sunghoon away. You sink into the embrace of his kiss as you’re overcome with emotion you can’t describe.

“I did this for you,” Sunghoon whispers, his bloody forehead touching yours.

“For me?” You whisper back.

“Everything I do is for you, Y/N,” Sunghoon kisses you again. You grip his bloody t-shirt tightly. You don’t care about your dead parents. A small part of your brain is happy they’re dead. Now, you won’t be subjected to their judgemental stares for the rest of spring break. “If I can’t have you, no one can, Y/N. I promise you that.”

“I love you, Sunghoon,” you whisper, finally embracing Sunghoon and all of his craziness. Sunghoon would kill for you. He’s proven himself over and over again. “You’ll only ever have me.”

“I know,” Sunghoon whispers back, his hand touching your hair.

“You’d do anything for me, Sunghoon?” You ask.

“Anything,” Sunghoon answers, his lips brushing over yours.

“Good,” you smile.

author’s note, hey…..that was. a lot. idk what overcame me when i wrote this tbh. i was possessed by the ghost of sunghoon in the concept film😊 anyway. i hope you enjoyed this fic! idk if i liked the pacing of it but. oh well. also i dont even think this fic had a plot?? it was just me writing while thinking of sunghoon😭 guys i promise one day i will post a Happy fic on tumblr with no death or murder or ambiguous endings🫶 anyways in case u wanted to know; sunghoon and y/n live happily ever after. idc if its inaccurate but sunghoon never gets caught murdering random people who touch y/n🤷‍♀️ anyways leave ur thoughts! i’d love to read them🩷

#enhypen #park sunghoon #park sunghoon x reader #enhypen angst #enhypen fluff #sunghoon angst #sunghoon fluff #sunghoon x reader #enhypen x reader #enhypen au #sunghoon

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