#I had vision for this..I think i did it right

[peachesofteal]

Like Real People Do previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader - hospital au CW: protective Simon Riley, brief sexual content

It was an accident, and your fault.

You weren’t paying attention when Blue swung her head into yours, when she shook her neck out and brought her skull crashing into the side of your face, hard enough to make you stumble, sending you gasping out of the stall while she snorted an apology.

“Fuck.” Her halter had clipped your skin, and you don’t need to touch the side of your face to know you’re bleeding. One hand over your eye, you close her stall with gritted teeth and make for the house, silently praying it’s not as bad as you fear.

It’s pretty bad. It's already tender, and your skin is open across your cheekbone. You’ll be able to get away with two butterfly bandages instead of stitches, thank god, but it looks awful, though not nearly as awful as your eye and its broken blood vessel.

Shit.

The cut stings as you clean it, and your entire face aches even after you’ve swallowed down two Tylenol. You’re not sure which is worse, the injury, or the anxiety it’s giving Riley, who clings to you for the rest of the morning, right up until you drop her off, her hug nearly choking the life out of you.

“I’m okay, I promise.” Her eyes are wide and worried, and you tap her nose. “I love you.”

“I’ll see you after work?” You get home a few hours after her on work days. Her sitter, Callie, hangs out with her after school, or during the day if needed, and she does it for free in exchange for free boarding of her two horses. She’s a college student, very sweet, and takes good care of her. You’d be screwed if she wasn’t around.

“Of course ladybug. Now give me another hug and then you’ve gotta go okay?” She nods reluctantly, and wraps her arms around your neck until she’s satisfied, before taking off into a sea of kids.

“Holy shit!” Key’s mouth drops open, and you groan.

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” Isa startles as she comes around the corner.

“Oh my god what happened to your face?” This is exactly what you did not want. A scene.

“It’s not a big deal, I swear.”

“What’s going on?” Doctor Riley appears out of nowhere, and you force your breathing into a steady rhythm.

“Daisy got beat up.” Key sounds almost happy, pleased with herself, and you briefly think about murdering her. When you shoot a glare her way, she only raises an eyebrow. His usual gruff tone turns to ice.

“What?”

“No! I didn’t. She’s just making shit up, I-” Pressure closes around your jaw, your chin, and it takes a split second to realize it’s not a some phantom limb but him, his fingers holding your face, tilting it to the light.

“Who did this?” There’s a red flash of anger in his voice, and it settles oddly in your stomach, almost like its heat could keep you warm through a winter. You try to speak, try to spit it out, but the feeling of his skin against yours is overwhelming. “What happened?” When there’s more silence, he gentles his tone, shifts it into something safe and coaxing. “It’s okay Daisy, tell me what happened.”

“A horse.” You croak. You try to pull away but he refuses to let go, holding you firmly in place. “My horse. She smashed her head into mine, and the metal of her halter cut me.”

“A horse.” He deadpans like he doesn’t believe you. The girls, you realize, have mysteriously disappeared, leaving you alone with him, the man who still has not let go of your face.

“Yes, a horse. I have horses. And I’m fine, really. It’s just a bruise.”

“And a cut, and a broken blood vessel in your eye.” He snaps, and again, you try to move away. “Hold still.” He’s scrutinizing you, focused on the blossoming tender skin, the angry red splotch stretching across the white of your eye. This focus, the contact, its all making your heart race, turning its steadfast rhythm into a gallop, one you can’t control. You lick your lips.

“Doctor Riley-” You don’t need this, you don’t need him holding you, exposing your weakness.

“Any problems with your vision?” His fingers trace the curve of your cheek, carefully palpating the swelling and you hiss.

“OW. No. Like I said, I’m fine it’s-”

“Headache? Dizziness? Did you lose consciousness?” Jesus christ. You shake your head with what mobility you have while still trapped in his grip. “Did you clean this?” Does he think you’re an idiot?

“Of course I did.” He hums, blatantly ignoring your annoyance to inspect your injury until he’s satisfied.

“If I told you to take the day off, would you listen?” What? Your thoughts run dry, but somehow he doesn’t need an answer. “No, I know you wouldn’t.” His touch eases, and with his free hand, he strokes the backs of his fingers across your cheek. The room spins, and not because you took a horse’s skull to the face. This moment has gone from intense to intimate, all of it still intimidating. He’s trying to shatter you, trying to break you. He must be.

“I can work, I’m fine.” You need distance. You need his anger, his temper, his impatience, not this. “Thank you for your concern, but I’m okay.” His hand falls away.

“Are you?” You blink.

“What?”

“Are you okay?” His voice is still soft, soft enough to seep into your bones and spread like a disease, poison your marrow until you can’t stand. It will make you sick, weaken you, and it's not like the situation with Beckert, where you knew well enough you didn't have the power, when you accepted you had to acquiesce.

This is different, and you won’t let it in. You won’t let him in.

“Yeah I’m…” No. You’re not okay. You’re not fine. You’re failing. This weight is crushing you, and you can’t hold it up any longer. You’re not strong enough. The flame is back, the one that wants you to let go, to fall, the one that will burn your control to ash, and you're forced to extinguish it, shove it down. “I’m fine.” His expression shifts into indifference, eyes turning to stone, all of it happening so fast you get whiplash. He shrugs.

“Alright then.”

“I can’t.”

“Come on you said Riley is at a sleepover.”

“She is. But I still can’t.” Olivia stamps her foot like a petulant child. “Liv, listen. I can’t. I’m on a tight budget this month, I can’t spend any money, and I can’t just be going out to bars nowadays.” You have chores to do too, and going to bed while sun is still up sounded so nice, but Ava is grinning at you from across the table, and you know it means trouble.

“Who said anything about spending money?” You roll your eyes, and Olivia doubles down.

“You need to get out Daze, you go to work, you go home. That’s it. You need a break, just for a few hours. It’ll be us three, low key, and I’ll buy your beers.”

“There will be plenty people who want to buy you a beer, Daisy. Trust me.” Olivia is hopeful, and you sigh.

“Fine. But two rounds at most.”

Before Riley, you used to come to this bar often. It’s a hospital hang, they have live music on the weekends, and the beer is generally affordable (if you’re drinking Coors.)

Now, you can’t remember the last you were inside. Here, or any drinking establishment, or even a restaurant.

“How’s the new hire?” You sip your beer. It’s cold and tastes like weekends past. Far, far past.

“She’s good!”

“She sucks.” They both answer at the same time, and Ava scoffs. “What? She’s a new grad. It’s like having a toddler.”

“Everyone is new at some point.” Olivia chastises her, and you smile, enjoying the rarity of this entire night even if they’re bickering.

“Oh shit.” Ava’s eyes go wide.

“What?” Olivia scans the room, confused.

“Two if by sea.” No.

“You’re joking.” She shakes her head.

“Looks like they’re all here too. And the radiologist, what’s her name?” Your stomach swoops. You’ve been avoiding Doctor Riley since the incident with your face, dodging him in the hallway, and trading OR duties. The few times he’s managed to catch you, he’s seemed less than pleased.

“Laswell.” Ava smiles at whoever she sees past your shoulder, but judging by the seductive tilt of her lips, you’d lay money on it being John. That’s your cue.

“I should go.”

“What?! We just got here.” You can feel Doctor Riley in the room, his eyes on you, examining, studying, and you shiver.

“She doesn’t want to see Riley because she’s avoiding him.” You grit your teeth.

“Thanks Ava, I think we’re all well aware.” Olivia grabs your hand.

“Stay. Please. We’ll pretend they’re not here. Ava will keep her daddy issues in her pants. Come on, we never see you at work now. I miss you.” The guilt trip is obvious, but she does have a point.

“Fine. For a little while.”

Olivia practically screams. You wipe your face, trying to dry the tears that have wet your cheeks as Ava struggles to breathe. People are staring, and you couldn’t care less.

“You’re insane. Did you get in trouble?”

“No! I never heard about it. I think he probably didn’t report me because he knew he was in the wrong.” The three of you try to tamp down the laughter, and you take a deep breath to alleviate some of the burning in your stomach.

“I miss you guys. The NICU is so fucking serious. They’re all nice but it’s like if you breathe wrong your baby could tank. It’s terrifying.” You leave out the obvious, he’s terrifying, and let your eyes wander instead. You tell yourself you’re not looking for him, but that feeling is back, and the draw is too insistent to ignore.

You get what you’re looking for.

He’s watching, clearly waiting for you to find him, and your vision tunnels as you lock eyes. The room fades away. You’ve been mixed up over him, turned upside down and inside out. The memory of his hand on yours, how he cradled your face, that simple, stupid contact, is playing on a loop in your head, in your dreams.

Except it’s worse in your dreams. It’s out of control. It’s not just his hand on yours, his fingers on your face, it’s his everything on yours, it’s you bent over his desk with your pants pulled to your ankles and his cock buried inside of you. It’s him telling you he knows what you need, and it’s his fat cock shoved inside you so deep you can feel it in your stomach. And then it’s you waking up to a wet pussy, your fingers already circling your clit and on the verge of coming.

Worst of all, it’s him telling you to fall, and promising to catch you. It’s him holding your face in his hands and telling you everything is okay.

Nothing about any of it makes sense, and you chalk it up to the obvious tension and the fact that you haven’t had sex in years. That’s what it is. That’s all it is.

You force your eyes away. It’s too much to even think about, let alone try to compartmentalize, and you polish off your beer.

“Alright. Sadly, my carriage is going to turn into a pumpkin soon. I’ve gotta go.” They whine, but they know the reality. They understand.

You’re halfway across the parking lot when you hear him.

“Daisy.” The grit and the grind of his voice is your ghost now. It lurks in the darkness and between your ears. You can’t evade him, and you’re so fucking terrified of him being so inescapable and shredding your control, adding fuel to the fire that is already threatening to engulf you, encouraging those flames of need to burn brighter and brighter. You try for a deep breath, but it comes up short, and your courage fades as you face him.

“Hi, Doctor Riley.” He’s wearing jeans and a hoodie, plain black, no logo or lettering, all of it seemingly stretched just a bit to fit across his chest, his thighs. Your heart pounds.

“We’re not at work. It’s just Simon.” Simon. You’re sure your swallow is audible. “Headed out?”

“Yeah I’ve gotta get home.” He takes a step forward. His one is like three of your own, and he’s close now, too close, so close you have to tilt your head to look at him when he speaks.

“It’s good to see you laugh. Thought you might not know how to for a minute.” The world stops turning. You trip over his words in your head. “I haven’t been much help with that though, have I?” You’re frozen. There’s no rhyme or reason for this, no explanation. Why does being this close to him make you so dizzy?

“I have to go.” You fall back on your instincts. Flee. “I’ll see you at work on Tuesday?” It shouldn’t be a question, but for some reason you’re lingering in the unknown tonight.

“Daisy… ” he trails off, and your breath gets caught in your windpipe. The parking lot is silent, and you stare at him, waiting, wondering, and when his fist clenches at his side and he steps back, a twinge of disappointment pinches beneath your ribs. “Have a good rest of your night.”

“You too Doctor Riley.”

[iamactuallysocute]

SAJA BOYS x HUNTR/X’S ASSISTANT!READER 4

I wanted to write more events for this part, but there’s a limit sadly and I underestimated it waaay too much. Anyways, shit starts to get intimate in the sweet way.

cw: physical fights, cursing, still a lot of sexual themes, Stockholm Syndrome developing, dumbass men

The thing is, the girls want their assistant back.

And not just because you’re important. Not just because you know the girls’ patterns, where Rumi stashes her favorite backup daggers, Mira’s real name (which nobody is supposed to know), or Zoey’s weaknesses. It’s not even about strategy anymore. They want you back because you’re theirs. Their little right-hand angel. You brought them tea before demon hunts, patched up wounds, stayed up researching until your eyes burned and your hands shook.

Now you’re gone.

Yeah, turns out, you had them all wrapped around your little finger, and never even tried.

It’s been—what? A month? Two? You stopped counting after the second week because time gets weird when you’re basically a prisoner in a loft that has seven bedrooms and zero privacy. They’ve all got supernatural senses, so nothing is secret. Jinu can sense your mood from down the hall. Abby can hear your heartbeat spike if you so much as think of escape. Romance just…knows. You have no idea how. But he knows when you’re lying, when you’re sad, when you’re lowkey horny (which is so annoying, because he acts like it’s about him—it’s not). Even Baby—little brat Baby who looks like he should be in detention—is constantly sniffing around, only to get bored and poke your shoulder like a child just to piss you off. Mystery doesn’t note on anything he can feel about you, but once he growled at Romance once when he tried to kiss your hand.

But somehow, despite the kidnapping, the light torture, and being the world’s prettiest emotional support hostage—you’ve… adjusted. Kind of.

Even though Romance tried to woo you with supernatural roses he bought up to the human world that screamed when they died.

Even though Baby offered to kill Bobby for you, said it like he was asking if you wanted fries.

Even though Abby carried you to the roof one night—literally picked you up—just so you could watch the stars, and said, “Don’t say I never do anything romantic.” Then promptly tried to kiss you.

Even though Jinu is worse. Gentle. Careful. Never tries anything. Just exists near you like he’s waiting for your soul to recognize his.

Even though Mystery… Mystery claps when Abby does a flip and also claps when you squeeze a lemon into Romance’s eyes

You know they like you.

You know. You’re not an idiot. Not blind, either.

You don’t need a vision from the heavens or a love confession, though you got many of that already. You’re not fourteen. You see the way they look at you. The way they move around you.

You’ve known for a while.

God, you remember when Jinu simply told you he’s interested. Just the truth.

He didn’t even touch you. Just stared across the battlefield of little black and white pieces and laid his feelings down like a move. Your hands were trembling so slightly then, you thought he might’ve noticed. Of course he did. They all do. There’s no hiding in a place where you can’t even sneeze without someone five rooms down saying “bless you” and be so proud of themselves too for knowing human things like this.

And then there’s Romance. Gods, Romance. Subtlety? He doesn’t know her.

You could be brushing your teeth, and he’ll walk in all dressed up, acting like he’s there to borrow toothpaste when everyone knows he’s just there to be seen. The man purrs. He purrs. That’s not a metaphor. He’ll lean against the doorframe, arms folded, voice dropping just low enough to be illegal in several countries, and say something like—

“Let me know if you ever get lonely at night. I don’t snore. Much.”

He doesn’t even care if you roll your eyes. He loves the chase. Loves when you tell him off gently, when you glare at him across the kitchen counter or throw a pillow at his head.

Abby’s not much better.

He’s the type to act like he’s not even trying. Just walks around shirtless, flexing. Pretends not to notice when you do notice. Every touch is casual, but not casual. Every time he calls you sweetheart or cupcake or worse—good girl—you want to set something on fire. Preferably his abs. For the greater good.

But you’ve caught him staring when you aren’t looking. He tries to laugh it off, but it cracks something behind his eyes. There’s real shit going on under that cocky exterior, and it wants you.

Even Baby, for all his “I’m too cool for this” energy, is obvious in the way that makes you want to scream into a pillow. He’s horrible. Picks fights with you over the dumbest things. Snaps gum in your ear when you’re trying to read. But he’s always around.

You’ll sit down in one of the ridiculously plush armchairs, and within five minutes, he’s there. Perched on the armrest, legs dangling, pretending to be bored. If you ignore him, he sighs dramatically. If you look at him, he sighs as if you’re annoying him.

You almost punched him. You also almost kissed him. Which is… terrifying.

And then there’s Mystery. The flower. Him trying at small talk, opening towards you, no more needed to say.

So yeah.

You know they like you. Every last one of them.

And what the fuck are you supposed to do about that?

Because it’s not just harmless flirting. Not just attention.

It’s heavy. It’s real. It’s aching.

They’re not playing games, not really. They don’t have time. They’ve seen too much, lost too much, been used too much.

You’re their first love in centuries. And it’s not a soft thing. It’s a suffocating thing. A hungry, endless, terrifying thing. They want you in ways that have nothing to do with bodies and everything to do with fate.

You miss the girls.

You miss freedom.

You miss peace.

But every time you think about leaving, there’s a tug in your chest.

What’s happening now?

Mira’s blade slashes through the air. Jinu blocks it with one arm like he means to get cut—show-off. Sparks fly. The wind howls. The rooftop is chaos.

Three girls against five ancient, demon-marked, cocky-as-fuck man-children who just will not die. Or stop talking.

“God, you’re all so loud.” Zoey huffs, leaping back from Mystery’s claws. She lands with a spin, barely catching her breath before going in again.

Mystery doesn’t say a word, so she obviously wasn’t talking to him. He just growls low in his throat, eyes glinting. But there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Almost a smirk.

Because Zoey’s been giggling. She tries to swing at him, dead serious—and still, still she giggles when she misses. Every time.

Mira’s faring better. She’s relentless. Precise.

Jinu is not even trying. His shirt’s half-torn open (like he planned it, asshole), and his arms are crossed while dodging. Calm. Elegant. Smiling. He doesn’t block—he flows.

Mira screams something wordless and furious at him, and he bows. Actually bows. Then catches her blade mid-swing with two fingers.

“Careful.” he says, voice syrupy smooth. “You’ll chip it.”

Abby is doing what Abby does.

He’s shirtless. Obviously. Gleaming with sweat. Just flexing and dodging, muscles moving under skin.

Baby is on his phone??

Well, he was, until Rumi noticed him and took the chance to attack. Suddenly Baby’s behind Rumi now, twirling a blade like it’s a fidget toy, expression completely blank.

Unbothered. Unbothered like he didn’t just try to stab her ribs. Unbothered like he didn’t vanish and reappear behind her within half a second.

“You’re so slow.” Baby says, like he’s disappointed in her for being mortal.

Rumi snarls, swings at his neck, and he disappears again, laughing quietly—more breath than sound. But Rumi ducks past Baby and nearly lands a hit on him.

He hums. “Almost.”

Now Mira’s holding her own with Abby—barely. Mira actually snarled the first time he winked at her mid-swing. (He’s winked three more times since. She’s missed twice.)

Zoey’s tangled up with Mystery. Which is a sentence that sounds more sexual than it should, but really it’s just fast, brutal, and completely quiet—except for Zoey’s occasional giggle, just again.

Romance, unbothered to help, rolls his shoulders. “Can’t we just agree you all missed us? You clearly came looking for a reason to see us again.”

“No, we came to end you.” Rumi hisses, cutting through the air with a blade that actually manages to scrape Jinu’s cheek.

“Mm. You always say that.” Jinu murmurs.

Romance pushes off the wall, finally stepping into the fight with a little spin. “You act like you don’t love playing with us. But you do. I can feel it. Or maybe that’s just Y/N rubbing off on us.”

Everything stops.

Everything.

A beat.

Rumi drops her blade an inch. Mira’s punch falters mid-air. Zoey—giggles stop.

“What,” Rumi says slowly. “did you just say?”

Romance freezes. Looks at the girls. Then at the boys.

“…What? I’m just saying she’s rubbing off on us. Her little quirks. The sighing. The eyerolls. The way she complains when we track mud into the—”

“YOU DICK.” Abby snarls, charging at him and shoving his shoulder hard.

“Are you stupid?” Baby mutters.

Mystery hisses. Not growls—hisses—like he’s ready to physically maul Romance on the spot.

Jinu grabs Romance by the collar, dragging him a step back like they’re not in the middle of whatever this is. His voice is low, barely audible. “Do you want her taken from us?”

Romance blinks, realizing a half-second too late that he just lit the wrong fuse.

“Oh.” he says. “Oh.”

Mira steps toward them, blade dropped at her side, forgotten.

Zoey’s hand trembles near her belt. “She’s alive?”

“No.” Rumi says, almost choking. “She’s there. She’s with them.”

Mira looks at each of them. Her face is unreadable. Flat and dangerous. “You kidnapped her.”

None of the boys speak.

Romance swallows.

Baby won’t meet their eyes. Not because he feels bad, just the little bird on that lamppost is way more interesting.

Abby’s mouth opens, then closes. Then he mutters, “Fucking idiot.” and punches Romance in the gut. Not hard enough to injure. Just enough to say you fucked up.

“She was ours,” Zoey whispers, eyes glassy. “She’s—she’s ours.”

And maybe that’s the thing the boys didn’t calculate properly. Because in their little yearning hearts, they thought they were the only ones who needed you. But the girls? The girls have bled with you. They’ve cried in your arms. They had done this and that and whatnot and everything that makes them want you back.

Romance opens his mouth. Mystery kicks him in the shin. “OW! What?!”

“They didn’t know.” Mystery says flatly. First words of the night.

Romance finally glances at the girls properly, face sobering as reality sets in. “…Okay, yeah, we should go.”

“Now you think that?” Baby snaps, turning on his heel.

“She knows we’re coming.” Mira growls, stepping forward.

“Knew that already.” Baby mumbles. “She’s not stupid.”

Zoey finally cracks. “Is she okay?! You took her, and now you want us to believe—”

“Shut up.” Jinu says. (AN: guys I’m cackling up at myself it’s fucking HILARIOUS that he’s mean like that)

Abby looks at Romance. “You’re such a dick, bro.”

“I’m not leaving.” Baby says, crossing his arms. “Not after all that. Now I wanna see what happens next.”

“What happens next,” Jinu says like he’s talking to a child. “is we get killed.”

“I kinda like those odds.” Mystery says darkly.

Of course he does.

Then Zoey speaks, voice shaking just slightly—“Did she… did she say anything about us?”

Rumi doesn’t wait for a cue. Doesn’t wait for answers. Just screams bloody rage and grief and fuck you forever and charges.

Mira follows instantly, eyes flaming.

Zoey’s scream is less words and more war cry.

And suddenly the girls are everywhere.

“Fuck fuck fuck.” Romance blurts, eyes going wide. “Okay okay OKAY—”

“I TOLD YOU.” Abby roars, grabbing his wrist.

Jinu steps back with perfect posture, calmly cracking his neck like it’s just time to clock out of work. “Let’s go.”

Mystery doesn’t even blink. Just vanishes—one blink and he’s gone.

“Are we teleporting or running?!” Romance yells, backpedaling fast as Mira’s blade nearly takes his face.

“YES.” Jinu shouts over the wind.

Abby grabs Baby by the collar. “We’ll go—NOW—”

“I CAN DO IT MYSELF—”

“DON’T CARE—”

Romance grabs onto Abby with one hand. “CAN WE ALL AGREE THIS WAS NOT MY FAULT—”

“IT WAS ENTIRELY YOUR FAULT—”

And just like that, the rooftop is silent. Boys gone.

The wind dies.

The girls stand alone.

Fuming.

Abour an hour later, the door bursts open.

They’re loud. They’re bleeding. They smell like smoke and wet asphalt and one of them is holding something wrapped in someone’s jacket sleeve.

You blink. Petting the tiger, sitting on the carpet. Its tail swishes once. “Hi.” you say, not looking up.

You feel the way the boys freeze in the doorway. There’s a split-second of silent debate, like someone might just back out and pretend they walked into the wrong house. But then—

“Heyyyy.” Abby drawls, walking forward like he hasn’t got a cut across his cheek. “Look at you, still awake. Missed us?”

You hum. “Something like that.”

Romance appears behind him next, limping slightly but smiling. "You would not believe what just happened to us. Jinu?”

Jinu sighs, so fucking done with Romance starting shit and Jinu having to finish it. Not even only in this scenario. Then, he quickly makes something up. “We saved a kid. From a burning building.”

Abby waves his hands. “A dog! It was a dog. A whole dog shelter. We saved like… twenty-five dogs.”

Romance nods. “There was an alien. I swear. This thing came outta the sewer, babe, big eyes, like wet beach balls, all like blee-blop, and I—“ he points to himself “—punched it.”

They all pause. Realize. They just said completely different things.

You stare at them for a beat. “That’s the worst lie I’ve ever heard.”

Jinu rolls his eyes at the other two then keeps going. “Okay, technically it was a burning animal shelter. So Abby isn’t wrong. You’re not wrong, Abby. But the fire started ’cause someone knocked over a candle. There was a candle. For the dogs.” Jinu is such a loser. Such a loser, god. And he’s supposed to be better than the others.

Abby nods quickly, walking towards the kitchen already. “Yeah! Candle dogs. Like aromatherapy. For their nerves. They were…” he squints, struggling for words. “stressed dogs.”

Romance raises his brows at you. “You should’ve seen me. Shirt off—obviously. Fire blazing behind me. I had this kitten in one arm—little guy was shaking, scared shitless—and I look back, flames in my eyes, and I saved it.”

“Sure you did.” you say dryly, watching as the tiger-cat leans its entire head into your hand. “Is that why Abby looks like he got tackled by a lawnmower?”

“I’m fine.” Abby calls from the kitchen, already chugging on something.

Then Baby walks in, dead silent. Expression bored. Disinterested. Pacing straight past you toward the fridge.

You say nothing. He says less.

Which means: he’s really happy to see you.

“—and I was nearly kissed by a banshee.” Romance continues, “but I told her I was taken. She screamed anyway. That’s not the point. The point is, we’re fine. You should’ve seen us. Heroes. Real shit.“

You finally glance at him. “Romance.”

“Yes, my love?”

“Shut up.”

Abby snorts into his shaker bottle.

While Mystery just lowers himself slowly, settling beside you on the floor. His shoulder brushes your thigh. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look at you. But his head tilts just slightly toward your hand as it runs over the tiger-cat’s fur.

Abby’s voice comes from the kitchen. “And I kicked a dude. In the head! Like whack! His whole tooth came out. Might’ve been mine. But still.“

Jinu sighs. “That wasn’t a dude. That was a fence post. You roundhouse-kicked a fence post. And then apologized to it. There was no dude.”

“Not with that attitude.” Baby mutters, digging out a can of something vaguely carbonated.

Romance doesn’t listen to you telling him to shut up. Why would he? “Listen. What we went through tonight… I looked death in the eye. But I thought of you. I said, “No. I gotta get back to her. Can’t die here. Not like this. Not with this much chest out.””

You turn to look at them fully now, petting slowing. Brows raised. “So let me get this straight. You all went to the same place. Fought the same thing. And yet every single one of you has a different version of events?”

Romance: “Multiverse?”

Jinu: “We split up.”

Baby: “Can you stop talking to us?”

Abby: “I peed in a bush.”

That’s not a lie.

You sigh.

God. You should care more. You should press. You should catch the lies and squeeze the truth out of their cocky throats. But… You don’t. You don’t even suspect what actually happened out there. You don’t see the bruises for what they are. Don’t notice the way Jinu keeps glancing at you to see if you believed the lie. Don’t hear the way Baby breathes a little easier the longer you sit next to them. Don’t realize Mystery’s quiet lean is the closest he’s come to comfort in centuries.

Because all you see are idiots. Sexy, beat-up, broken-nosed idiots trying to lie their way through an obvious catastrophe.

All five of them? Tripping over each other’s fake stories? Really?

You lean back into the couch, pretending you believe them. Just for tonight.

Because they came home.

They came home to you.

And even if they’re lying bastards with god complexes and way too many abs between them…you’re still glad they did.

Don’t get me wrong, they’re all wrong for what they’ve done. You know that. You never forget it. They held you against your will. They kept you from the girls—your girls—who would’ve torn the world open to find you if they knew where to look. And now they do. (You don’t know that yet. But they do.)

And still…

You don’t even try to leave anymore.

But they changed, too. Not all the way. Not enough. Not where it counts, but… enough.

So yeah. They’re wrong. They’re still lying to you—badly, tonight—but it’s desperation. It’s fear. It’s the only way they know how to keep you.

Because they know—they know—that if you had the chance, the real chance, the safe one…

You’d leave.

You’d go running back to Mira, Rumi, Zoey. You’d take the hand they offered and vanish into the night with them, never once looking back.

So they lie.

They lie like children.

They lie with the panic of five lonely immortals who got one taste of softness and can’t stand the thought of going back to their hell without it.

You never asked for this. You didn’t want to be their comfort, their strange little mercy. You were supposed to be their enemy. A little help then a soul taken. And now you’re sitting in their living room, heart thudding slow, steady, full of goddamn dread because you caught yourself thinking—

“I’m glad they came back safe.”

You are.

You’re not okay with this. You’re not forgiving them. They’re still dangerous. They’re still wrong. They still can’t let you go.

But…

But.

Mystery’s shoulder is pressed into yours.

Romance is humming something low. Abby’s looking at himself in the hallway mirror. Baby’s doesn’t put gum in your hair anymore. Jinu is mostly an asshole to everyone except you, you just don’t know that.

You don’t move.

You don’t run.

You don’t cry.

You just sit.

You’re still not free. And you’re still staying.

Jinu disappears toward the hallway, muttering something about a shower.

Romance follows, winking at you before you can say anything. “Don’t miss me too much, sweet girl.”

“I never do.”

“You doooo.” he sings from down the hall.

It’s been two months.

Two whole months.

Which meant when you ovulated, Romance went feral. (AN: y’all asked for it)

Not in a hot way. In a “we’re going to need a spray bottle” kind of way. He followed you around the entire apartment with dilated pupils and this low, mewling sound in his throat. At one point, he sat on the floor of the laundry room with his forehead pressed to the dryer whispering, “Just one bite. Just one little bite.”

You had to barricade yourself in your room for the day. Abby called him a pervert. Baby told him to go jack off and shut the fuck up. Mystery stared at the wall and didn’t come near you. Jinu rolled his eyes at Romance but listened to him talk about you anyway. Abby kept offering to “get it out of your system.” whatever the fuck that meant.

Back around your first period here, you cried once. Just once. Just out of nowhere. Sat on the floor in your bathroom with that aching pressure in your back, and your hormones all upside down and stupid, and cried.

And Romance—that sick son of a bitch—moaned through the wall. Actually moaned. “Are you crying? Is that real? Oh my GOD, she’s crying, this is the best day of my death, I’m gonna cum—”

So yeah.

Now, though?

Now you’re back to the start of the cycle. The cramps hit yesterday. The bloating. The grump.

Which brings you to the current situation:

Period cramps. Nothing world-ending, just enough to ruin your posture, your mood, and your ability to trust god.

So you’re in the kitchen. Fruit salad. It’s pretty. You’re pretty. The knife glides across strawberries, the lemon juice stings your fingers. It’s quiet. Almost peaceful.

“Yooo.” Abby calls, walking in. “What’s cooking, good-looking?”

“Fruit.” you mutter. “Your brain would reject it.”

“Ouch.” he raises an eyebrow, leaning on the counter like he wasn’t just at the gym bench pressing Jinu. “Also, that’s not cooking.”

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m hilarious.”

You don’t even look at him. Just cut another kiwi slice. You feel like shit. Your lower stomach’s twisting. Your back’s sore. But instead of anyone doing something nice like shutting the fuck up, you get Abby.

He reaches for a piece of mango.

You smack his hand with the flat of the knife.

“WHOOOO!!” he hollers. (Just hootin n hollerin🥀)

“Don’t touch my shit.”

“It’s our kitchen.”

“It’s my bowl.”

“You’re being kinda gatekeepy right now.” God, he looks so proud that he knows that word.

“You’re being kinda concussed in two seconds if you don’t leave me alone.”

He grabs a strawberry anyway.

You flick a piece of orange peel at him. He dodges, but still yells “AHHHH!” like you just shot him.

“You’re a child.” you mutter.

“Sexy child.” he replies instantly.

You grimace. “That came out so wrong.”

You resist the urge to throw the fruit bowl. Mostly because it’s your fruit bowl and you like it.

“Baby’s a fucking nightmare, by the way.”

“Oh?” Abby leans on the counter, brutal forearms btw.

“He unplugged my fan while I was sleeping. Then tried to gaslight me into thinking it was never plugged in.”

Abby snorts. Like, whole chest laugh. Head thrown back. Bastard.

“What’s he even doing right now?” you mumble, cradling your chin in your palm.

With zero hesitation, he starts making the wanking gesture with one hand, raises his brows, then adds the second hand for emphasis—like it’s a two-person job—and finishes it off with a dumb throat-clearing groan.

“Abby.”

He does it harder.

You close your eyes.

He adds a grunt.

You slam the knife on the cutting board. “Shut up.”

“Hand against the wall. One leg up. Really getting into it.”

“Abby.”

You hear him moving closer behind you. Not too close—he’s not completely suicidal—but enough that you feel the vibration of his voice when he speaks again.

“…You alright though?”

You stiffen.

He doesn’t say what he means. Doesn’t say you smell like pain today or your uterus is screaming, or I can hear your joints aching from three rooms away.

He just says that. You alright.

You nod. Quiet. Focused on blueberries now.

Warm hands land on your shoulders.

You tense.

Because—what the fuck.

They’re big. Warm. Too warm. You forget, sometimes, how hot their bodies run. It seeps through the fabric of your shirt.

You don’t move.

Because oh god.

He’s massaging you.

“Jesus Christ.�� you breathe, not even meaning to say it.

Abby laughs, low, smug, voice too close to your ear now.

You glare at the cutting board. “Why are you touching me.”

“Just shut up, baby.”

God.

You hate that he’s good at this.

Not in a professional way, you can feel he’s rusty. His rhythm is weird, uneven. He clearly hasn’t given a massage in like three hundred years. He’s doing that thing where one thumb pushes too hard and the other forgets it’s supposed to help. But even so…

You sigh, soft. Accidentally. Almost a moan.

“Yeah.” he says. “That’s what I thought.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Say please.”

“Please shut the fuck up.”

He snorts. Adjusts his grip. Presses the heel of his palm into the meat of your shoulder. It hurts. In that good way.

You mutter something between a groan and a prayer.

Abby’s hands move lower. Carefully. Slowly. Like he knows he’s testing your limits but doesn’t want to scare you off. Which is shocking, honestly. He’s not exactly known for tact. More known for shirtlessness, swearing, and shoulder-checking Mystery into walls when bored.

But now? Now he’s… being good. Well. As good as he gets.

“I’m genuinely impressed.” you say flatly, staring at your half-finished fruit bowl. “You haven’t tried to motorboat me once.”

“Tempting.” he says. “But I’m saving that for when you cry at a movie and need comforting.”

He doesn’t know what MySpace is but knows what motorboating someone means, fantastic.

“Do you even know how to comfort someone?”

“Yeah.” he says, dragging his thumbs down your spine, making something in you flinch and melt at the same time. “Like this.”

You let out a bark of laughter. Can’t help it. You tilt your head back a little and look up at him.

He’s already watching you.

That cocky little smirk still on his lips, but softer now. Faint. Barely there.

His eyes flick over your face, quick, like a scan. He sees the flush. The tiredness. The pain you’re trying not to show. He always does.

And for once—he doesn’t tease. He just keeps massaging. Hands steady. Fingers firm. Breaths slow.

You look away first.

His hands trail back up, thumbs circling behind your neck again. Your eyes flutter. You hate that it feels good. Hate that it’s him giving it to you.

But hate isn’t the right word anymore.

It hasn’t been for weeks.

He’s evil, sure. Still cocky, still loud, still dumb as a sack of rocks when it comes to boundaries. But he touches you like… like this. And right now? He’s the only thing keeping the pain at bay. So you don’t stop him. You don’t ask him to let go. You just let yourself be. For once.

Until he ruins it.

“You know,” he says suddenly, breath hot against your neck. “if you need me to help alleviate the cramps—”

You elbow him in the stomach. Hard. He laughs through it, wheezing a little. Still proud.

Still a fucking idiot.

And yet—his hands never leave you.

And then, there’s that weird, tight ache like a sob forming out of nowhere. The stinging behind your eyes. A single sniffle that escapes before you can catch it.

“Hey.” Abby says quietly, still behind you, still massaging. “…What’s going on?”

Your mouth opens. But you can’t talk. Not really.

He takes his and off you and turns you around by the shoulders, and god, you’re crying.

“I’m fine.”

“No, no, no.” he says, voice going from smug to soft in a heartbeat. “Hey. Hey. Don’t do that—what’s going on? Did I hurt you? Are you—”

You hiccup. “Noooo—You’re—” you choke out. “You’re just—!”

Abby blinks. “I’m just…?”

“You’re so—” your hands flap uselessly near your chest. “You’re just—!”

He stares. “…I’m what?”

“Nice!” you sob

“…Nice.” Even he doesn’t believe that.

You nod violently. A hiccup punches out of your lungs. “You’re so nice to me, and—and—and you were massaging me and you didn’t even try anything and, and you’re such an angel, and I don’t deserve—”

You’re a mess. Shaking and clutching your little fruit bowl like it’s a teddy bear. Cheeks blotchy. Mouth open and useless. Hormones and hunger and affection all conspiring to break your soul.

You’re the cutest thing he’s ever seen. And he’s seen kittens. This is worse.

“I—I just touched your back, man.” he says, holding up his hands like they’re evidence. “It wasn’t that deep.” He takes one hesitant step toward you, then takes it back like he’s afraid you’ll cry harder.

Which—you do. Wipe at your cheeks with the back of your wrist. Nose red, eyes glossy, lips wobbling. You are so, so done.

That’s when Jinu walks in.

Buttoning his crisp shirt. He opens his mouth to ask something—maybe about the smell of fruit or where Baby put the remote—and immediately freezes.

Because there you are. Crying in the kitchen. Smelling like fruit. Looking like an angel.

And Abby looks like he just got caught breaking a fucking law.

“…What happened?” Jinu asks, slowly, stepping into the room.

You spin toward him.

“Jinu.” you sob. “He’s so nice.”

Jinu’s brows draw together. “Who?”

“HIM.” You point to Abby like you’re accusing him of murder. “He massaged me. And didn’t even grope me! And he was helping and he’s an angel and I just—!”

You hiccup. Sniffle. Blubber. You’re basically melting into your own hands now. Entire body trembling.

“He’s so nice, Jinu.” you whisper.

Jinu glances at Abby.

Abby stares back at him, mouth agape. Then he gestures helplessly, mouthing I didn’t do anything!!

Jinu blinks, then takes a single step closer to you, reaching slowly.

“Y/N…” he says gently. “It’s okay. Come here.”

You don’t hesitate.

You launch yourself into his arms.

Jinu freezes. Then gently wraps his arms around you, wide-eyed, careful, calm. One hand rubs your back like he’s petting something small and traumatized. The other hovers awkwardly for a second before settling on your waist. You bury your face in his chest, sobbing into his shirt, while he strokes your hair and murmurs something soft in a language you don’t understand.

And behind you, Abby is standing completely frozen. Still gaping. Mouth open. Eyes wide. One hand still in midair like he forgot what hands even do.

What the fuck is happening.

What the FUCK is happening.

He’s not built for this. He’s not equipped. This is an emotional boss battle and he’s only got a sword made of dick jokes and gym stats.

Jinu, to his credit, is the picture of calm. Even when you start babbling he just shushes you, nods, murmurs soft encouragement like it’s nothing. You’re mumbling shit into his shirt that don’t make sense at all.

Jinu leans down a little. “…What’s that?”

“Bleeeehhh.”

He nods, seriously. “Okay. Okay.”

Your words are incomprehensible.

“B-but h-he—and—and th-the thing with his—shoulders—and he’s like—rrghhhhhh—and now—bweeeeeh—”

“I know.” Jinu says softly, glancing at Abby in complete shock. “I know.”

Abby just stares.

Mouth open.

Hands on hips.

A man defeated.

He mouths: what the fuck did I do.

Jinu shakes his head.

He pulls back after a minute to check your face.

“Do you want water?” he asks.

You nod.

Abby finally speaks. “Can I—can I get it—?”

“No.” you and Jinu both say in perfect unison.

Jinu leads you gently to the stools, arms still loose around you, like he’s worried if he lets go, you’ll evaporate or explode into more bleh noises, then he presses a glass of water into your hand. He does it slowly. Gently. Like the water might tip and you might tip with it. And honestly? Not far off.

Your hands are trembling. Eyes still leaking. You take it.

“Thank you.” you whisper through your snot, voice wrecked and watery, and then—oh, for fuck’s sake—you immediately burst into another wave of silent, gasping sobs right onto the rim of the glass.

Water splashes onto your chest. You don’t even care. You don’t even notice.

“Okay.” Jinu says softly, standing beside you like he’s ready to catch you if gravity wins. “There we go.”

You try to drink it.

You fail.

It’s like you forgot how to swallow. You’re crying while sipping and your throat closes halfway through and it becomes a horrifying hiccup-gulp-weep hybrid. Abby winces.

“You good?” he asks, mostly because your entire body just twitched.

“Yuh.” you manage, half-drowning in your emotions and saliva.

You try to set the glass down. Miss the counter. Abby catches it mid-air, miraculously. You make a pitiful noise.

You sniff, loudly. “It’s so cold.” you whimper. “It’s such a good temperature, Jinu—do you even know—?”

“I do.” he says.

“You’re so good at everything.” you sob, wiping your face with your sleeve. “And he’s such a bitch.”

Abby blinks. “Still me?”

“Always you.”

“It’s okay.” Jinu says again, doing that thing where he shhh-es you without making a sound. His hand’s back on your upper back. He doesn’t speak. He just lets you be.

And be, you do.

“Oh god.” you sob, eyes wide and staring at the cabinets. “I miss Rumi’s braids.”

Abby drags his mouth. “That’s specific.”

“And I—I miss the girls.” you sob. “I miss Rumi’s ugly-ass laugh. I miss Zoey stealing my lip balm. I miss Mira calling me a bitch when she means ‘I love you.’”

Jinu nods slowly. Abby freezes, looking vaguely guilty for the first time in… ever.

“I’m sure they miss you too.” Jinu says gently.

You sniff hard, face splotchy and eyes red, then lift the glass of water again, holding it with two hands. You squint at it, voice going high and tired and miserable: “Why do I cry like thisssss.”

Jinu leans closer and gently pushes a bit of hair off your face. You flinch, not from fear, but because you didn’t expect it.

Being a demon and living in shame sucks, but they’re kinda grateful that they’re not human girls at this moment.

Abby clears his throat, then walks over to the counter where your abandoned bowl sits, glistening with juice and slices of something soft and pink. He picks it up carefully. Offers it.

“I didn’t spit in it.” he says, smiling. “Yet.”

You blink at him through your tears. Sniffle once. “You can eat it.”

His eyes light up.

“Oh, fuck yeah.” he mutters, already reaching for a fork. “Best day ever.”

Jinu stays close. Doesn’t leave your side. Just watches you with a quiet patience that you never asked for and desperately needed.

“You cried because I was nice.” Abby says, grinning. “That’s actually the sickest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

You sniff hard. “Don’t talk to me.”

“I’m a hero.” he mutters under his breath.

You lift your teary eyes to Jinu, lip wobbling. “You’re the only normal one.”

Jinu pats your hand. “That’s what I keep telling them.”

“I’m just so tired, Jinu,” you say. “and there’s fruit and a bird with six eyes and someone keeps putting their used straw in my skincare draweeeeeer.”

“That was Baby.” Abby mutters.

“He found my lip tint.” you mumble.

“Yeah. He liked the color.”

You make a mournful little noise and stare down at the water again like it’s supposed to fix any of this.

Jinu’s still beside you, hands on the counter, watching you. Abby is now licking the juice off his fork and humming something in a… in a beautiful voice, fuck, okay. He’s in his own world—shirtless, sticky, glowing.

Movement.

You glance up toward the arch into the hallway, and—

Oh.

Mystery.

Peeking in, barely visible through the shadows and his hair.

He’s not saying anything. Just watching. His head’s tilted slightly. Half-hiding behind the doorframe, strands of hair in his mouth, his eyes peeking out like he’s shy—which, in some ways, he is.

Until he sees you looking.

And he smiles.

Sweet and genuine. His cheeks barely move, but it’s so cute, so soft, so rare, that it takes the breath straight out of your throat.

You smile back.

“Ohhh shit, MYSTO!” Abby shouts, talking through peach chunks. “Get your ass in here, bro! Look what Y/N made. It’s got strawberries and whatever the fuck this thing is—” he holds up a piece of dragon fruit.

Abby sets the bowl down. Leans a hip against the counter. And slaps the back of his own hand loudly against his thigh before striding over and giving Mystery a massive clap between the shoulder blades like he’s trying to knock him through the wall.

You hear the clap of skin on skin. Mystery stumbles half a step back.

Mystery laughs.

Like laughs-laughs.

A sound you barely ever get to hear—soft and breathy and unreal. And then he reaches out, and slaps Abby right back. Mystery’s shoulders shake. He’s laughing. A full, real sound. They’re having fun.

It’s so… sweet.

So boyish.

So dumb.

So—fuck.

You sniff.

It’s because they’re friends. Because they’re evil little shitheads who keep you kidnapped and lie about things and slap each other for fun and still—somehow—you can see the real thing underneath.

You see it.

How Mystery’s face softens when Abby laughs too hard and bumps his head into the cabinet. How Abby nudges Mystery like “don’t be shy bro” and Mystery doesn’t even growl. How boys are so dumb and stupid and ridiculous but also how boys love. How they show it through violence and bad jokes and too-hard pats on the back.

You start sobbing. Loudly.

They enjoy each other. They make each other laugh. They’re idiots together. They fight like wolves and then joke like kids, and there’s something… pure about it.

Something devastatingly human.

You’re hiccuping.

“Okay—okay.” Jinu says, head turning like a hound the second your breathing skips. He’s beside you instantly, crouching slightly, rubbing your arm like he’s done this before, even if he hasn’t. “What happened? What happened now?”

“Nuh-nothing, I just—” you hiccup through the words, trying to explain, trying to form a sentence that matches the mess in your head. “They’re s-sooo cuuuuteee.”

Jinu blinks.

Abby blinks too, fork in mid-air.

“They’re so—” your voice breaks, chest heaving. “They’re such boys, Jinuuuu.”

“Yeah.” Jinu murmurs. “We are.”

“They keep—touching—and yelling—and laughing, and they don’t even know how to do it right, and it’s still cute!” You sob harder. “Oh god,” you gasp. “they like each other. They like each other and they like me, and they’re demons and they’re so stupid, and I l-live here now, and I miss my g-girls and I’m bleeding and I didn’t even finish my f-fruit, and—Jinuuuuuu—”

Jinu steps in. Hands up, palms out, the calmest in this deranged storm.

“Okay.” Jinu says, stepping in front of you and gently taking the water glass. “Okay, let’s—let’s not drown right here in the kitchen, yeah?”

“But it’s—so sweet.” you squeak, tears rolling down your face. “I never see them laugh like that—he smiled—Mystery smiled—and I can’t h-handle it—”

He takes your arm gently. “I know, I know.”

“I—” you hiccup, voice warbling. “They like each other.”

“Okay. We’re gonna take a little walk now, yeah?”

“Nooo—”

“Yes. Let’s go.”

Holding your shoulders, he drags you up from your seat and starts pushing you out of the kitchen softly.

You protest. Weakly. “I—I was watching them—”

“You can watch them later.” Jinu says.

Abby calls out from the kitchen behind you, voice loud and teasing: “Hey, if you guys are gonna make out, just say so! We’ll leave!”

Mystery chuckles.

Jinu just rolls his eyes. He walks slow. No rush. When he gets to your room, he pushes the door open with his foot and steps inside with you.

He sits you down on your bed, tucks a pillow behind your back. Your face is red and miserable and soaked in saltwater and hormones, and still, still, when you look at him? You manage a watery little: “They’re such good boys…”

Jinu presses a hand to his forehead. Breathes in like he’s praying to some god that hasn’t answered in centuries.

“Sure, Y/N.” he says softly, sitting on the edge of your bed. “They’re angels.”

From the kitchen, you can still hear Abby yelling.

You laugh. Sputter. Cry again.

You can’t help it.

It’s all too much.

And yet somehow…

Not enough.

He doesn’t say anything. He just watches. Listens. Breathes with you. And it’s weird, because he’s not trying to be a prince right now. He’s not trying to seduce or coax or manipulate or even soothe, not really. He’s just here. Present. And that… is so rare. Especially in this place. With these boys.

He glances over at you again. You’re rubbing your eyes with the heel of your palm, smearing saltwater across your cheekbones, your mouth wobbling in the most adorable little way.

And Jinu—more than four hundred years old, the favorite of Gwi-Ma ever and the most selfish person probably—feels his chest ache.

It’s not lust. It’s not hunger. Not even fascination.

It’s… awe.

Because you feel everything.

Because you can’t help it.

And you don’t even hide it.

He thinks of how it started. And now… this.

Jinu’s not naïve. He knows you’re not safe here. Not really. Not emotionally, not spiritually, maybe not even physically. They’re demons. They’re wrong. They lie to you. Trap you. Keep you like something precious locked in a chest with no key. Because if they let you go—

They know they’ll never see you again.

That’s how much you matter. That’s what they can’t stand.

You breathe in.

And somehow, it’s not awkward.

Even though you rejected him before. Well, didn’t straight up reject, just didn’t say anything when he told you he was interested. Even though he’s Jinu. The leader of the demons who kidnapped you. Even though he wants you in ways that stretch centuries deep and he could have any soul in the underworld if he wanted—and still he’s sitting on your bed like the wind might break you.

Because he knows. Somewhere deep in his demon marrow. This isn’t about romance. It’s not about him. It’s about you. And what it takes to simply be you right now.

He studies you again, quietly. Takes in the red blotches under your eyes. The slow, sleepy shiver in your breath. The way your hair’s tangled at the nape of your neck and the blanket is half tucked under your leg and you’ve still got a little piece of strawberry stuck on your cheek.

Humans are so ridiculous.

So soft and loud and inconvenient. So emotional.

And so fucking magnetic.

He leans back slightly, resting one ankle over the other, posture lazy but gaze sharp. He doesn’t say it—but he’s thinking it:

What would they do, those girls of yours, if they knew how you are here? That you’re being cared for by the enemy. That you cried into my shirt. That you call Abby evil and still let him eat your little salad. That they like you here.

He exhales slowly.

Because he knows what he’d do.

He’d tear the sky open to keep you.

And he’s not alone. Behind every sarcastic quip, behind every stupid grin and ridiculous flex and forced “unbothered” act, they all feel it.

They ache for you.

They know what they did was wrong.

But that doesn’t stop them.

Because wrong is all they’ve ever known.

And you’re the only thing that’s ever felt right.

Jinu doesn’t even realize he’s stopped breathing for a full five seconds until your fingers twitch against the edge of the blanket, barely shifting, barely there—and something in his chest pulls.

Not tears this time. Not pity. Just want. Heavy and sinking, like it’s dragging him under the floorboards.

He can’t stand it.

He wants to protect you, yeah. Wants to shield you from the noise, the blood, the fire in his head, the guilt that gnaws through the others, the ache that claws up their spines every time they think about you going back to your team.

But more than that?

He wants to touch you.

To press his mouth to that pretty little throat and see if you’ll make a sound. To slide his hands over your hips and feel you tremble. To pin you down, gently—never forcefully, never—but completely, utterly, so you remember what it feels like to belong to someone ancient and aching and full of things you’ll never understand.

He wants to ruin you softly.

Break you open with worship.

Leave his mark in a way that isn’t demonic but still damn near holy.

He wants you to choose them.

To say fuck the girls, fuck the hunters, fuck everyone—and stay. With them. With him.

Even if it’s not just him.

Even if he has to share.

Because Jinu is a demon—but not the possessive kind. He knows Romance would kill to get his tongue on you. That Abby would go feral if you ever so much as asked for him. That Baby would climb into your lap like the little terror he is and Mystery would melt against you, desperate and dangerous and way too quiet about the way he worships you already.

Jinu would let them.

He’d step back, even. Watch, even. His spine would go stiff, and his fists would clench, and jealousy would rise—but he’d still let it happen.

Because as long as it’s you—alive, warm, touched with love, and not gone—

Then fuck it. That’s a victory.

That’s enough.

He clears his throat suddenly, head dropping, gaze dragging toward the floor, he just caught himself fantasizing.

So instead of saying any of it, instead of giving in to the rot twisting low in his gut or the softness that makes his ribs ache, he just stands up.

“I’ll go now.” he says simply.

Your eyes blink open in the most precious way—like you forgot he was even there, like he’s not the reason you’re calm again.

“If something else is up…” He keeps his tone neutral, easy. “You can find me.”

You nod.

He hesitates at the door.

Because what he wants to do is crawl back into bed with you and bury his face into your neck and tell you he’s so, so glad he met you. That he’s glad they kidnapped you. That you’re the worst sin he’s ever committed and he’d do it all over again if it meant holding you like this once.

But all he does is let the door close softly behind him and walk through the hall. His steps are soft. Bare feet against the cold hardwood. Dim lights glowing overhead. He drags a hand down his face, exhales slow.

He opens the door to his room quietly. Steps inside. Doesn’t turn on the light. Just moves to the edge of the massive platform bed and sits down, rolling his shoulders, bones heavy from centuries of guilt and something else. Something new. The tiger is already there, curled up in the corner, watching. Its eyes glowing. It stretches when it sees him, as if sensing Jinu’s energy, the way his heartbeat isn’t steady.

He lifts a hand and the beast crosses the room without hesitation. Its massive head lowers into his lap, pressing there, warm and heavy. Jinu rests a hand on its fur. The other hand curls into the dense muscle of its back, smoothing down along its shoulder.

He doesn’t speak. He just stares into the dark, breathing slow. Thinking about you. Your eyes. Your puffy cheeks. Your dumb little sleepy bleats of “blehhh” and “he’s so nice” and “I just—I just—bweehhh—”

He closes his eyes. His jaw tightens.

He wants you.

So bad it makes him sick.

And not just to touch you—though, god, he does. Not just to pin you to a wall or get on his knees or bite your lip and leave it swollen just so you’d remember it was him.

He wants the other stuff.

He wants to know what your first thought is in the morning. Wants to hear your opinion on dumb, mundane shit like oranges or show reruns. Wants to know how you hold your toothbrush and which songs you hate and why you keep rearranging the throw pillows even though you act like you hate the place.

He wants time with you.

He wants a life with you.

He smooths his hand again over the beast’s shoulder. The fur ripples under his palm. Then he leans back against the bedframe, lets his head drop, staring at the ceiling.

He’s glad he met you.

Even if you destroy them.

Even if you leave.

Even if you never look at him that way.

He’s so fucking glad.

Meanwhile, Romance is a mess.

A hot, sweaty, brain-rotted mess sprawled across his bed. His shirt’s been discarded somewhere (he genuinely doesn’t know where—it might be on the lamp) Just breathing hard, a hand resting dramatically over his chest like he just ran a goddamn marathon—and not, you know, jacked off to the memory of you saying his name once while you were annoyed.

Yeah, his hand was just down his pants five minutes ago.

For the fifth time today.

He had to stop himself—again—not because he’s shy or ashamed(not of this, at least), but because it’s starting to feel pathetic. Like he can’t go five goddamn minutes without thinking about you.

“Fuck.” he mutters to no one, arm flung over his face. His voice is hoarse. Disgusted. Still dark with that voice he only ever uses on his worst days. “Fuuuck, you’re killing me, pretty girl.”

He’s obsessed. It’s terminal.

And it’s not just the sex stuff, either.

Okay, it’s mostly the sex stuff. He’s made up so many scenarios. Some of them are honestly creative—like, he’s impressed with himself. There was one where he runs into you during a thunderstorm and you’re soaking wet in white linen and begging to be touched. Another one where he wakes you up from a nightmare and comforts you with something far more intense than a lullaby.

And then there’s the really deranged ones. The domestic ones. He made one up earlier where you were brushing your teeth beside him, hair messy, shirt too big, and you handed him the toothpaste wordlessly. That fantasy made him whimper. WHIMPER. Out loud.

He’s always been a flirt. That’s just the role. A wink, a purr, a little brush of his thumb on a lower lip—he’s been doing that for literal centuries. He’s good at it. It’s a performance.

But with you? It’s not a performance anymore.

It’s sick.

You don’t even let him kiss your cheek, and he’s still acting like he’s in heat every time you say his name. He tried to casually lean against the fridge next to you a few days ago and almost broke it because he slipped on condensation and nearly fell into the fruit drawer.

You didn’t even laugh. You just looked at him, blinked, and said, “You good?”

He pulls the crook of his arm off his eyes and stares at the ceiling. His painted nails dig into the pillow under his head. Then he sits up with a grunt, dragging his hand through his hair until it flops back into his eyes.

He doesn’t want just your body. He wants your yes. He wants you to choose him. He wants to hear you say it. That you like him. That he makes you feel good. That you want him back.

He presses the heel of his hand to his forehead like that’ll squash the yearning down. It doesn’t. It just makes his head hurt more.

God, he’s a boy. He’s such a dumb boy. He’s writing love letters in his head like you’ll ever want him. You’re too good. Too nice. He tortured you, kind of, in the beginning. All of them did. You shouldn’t want him. He wouldn’t blame you if you hated him forever.

He groans again.

He misses you.

And you’re just down the hall.

If he knocks on your door now, what’ll happen? Will you scream? Will you sigh? Will you let him lay on your floor like a kicked dog and read you poetry in a see-through robe?

(He does have one. Just in case.)

God. He needs help.

But also… maybe he doesn’t.

Maybe he just needs you.

He lies there now in the afterglow of his own depravity, legs twitching occasionally, eyes open and glazed, like he’s astral projecting into a parallel universe where you actually want him, not tolerate him. Where you’re touching him instead of the tiger that Jinu keeps feeding better cuts of meat than the rest of them get. Where you’re whining for him instead of Jinu.

(Not that he’s bitter. That would imply he didn’t just make up a full-fledged fantasy about you licking honey off his fingers in the middle of that kitchen. So, yeah. He’s fine.)

He shifts slightly, makes a disgusted sound.

Not because he regrets it. Hell no. He’s a demon, not a fucking monk. And he’s been around long enough to know there’s no shame in need. In want. He wants you in every way a boy could want a girl—yes, even though he’s centuries old, he’s a boy about it. He’s so stupid. So obvious. So pathetic.

Would you braid his hair if he sat real still? Would you lean your head on his shoulder if he shut the fuck up for once? Would you kiss him if he asked nicely for once in his goddamn life?

He’s never been this bad. Not even in the 1800s when he accidentally got obsessed with a courtesan who spat on him in public. (Okay, not accidentally, he chased her halfway across Europe, but that’s not the point.)

The point is, you’re so good. He wants your mouth. Wants your laugh. Wants your moods, your messes, your little mumbles when you’re in pain or pissed. He wants to taste your tears and your gum and your shampoo. He wants to ruin you, yeah—but only because you’ve already ruined him.

And worst of all? He’s romantic about it.

He’s not just jerking off to your face. He’s imagining stupid, soft, idiotic scenarios. Like you pulling him by the wrist into your room and saying something like “I guess you’re not the worst.” Or you sleeping on his chest and drooling a little and him being honored to be the one you chose to lean on.

It’s humiliating.

He would rather be smited by an archangel than admit this to anyone.

He hears movement down the hall—maybe Jinu’s footsteps—and snorts out loud.

Romance is full filth and desperate little poems that he scrawls mentally with your name tucked into every line. Romance wants to spit you open and slow dance with you in a rainstorm. He wants to fuck you on the couch and send you letters. He wants you, in every version, in every mood, even the ones that slam doors and roll their eyes.

You’re in his nonexistent soul and it’s driving him fucking nuts.

He’s going to combust.

He’s going to write you poetry and never let you read it and also try to get his hand under your shirt while you’re complaining about cramps. He’s going to lose his mind over you and still act like it’s your fault.

Because he’s the worst.

And also because he’s hopelessly, brutally, comically in love with you.

And you don’t even know it yet.

Romance rolls over, half-naked and fully rotted from the inside out. Not from lust, not even from longing—but from something far worse.

Shame.

“Ohh, what’s this now?” Gwi-Ma’s voice. “Crying again because the little human won’t kiss you?” “Can’t even lie to her right without your voice shaking.” “You should see yourself.”

Romance presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. Hard. Like maybe if he just squishes his own brain for a second, the thoughts will settle.

“Let me tell her what you really are. I’ll show her.”

Romance chokes out a bitter laugh. He swings his legs off the bed, leans forward, elbows on knees, head in hands like someone two seconds from praying even though there’s no god left who listens to demons.

He’s full of feelings. A disgusting soup of them. Sloshing around in his stomach with nowhere to go.

Horny? Yes, of course. But he’s also so tired. It doesn’t help that Gwi-Ma claws at the weak spots. Knows where to press.

“You’ll rip her apart. She’ll hate you for it.”“Oh, is this the one you think will save you? You pathetic little mutt.”

“Shut up.” Romance mutters under his breath.

No one’s around. Just him and the slow drip of his own humiliation. The weight of everything he wants and doesn’t deserve pressing in on his temples like a migraine.

“Shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up, shut the—”

His voice cuts off.

His jaw clenches.

He hates this. Hates that he has someone to lose now. That he cares. That he walks past your bedroom and slows down like a coward, just to hear you snoring softly, to feel the low tug of comfort knowing you’re behind that door, safe.

What is he even doing?

He’s a fucking demon. A creature made of sin. He’s killed people for less than the flutter he feels when you hand him a spoon and say, “Don’t eat it with your fingers, you animal.”

God.

God, he loves you.

“You missed your chance.” Gwi-Ma hisses, voice thick with smugness. “The ‘nice one’ has her wrapped up. You think she’ll ever want the loud-mouthed pervert?”

Romance lifts his head and hisses, low and sharp. “Go haunt a cliff.”

But the truth is? Gwi-Ma isn’t wrong. He is the loud-mouthed pervert. The ridiculous one. The one who flirts all the time.

You probably do think he’s a joke.

You probably don’t take him seriously.

And he doesn’t blame you. Not when he can’t even sit still with himself without having emotions like this. Not when his chest feels like it’s full of razor wire and honey and rage. Rage at himself. At his body for betraying him. At Gwi-Ma for always being there.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, like that’ll clean out the thoughts too.

He knows sleep isn’t coming tonight. But maybe if he lays there long enough, staring at the ceiling, he’ll finally shut his brain off. Maybe if he listens closely enough, he’ll hear you breathe through your bedroom door again. Maybe that’ll be enough to survive another night like this.

As this is going on with Romance, Baby sits cross-legged on his bedroom floor, one knee bouncing absently while he pinches sunflower seeds between his fingers and offers them to Jinu’s bird. The bird chirps with exactly one ounce of gratitude and a shit-ton of judgment. Baby glares at it.

“Eat it or don’t.”

The bird hops closer. It does eat it.

Baby leans back on his hands, smirking.

He wins. Always.

He looks bored. The usual. But it’s not fair how fucked you’ve made his brain. And it’s not just the usual dumbass guy shit. It’s more. It’s worse. It’s not just boobs and voice and legs and eyes and the way you hum under your breath when cutting things.

It’s the fact that he remembers everything about you. And he likes remembering it. He’s holding onto it like a sick little freak. Like it’s his.

He shifts, drags the bag of bird seed toward himself again. Tosses a few seeds at the dumb hat-bird without even looking. Nails it. Obviously.

What a shame you can’t see how cool he is.

But behind the fuck-you energy and the smug one-liners and the absolute feral desire to shove Romance down every single flight of stairs in the building?

There’s a mess.

A massive, sticky, snarled-up mess of a crush that started the second he laid eyes on you and has been crawling deeper into his nonexistent soul every single second since.

He knows he’s an asshole. He’s a bitch. He’s awful. He literally threatened to lock Abby in the dryer last week because he said “Y/N’s cute today.” He pushed Romance into a bookshelf yesterday just for breathing weird around you. Tripped Jinu six times a day and didn’t listen to shit he said. Mystery is the only one Baby doesn’t throw hands with, because Mystery will literally bite. But still. Baby side-eyes him when he gets too close to you, and once even fake-fell just to crash between you and him.

He’s so fucking annoying.

But then again… so are you.

So are you with your sleepy face and your tiny gasps and your fruit salads and your long stares and your petty silent treatments. You stomp past him and he acts like it’s nothing, but damn.

He flops back against the floor now, arms spread. Looks like he’s relaxing. He’s not.

You make him insane. INSANE.

And he hates that he likes it. It’s like this cursed, fucked-up dopamine hit. He likes being mean. He likes being him. But somehow you just… fit in there.

He doesn’t want to be a better person.

But he’d let you put a leash on him.

And not in a normal way.

(Or maybe in a very normal way, depending on who you ask.)

He snorts at his own thoughts. Catches the bird staring. Stares back. “What.” he mutters, deadpan.

The bird chirps once, like judged.

Baby kicks the bird seed bag away lazily, smirking at nothing.

This is hell.

And he’s gonna enjoy being the brat of it as long as you keep stomping around in your dumb slippers, scowling at him, smelling like sweet soap.

Evil. He’s evil. Like, unapologetically, certifiably, Olympic-grade evil. He steals things he doesn’t need. He breaks things just to watch someone cry. He lies for fun. He once slipped Romance sleep poison for no other reason than the guy looked too happy.

That’s normal for Baby.

What’s not normal? Liking you this much. Liking anything this much.

It makes him want to throw up and kiss the floor and set it on fire all at once.

You… you’re a mess. So annoyingly good and soft and real. You don’t beg for his attention like a fan. You don’t worship the dirt he walks on. You reject him.

Which is hilarious.

Because you totally like him.

You must.

He’s too hot. Too cute. Too Baby. You’ve got to be frontin’. You’re just playing hard to get. Classic. (You literally don’t. You don’t like him like that I’m not even kidding)

But in his head, you think about him late at night. In his head, you’re in your bed, rolling over and giggling his name into your pillow. He bets you dream about him. About his mouth. His hands. Things he does to piss Jinu off.

Yeah.

You’re down bad.

(You’re not.)

He rolls over, lets his head loll onto his arm like he’s about to take a nap, and then—

“Wow.” It’s in his brain. Inside it.

“Fuck off.” Baby mutters instantly, eyes shut.

“No, really, I just… I’m in awe.” Gwi-Ma’s voice says, slow and cruel and dripping sarcasm. “This is truly pathetic. And I’ve seen Romance hump a pillow.”

“You sound jealous.” Baby says, unbothered, even though his stomach’s doing flips. “You wouldn’t get it, I do.”

“You’ve got nothing but your face, no worth at all, that’s what you get.”

Baby kicks at the air.

“Listen, child—“

“I’m three hundred and seventeen.”

“Then act like it.” Gwi-Ma hisses.

Just to make it clear, Baby doesn’t keep track of things most of the time. But he always, always keeps track of how old he is, hurts or not.

Baby gets up. No, he launches upright like a demon possessed (which he is, technically), and shakes out his limbs with an annoyed little growl. His hair’s a mess. He doesn’t fix it. That’s the charm. He stomps to the mirror just to look at himself.

He’s flawless.

“Can’t blame her.” he says to his own reflection. “I wouldn’t survive me either.”

Gwi-Ma hums darkly, slipping back into his own world and out of Baby’s head.

Baby glares at himself for another five seconds, then slowly—painfully slowly—lets the grin slide back into place.

Evil. Evil down to the bones. A menace. A psycho. A brat.

And somehow, somehow, you’ve got his entire demonic heart in your pretty little hands.

He hopes you never figure it out.

Or worse…

He hopes you do.

As we’re talking, I have to note that Mystery doesn’t look in mirrors very often.

Not because he doesn’t like what he sees, no, quite the opposite. He’s just not… interested in himself. Not the way Romance is, always adjusting his collar, biting his own lip in the reflection like he’s flirting with himself. Not like Abby either, who flexes abs in passing windows. Baby straight up glares at mirrors until they crack. Jinu doesn’t like looking at himself.

Mystery just doesn’t see the point.

But tonight… tonight, he stands in front of the mirror in his bathroom. He combs his fingers through his hair slowly, pushing it out of his face. He could cut it, but he doesn’t. He likes it. He smiles at his reflection—and fuck, he’s beautiful. A face sculpted by hands that wanted him to ruin people. Something about his features makes it hard to tell if he’s about to kiss you or kill you.

He raises a brow at himself, tucks one strand of hair behind his ear, then lets it fall again. His lips are slightly parted. Always are. The reason fans scream when he glances up mid-performance. The reason girls can’t get enough of him. The reason HUNTR/X gets so pissed when their fans drift toward Saja.

He’s not sorry.

He didn’t ask for his voice to sound like that, either. But he’s used to it now. Used to stealing hearts like it’s nothing. Used to being a weapon.

He leans in closer. Blinks once. Stares himself down.

And then thinks about you.

He bites his bottom lip without meaning to.

You’re cute. Always trying to stay mad at them. Always failing. Your little hands balling into fists when you tell him off, your voice all shaky when you’re tired or hormonal, the way you tuck your knees up when you sit on the couch. Your smell in the hallway.

He likes you.

He turns away from the mirror but doesn’t leave the bathroom. Just leans against the cold tile wall, crossing his arms, letting his hair fall back over his face. He doesn’t move for a long time.

Mystery is not sweet. He breaks fingers. He growls in fights and kicks people in the teeth. He lets Gwi-Ma feed on people’s dreams just to quiet the voices in his own head. He’s a bad person.

But you smiled at him today like he’s not.

He likes liking you.

He likes that he doesn’t understand it.

He’d gut the whole world for you if it meant seeing you laugh just once.

Mystery giggles. He giggles like he heard a really funny secret. One that only he gets. A little sway in his step. He doesn’t even look like himself when he’s like this—so damn… boyish. So not the feral menace that people see in the spotlight or in battle.

When he gets to his room, he shuts the door with the softest click. The kind that lets everyone know he’s done being social. If any of the others knock, he’ll kill them. Not metaphorically. The lights are off. He yanks his shirt off over his head in one go, ruffling his already-messy hair more, then lets it fall somewhere by the bed. Doesn’t even care where.

He plops onto the mattress like he’s been out in a war.

But the battlefield isn’t where he got hit.

It’s you.

Been a while since he talked to a girl who wasn’t a fan. God. That alone is enough to make him laugh again. The fans all scream and cry and faint like they know him. They don’t. They know the makeup. The voice. The poses. They don’t know that he used to stutter in front of mirrors. That he still chews on the drawstrings of his hoodie when he’s nervous.

Been a while since he made friends. Jinu, maybe, is closest.

Been a while since he had sex.

He won’t lie. That one kinda hurts.

Long since he had sex that didn’t end in some kind of bite. Not that he minds bites. Or scratching. Or being called names. But he hasn’t liked someone in… how long? A hundred years? More?

Been a while since he had a thing with a girl. Long time. Longer than he’d ever admit out loud. Even before the demon thing, he was never good at love. Too awkward. Too distracted. Too intense. He always came off cold or wrong or creepy. So he stopped trying. Let the stage version of himself flirt and play and pretend. The real version? Locked up. Silent. Hands in pockets. Heart in mouth.

Been a while. Been a while. Been a while.

And now you’re here.

He just needs you to like him. That’s all. Then maybe everything else will follow. The closeness. The talking. The touching.

But he’s not the best at communication.

He’s actually horrible.

He tries. He does. But most of the time it comes out in shrugs. In soft grunts. Growls. In too-long stares across the room that you either ignore or don’t see. He doesn’t know how to tell you “I think you’re the best” without sounding like a complete psychopath. So he just… doesn’t.

And he thinks he might die for you if it came down to it. But for now, he just giggles again.

Abby in the shower is one of the most ridiculous sights in the multiverse. Let’s just get that out of the way.

While the others have these little mental fucks, the water is running hot—too hot, probably—but Abby doesn’t turn it down. It’s pounding down his back, his neck, his shoulders, and he’s just standing there with both hands on the tiled wall, head down, drenched, steaming. The mirror across the room is fully fogged, but if it wasn’t, he’d probably flex at himself out of muscle memory.

Because here’s the truth:

He’s a whore.

Like, clinically. Professionally. Spiritually. To make that clear, right now, he has one palm dragging over the slick plane of his stomach, just because he can. His hand slides over the ridges of muscle like he’s proud of them. (He is.) A thumb glides up the V of his hip, not even sexually—just admiring the structure.

Abby thinks he’s a masterpiece. A hot one. A mean one. A very evil one.

But then… then there’s the second truth. There’s the one that hits a little lower in his chest. The one that won’t get the fuck out of his head. The one that’s got nothing to do with his abs, or his power, or his demonic charms.

The one that starts and ends with you.

“Fuuuuuuck.” he breathes out, forehead thunking against the wet tile like it owes him money. “Get outta my head.”

You’re not listening.

You’re everywhere in there.

And that massage earlier? Holy shit.

He didn’t even think. He just saw you slumped and pissed off and bleeding, and his brain went, be useful, dumbass. So he put his hands on your shoulders and dug in. And you… you melted. You fucking melted under his hands. He felt your whole body shift like a sigh, and he knew he was doing good—but it wasn’t until you started crying that he froze.

You said he was nice.

Nice.

What the hell is he supposed to do with that?

He didn’t mean to be nice. He didn’t try to be. That was just his dumb, big-handed, hot-bodied brain doing something functional for once. And now here he is, in the shower, water running down his back and steam curling around him, thinking about the way your voice broke when you said it.

“You’re so nice.”

Bitch, no he’s not!

He’s mean. He steals. He punches. He calls Baby a bitch three times before breakfast and once more before bed. He leaves empty chip bags in the couch cushions and plays music at 2am just to see who snaps first.

But he was nice to you.

And you cried about it.

Now his whole chest is tightening in this horrible way, and his hand has not moved off his abs. He clenches his jaw. He’s got his hips angled into the wall like the devil himself might come slap him for his thoughts. Which are… filthy. They always are, when it’s you. Because you’re pretty. You’re smart. You’re weird. And when you looked up at him earlier, lip trembling, voice soft—

He had to physically bite his tongue.

And now he’s hard.

“Fucking hell.” he hisses, slamming a fist against the tile like it’ll knock the heat out of him. (It doesn’t. If anything, it just makes him harder. He’s an idiot.)

He angles his body away from the spray, breathing heavy. He’s still got your face in his mind, your voice, your whole tiny form leaning back into his hands like you needed him.

And that—that’s the thing, isn’t it?

You needed him.

You trusted him for a split second.

And Abby? Abby hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

It’s not just about wanting to get you under him anymore. He wants that, sure, but it’s not the only thing. He wants to make you smile. He wants to pull your hair just to hear the sound you make when you’re mad. He wants to carry you around the apartment and not explain why. He wants you to lean on him again. Cry again. Breathe against him like you trust him.

Fuck.

He palms a hand over his face. Then braces that same arm above his head, steam curling around his arm, the other resting loosely on his hip—because if he touches himself now, he’ll never recover. Like, ever. His brain will shut down. He’ll combust. They’ll find him in the morning curled up in the drain, dead from horny.

And it’s all because of you.

He glances down at himself and sighs. “Look at you.” he mutters, grinning like the fool he is. “Pathetic.”

It’s not even bad pathetic. It’s adorable pathetic. And he knows it. He even flexes a little just to show off to nobody. Watches water track down the curve of his stomach and thinks, She’d like this. Right? She’d stare.

He leans back against the tile with a dopey, crooked grin, water dragging through his hair. The heat’s still in his body, but the urgency’s softened into something almost sweet. Almost painful.

You’d kill him if you saw him right now—naked, proud of his own dick, giggling like a dumbass, cheeks flushed and grinning at nothing like a lovesick idiot.

And he is. He is a lovesick idiot.

An evil one. A demon. A bastard.

Maybe he’ll go eat another of your fruit salads the next time you make one.

Because that, at least, will give him a reason to see you again.

And steal another smile.

He thunks his head lightly against the wall again, because what is he supposed to do?

You’re in the other room, probably curled up, probably crying into a pillow because of your weird little hormone breakdown—which was adorable, by the way. You full-on melted in Jinu’s arms, oh his god.

And now he’s here. With a problem. And that problem is that he really likes you. Like a lot. Which is a huge problem. Also the one between his legs, but that’s another case.

Abby is a man of extreme talents. He can scale a wall with his bare hands, snap a demon in half like a glow stick, flash a smile and have fans screaming for mercy—and still somehow, somehow, fuck up taking care of his own goddamn boner in the shower. Because as soon as he handled business—loud, desperate, gritted-teeth, thinking-of-you kind of business—he’s already broken three things. First, the glass bottle of Jinu’s fancy cologne he “borrowed” (read: stole) last week—the one with the scent so ridiculously good it made Baby sniff the air like a feral dog. Yeah. That’s on the floor now. Shattered. Perfume everywhere.

Second, the towel rack. Don’t ask. It was already loose. Maybe. Whatever.

Third, his pride.

Because listen: Abby’s done this before. Plenty of times. Hundreds of years. His own hand, a nice daydream, sometimes a mirror if he was really in love with himself (he usually is). But this? This was different. Messier. More intense. Like the very idea of you was wired into his nerves—his body reacting faster than his thoughts could catch up.

It was too fast. It was too much.

You should hate him. You probably do. But he’s clinging to every moment that says otherwise.

And that’s why the cologne bottle is on the floor in glassy shards.

That’s why his knees knocked into the bathroom counter when he tried to stabilize himself and sent a bunch of skincare products tumbling.

Abby slaps off the water and yanks the curtain back like it insulted his mother. Then he rubs the towel roughly over his head, mussing his hair, then knots it around his waist and steps out of the steam.

He walks down the hall, not bothering to hide the low, frustrated grunt he lets out when the perfume stench follows him. Baby makes a gagging noise as he passes by. Abby flips him off without looking.

“Tell Jinu his perfume has no structural integrity.” he mutters. “Broke the moment I looked at it wrong.”

“You broke it.” Baby calls back from somewhere, not even needing to see it to know.

“No, I didn’t.”

He walks back to his room, water dripping onto the hardwood as he goes, still thinking about you. Still hearing the way you whispered, like he’d just handed you the stars instead of touched your shoulder blades for two minutes and called it a day. Still seeing the way your eyes welled up before you could say anything. Still remembering how warm you were when you leaned back into him. Like your little body just knew his touch was safe.

Which it’s not.

Let’s be so fucking clear: it’s not.

He could crush bone with a single hand. Could flip a car. Could eat someone whole, metaphorically or not. He’s a monster. He lies. He manipulates. He steals and fights and flirts because it’s funny, not because he cares.

But with you?

He cares.

He throws the door to his room open, steps inside, and exhales like he’s been holding it in since he left you in the kitchen. His bedroom door slams. The tiger in Jinu’s room huffs like it’s annoyed. Abby doesn’t care.

Because he has a crush, okay?

A massive, stomach-churning, lip-biting, idiot-making crush. And he’s not gonna apologize for it, even if it means stepping on broken glass and breaking a second perfume bottle by accident later.

You’re not even being nice to him most of the time. You try to act like you don’t even like him.

(But you do, right? Right?)

Abby’s convinced. He has to be right.

That’s what makes this worse. You’re nice, yeah—but you’ve got this bite. You’re sweet and smart and helpful and tiny and annoyed all the time, and he swears if you really didn’t like him, you wouldn’t let him breathe down your neck every chance he got.

You’d scream. You’d slap him. You’d tell Jinu. You’d stab him. (He’d let you.) But you don’t. You sigh. You roll your eyes. You tell him to fuck off, but gently. You let him sit too close. You give him your fruit salad and tell him to eat it.

And he does. Because it came from you.

He throws himself down onto the bed face-first—hard—like he’s trying to break the mattress with his skull. The second bounce nearly knocks his towel off, but he slaps a hand over his ass just in time.

Now he’s stomach down, ass up (well, towel-wrapped), legs swinging in the air.

If anyone walked in right now, he’d die on the spot.

He should be ashamed. But no—he’s just lying there on his stomach, grinning like an idiot, face buried in the sheets. Kicking his feet in the air like a teenage girl.

He tries to stop.

He can’t.

Fuuuuck, you’re so pretty. Like. So. Fucking. Pretty. Jesus.

Abby’s in love.

“Jesus Christ.” he mutters to himself. “I need to get laid.”

He probably won’t, though.

Because he only wants you. And you’re a problem. You’re good and soft and quiet and mean in this really, really pretty way. You make his skin crawl with the need to bite something. Preferably you. Not hard. But, like… enough.

He flips onto his side, towel slipping, and clutches a pillow to his chest like it’s his girlfriend. It’s not. But in his delusional little mind? That’s you. That’s you sobbing against his chest, your voice breaking because he was nice and massaged you and didn’t make a single joke about it except seventeen.

The towel falls halfway down his ass.

He doesn’t even bother pulling it up. Because what’s the point? His brain’s too full of you to function.

So he lies there, cheek to pillow, one leg hooked over the other, thinking about your dumb cute face, your voice, the way you whispered you’re so nice through a tear.

He wants to make you laugh.

He wants to make you scream.

He wants to make you cry again but in the good way.

He wants to give you a massage and hear that little sound you made when he hit the spot near your neck again and again and again.

He wants everything.

But he has nothing.

Just a memory. A moment. Your voice in his head like a fever dream.

Fuckin’ angel girl, you’re going to kill him with a simple look if not break a plate on his head the next time you see him.

He smiles.

Because wouldn’t that be a good way to go.

“Ohh, Abby.” Gwi-Ma.

Abby doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch. Just sighs against the sheets. “Sleeping.” he mumbles. “I’m sleeping.”

“You’re thinking about that girl.”

No shit.

“I said I’m fucking sleeping.” Abby grunts louder this time, face still planted in the pillow. “Go harass Romance.”

Gwi-Ma pauses. “You dare speak to me like that?”

Abby doesn’t even get the chance to roll his eyes before it hits him, unbearable pain and loud, loud noises echoing inside his little head.

He flinches so hard he slams his knee into the bedframe, rips the pillow off his face, throws it across the room, and then just grabs his skull with both hands, teeth clenched so tight it feels like his molars might crack.

“Ahhh—fuck—fuck you, man—!” he shouts into the mattress, voice hoarse and breaking.

“I don’t take disrespect, Abraham.”

Gwi-Ma is ridiculously funny because both of them know Abraham is not Abby’s name. Just making fun of the boy at this point.

It’s not just a headache, it’s a punishment. It’s like having sirens screeching directly into his temporal lobes, every nerve in his skull having reaction. He kicks his legs, fists knotted in his hair, chest heaving.

He will never learn.

“How do you like that, my prince?” Gwi-Ma purrs, fucking gleeful now. “Next time, think before you cum and get cocky.”

And to make it worse—to really just put a cherry on top of the pain sundae—another boner, because Gwi-Ma is an asshole.

Abby lets out an actual, guttural groan—not sexy, not tortured in a good way, just miserable. He rolls onto his side, pressing his forehead into the mattress.

“Dude,” he gasps out. “you’re so fucking weird.” His whole back is sweaty now, his hair sticking to his temples, muscles tensed. He lifts his face just barely, panting, eyes red.

“And you’re so fucking pathetic. If I could put your little angel in your lap right now, I would. Just to watch you explode like a virgin.”

The sudden slap of arousal. Unwanted. Forced. Embarrassing. Immediate. Abby lets out an inhuman noise, part-choke, part-growl, part a whispered “fuck me” that he doesn’t even mean to say out loud.

His voice cracks before he can yell. He’s breathing heavy, sweating through the towel, red in the face, head pounding, body betraying him entirely.

“Sleep tight.” Gwi-Ma whispers, fading from his mind with one final twist of something sharp in Abby’s temple.

And then… silence.

Finally.

But Abby’s still clutching his head, naked except for the towel that’s mostly around his thigh now, on the verge of crying, hard again, and thinking about you.

What a loser.

What a fucking loser.

He drags a hand over his face, groans one more time into the empty room, then mutters like a deathbed confession:

“…worth it.”

Because you always are.

The boys all went to bed thinking about you.

No—obsessing. Stomach-knotting, aching, stupid-boy obsessing.

That was the truth of it.

They each had their little ways, their little styles, their private rituals of shame and longing and delusion, but it all ended the same: a pillow, a room, a mind full of you.

Jinu, for example, is lying with his back against the mountain of soft fur that was his tiger, stroking its ears absentmindedly, eyes locked on the ceiling. He hadn’t moved much.

He kept replaying it all. Your tears. How you’d hugged him. You’d buried your face in his chest and mumbled gibberish at him, and it had been the most sacred moment he’d had in four hundred years.

And you don’t even know.

He wants you so much it’s starting to embarrass even him.

And you don’t even know. He’d told you, calmly, clearly, over the chessboard weeks ago. But that was nothing. That wasn’t this.

This is need. This is yearning. This is waking up in a cold sweat because he dreamt of your smile fading.

Meanwhile, a few doors over, Romance is suffering. Lying face down on the bed, pillow over his head, trying not to feel the ache in his gut that came with thinking about your smile.

He’s making up scenarios. Like a high schooler. In one, you knocked on his door late at night in nothing but a hoodie and socks and whispered, “I couldn’t sleep. Can I stay with you?” In another, you leaned into him on the couch while watching a dumb movie and said, “You know you’re my favorite, right?” In another—the best and worst one—you kissed him just to shut him up.

He rolls over with a groan, fist his hands in his own hair, and hiss into the dark. He doesn’t even know what he wants more, to be alone with you or to scream into the void. Both felt necessary. And all this over a girl who doesn’t even know how bad he has it.

And Gwi-Ma’s taunts only made it worse. That sick fuck in his head laughed at him. Mocked him. Fed on his shame.

Still, he can’t stop.

He fell asleep eventually. Arms over his head. A little drool on the pillow. Dreaming of you laughing at his jokes and maybe, just maybe, calling him baby.

Now that I said Baby, let’s talk about the one who’s in the house.

He’d fallen asleep sideways across his bed, birdseed still on his shirt from earlier, hand tangled in a notebook full of angry scribbles and lazily drawn boobs. Your name is in there too, like five times. With different handwriting. Some of it looks like it was written by his left hand.

He’d never admit it. Not even under torture. But he was thinking about you. Always does. Even now, drooling onto his pillow, hair a mess, one sock halfway off, he’s dreaming of you laughing at one of his asshole jokes and maybe calling him mean but smiling anyway. That’s all he needs.

He doesn’t know what he’d do if you actually gave in. If you liked him back. Probably explode. Or pass out. Or cry in a way that no one would ever hear about, or he’d kill them.

Mystery’s not sleeping at all. He’s lying in bed, touching the ends of his hair, staring at the ceiling. Not even blinking much.

He doesn’t understand you. He doesn’t understand himself around you either. But he likes it. He likes you. The way you smile. The way you praised him back when he shot his shot in small talk.

And he likes that you didn’t know.

Abby’s still recovering from the post-shower brain-damage Gwi-Ma blessed him with, ass half out the towel, lying face down on his mattress like a dead fish. His head hurts. His dick hurts. His pride hurts. He doesn’t deserve you. But he’s obsessed. And he’s still kicking his legs a little.

While the five ancient, tortured, overpowered, emotionally constipated men are individually spiraling into full-blown madness over you—hands down their pants, heads in their hands, boners under their blankets, Gwi-Ma in their ears—you’re standing in front of your mirror in a giant t-shirt, drawing something with a pen that was almost out of ink, looking at yourself occasionally, twerking a little maybe.

No idea. None. Not a single goddamn clue about the chaos you’d left in your wake.

You know they’re interested. But you don’t know… You don’t know what it’s doing to them.

You don’t know that while you’re staring into the mirror making kissy faces at yourself, Romance is dreaming about it and completely destroyed by the fact he can’t have you. In his dream you just snuck into his room and crawled into bed with him just to tell him you liked his voice. In his sleep, he whispered a fake “I like you too” to no one.

Mystery has absolutely no game, doesn’t know how to talk to you, but he wants you anyway. Desperately. Silently. Painfully.

Baby is still asleep, but I’ll talk about him anyway. You’re the only person he thinks about when he’s not thinking about himself. You’re soft, and pretty, and a bitch, and he loves it. He’s convinced you have to like him. You must like him. You’re obsessed. He has to believe that, because if you don’t like him, then he’s nothing.

Jinu’s still up, though his eyes are closed. His tiger’s breathing slow with him. He hasn’t moved. But he’s not sleeping either. He’s thinking of your soft voice. The way you leaned into him. The way you melted. The way you didn’t flinch when his arms came around you. He tells himself it’s because he’s the only one who treats you gently. But he’s wrong. It’s because you trust him. And he’ll burn down cities for that. He’ll kill gods for it.

Abby fell asleep by now. He calmed down. Probably dreaming about you.

And here you are. In your room. Still twerking. Drawing little doodles in your sketchbook. Chewing on your pen. Thinking about if you should eat cereal or a granola bar. Blinking at your reflection and wondering why your nose looks uneven from this angle.

You have no idea what you’re doing to them.

No idea that your little human feelings and hormone meltdowns and random soft sniffling has broken five men who’ve been alive for over 300 years. No clue that you’ve taken root in the marrow of their bones.

My ass timeskip contains hours, and it’s morning now. You’d think, after all the thirst, shame, fantasy, masturbation, crying, brain trauma, demonic torment, friendship bonding, and twerking-in-the-mirror that happened just last night…there’d be tension in the air. But no. These assholes are actors. Pop stars. Demons. They’ve been lying professionally for centuries. They do this thing, all five of them, where no matter what happened the night before—whether they’re screaming inside, plotting world domination, or jerking off to the thought of you crying—they still get up like everything’s fine.

Jinu’s getting ready to go. Romance has sunglasses on. Abby’s already taken his shirt off again for absolutely no reason. Baby’s slouched against the kitchen island with a banana in his mouth, the slowest chewing on the planet. Mystery has Abby’s shirt in his hand.

So normal.

And then you walk in. Sleep shirt, mismatched socks, and a war-torn look on your face like you’ve just crawled out of a time hole. You stayed up too late. You haven’t even brushed your hair.

And all five boys look at you. Just a glance. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s the same way they’d look at the mailman.

And you—grumpy and still a little puffy-eyed from the emotions of yesterday—just whisper, “By the way. What happened yesterday between us?” You point at Jinu and Abby specifically, each one receiving a cold, squinty stare. “Didn’t happen. I don’t ever wanna hear about it again. That shit? Deleted. Erased. Nonexistent.”

Jinu just raises his eyebrows at you and sips from his matte black mug. Doesn’t even argue. “Understood.” he says. “Wiped from memory.”

“Gone.” Abby nods, already opening the fridge. “Never happened. Who even are you, anyway?”

“Great.” you nod. “Good.”

“What’s this?” Romance purrs. “Something happened yesterday? With you three?”

Your eye twitches. “Romance—”

“Y/N,” he murmurs. “tell me what happened. I’ll trade you. You can spank me if it’s embarrassing.”

Abby just grins like a smug piece of shit and keeps digging in the fridge. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t be shy, baby.” he says, grinning down at you. “I think it’s beautiful that you’re finally cracking. You held on so tight for two months. But it’s okay to want us. I’d cry too if I wanted me.”

“I don’t want you.”

“Tell me what happened. Come on, sweetheart. I’m gonna be thinking about it all day now. Was it something… scandalous? Did one of us make your heart go pitter-patter~?” he says, using that hot voice, swiping a berry from the bird’s dish and tossing it in his mouth.

“No.”

“Come on.”

“No.”

“Come on.”

You glare at him. “You are insufferable.”

“Why can’t I ever get anything good?” he goes on, dramatically throwing himself around. “What’s Abby got that I don’t?! I’m just as hot! I’m—more hot! I even smell good!”

“No, you don’t.” Baby says around a mouthful of banana.

Romance flips him off, not even looking.

You try to walk away. You genuinely try. You even make it two feet toward the hallway before Romance grabs your wrist—not hard, not mean, but persistent. Desperate.

“Y/N. Come on. Tell me. What happened? What did Abby do? Did he—what did he doooo, beautiful? I can take it. I need to know. Come on, baby. Don’t be shy. I know everythingp about you. You always say no—but you want to tell me. I can see it. Look at you. You’re practically vibrating with guilt.” He takes a step forward. His tone’s way too soft. Way too slow. The kind of slow that melts girls. A voice that makes people confess. Die. Orgasm. Or all three. He takes a step forward. “I’ll listen real close. I’ll keep it between us. Just whisper it into my—”

“Nothing happened.” Mystery. He says it calmly. From across the room.

Romance freezes. And for a full beat, the whole room goes silent.

Mystery???

Romance turns slowly toward him, eyes squinted, mouth curled into the most suspicious grimace you’ve ever seen. “What do you mean ‘nothing happened?’ Were you there?”

“I was close enough.” Mystery shrugs. Which is both a lie and not a lie, knowing how he always lurks.

Romance stares at him. He’s clearly trying to calculate if this is a genuine answer or some mind-game trick, but Mystery doesn’t give much away.

Grumbling under his breath, Romance is muttering, “Y’all are so secretive. No one loves me.”

You glance toward Mystery.

He glances back with the smallest smile. One that says you’re welcome.

He saved your ass.

From Romance of all people.

“I would’ve kept it secret, too.” Romance sulks. “I’m so good at secrets. Ask Baby. I know everything about his porn stash.”

“Shut up, dude.”

But they’re already grabbing bags and keys and jackets. They’re getting ready to leave. Showtime. Another appearance. Another day to be evil, cocky, and extremely fine in public.

You watch them go. Just sit back down at the counter. Pour your cereal. Pop your feet up.

My pathetic time skip later, the backstage smells like ego.

Too many colognes. Too much energy bottled in glittering outfits, half-finished soundchecks and makeup chairs abandoned mid-brushstroke. The Saja boys were already bored, leaning against the sleek black walls of the green room, sprawled on couches, chewing on toothpicks and smug silence. But they can feel it, people approaching. Three of them, actually.

“Oh,” Abby says, mouth curling into something cocky. “hi.”

The HUNTR/X girls walk in. Rumi’s blade is already out, Mira has that look she got right before punching someone in the throat, and Zoey is practically vibrating.

Abby just folds his arms. Romance tilts his head, so pretty. Jinu smiles the way only someone invincible can. Mystery steps slightly behind them, silently. And Baby, chewing gum, doesn’t even look up from his phone.

Rumi is the first to talk. “Where is she?”

Romance laughs.

Mira’s blade is up in half a second. “Don’t be stupid.”

“We’re never stupid,” Jinu says, serene. “Just better.”

“You kidnapped our assistant.” Zoey hisses, like she can’t understand it. Because she can’t, not really.

“You lost your assistant.” Baby corrects, finally looking up.

That nearly got him stabbed.

Romance, ever the showman, steps forward, both hands raised like peace signs, though there isn’t a single peaceful thing about his expression. “Let’s not do this here, ladies.” he purrs. “You’re gonna crease your cute little stage outfits.”

Zoey makes a sharp step forward, and that’s enough for Mystery to growl.

And we know that the boys can feel this and that. Perhaps the changes in human body when you talk or think about someone you really really like.

Romance blinks. His nostrils flare. His grin slides sideways.

Abby cocks his head. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

They sensed it. The girls’ bodies—changing. The tiny, unspoken betrayals of physical attraction. The flush, the pulse, the pupils dilating just a bit too wide.

The crushes.

The desire.

The way they feel about you.

“Ohhh nooo.” Romance says, one hand over his heart, pretending to faint. “Girls—how cliché.”

“Shut up.” Mira snaps, swinging her blade.

“We understand.” Jinu says, calm but so obviously not taking the girls seriously. “You want Y/N back.”

“And we want her now.” Mira hisses.

Mystery growles. Not at the girls. At Romance.(??)

Abby smacks Mystery’s chest “Bro. Chill. You’re gonna pop a fang.”

“I like her.” Zoey says suddenly, a little too loud, a little too honest.

All five boys paused.

“You’re so late.” Abby mutters.

Romance collapses into Jinu’s shoulder like he’s fainting. Jinu steps away so Romance nearly falls over.

“We’re done here.” Baby says, brushing past, utterly bored.

Uhuh, no they’re not, the girls attack them. But Romance is laughing, ducking and weaving and dodging blades and yelling over his shoulder: “Y/N has options, ladies!”

Abby blocks a swing and winks. “Don’t worry, we take good care of her.”

“You kidnapped her!”

“Same thing.”

The lights backstage are flickering now, disturbed by the energy in the room. And the boys are laughing. It’s like they’re drunk on the moment, hyped up on adrenaline and too many centuries of not giving a fuck. Abby takes a hit to the shoulder and doesn’t even grunt. Just spins backward, and grins at Romance. “She wants to fight.” he says, clearly delighted. “She’s mad-mad.”

Romance, breathless from laughter and dodging Mira’s blade, nearly falls into the wall as he slaps Abby on the back. “Bro, she said ‘You kidnapped her.’ Like we didn’t know!”

Even Jinu cracks a smile. Zoey throws a knife at him. He catches it mid-air. And just gently… drops it. Baby isn’t even fighting anymore. He’d stopped in front of a full-length mirror, admiring the cut on his lip. Mira tries to strike him again and he dodges, still looking at his reflection. Mystery hid in the fucking shadows?? Asshole. But the smile he wears as he watches Zoey scream? He’d missed this. Missed watching people care this much.

Because they do. The girls care. Zoey has tears in her eyes. Mira’s fists tremble harder than they need to from just combat. And Rumi, god, Rumi looks horrible.

“She helped us.” she says, voice hoarse, blade still raised. “She loved us. And you took her.”

Romance tilts his head. “You ever tell her that?”

Silence.

He smiles. “Didn’t think so.”

“Tell me this isn’t funny.” Abby says, still grinning, rubbing his bruised jaw.

But the girls aren’t stupid. They see it. The way the boys react when they said your name. The twitch in Jinu’s jaw. The split-second flinch on Mystery’s mouth. They know now.

Abby grabs his pecs—yes, full-on cups them—and squishes them together, doing that exaggerated little bounce like he’s got a push-up bra on. Then he lifts his chin, throws his voice a whole octave higher, and croons: “Bring her back… she was, like, our little sunshine… our moral compass…” He fans his face. “Y/NNNN!”

Romance collapses onto Mystery’s back, wheezing, holding his gut like he’s about to die. Even Baby, who hasn’t laughed in a week and a half, snorts and turns to the wall to hide it, shoulders shaking like he can’t help it.

Rumi actually growls. Growls. Zoey throws a blade. Romance catches it and spins it in one hand, still grinning, smug as hell. “Look at ‘em. All protective now. Little too late, don’t you think? You should’ve put a ring on it.”

Mystery doesn’t say a word, but his smirk says plenty. Thriving. His smile only widens when Zoey catches his gaze and freezes for just a second. The tiniest flinch. She’s always flinched when he looked straight at her. That shit is better than drugs.

“Seriously,” Romance says, fake-exasperated, looking between the girls. “you’re all jealous because we’re funnier. And hotter.”

“I’m not jealous.” Rumi snaps, shaking. “I’m angry.”

“Same thing.” Abby shrugs, still jiggling his chest just to be a dick. “We win.”

Suddenly, a headset-wearing staff member pokes his head in through the door, looking very much like someone who had to scream over ten security guards just to get here. “Uh—Saja boys? You’re needed onstage. Now.”

Jinu looks at him. “Already?”

Mystery peels off the wall, calm as ever. Jinu’s already brushing imaginary lint off his sleeves and walking like the hallway is a runway.

And as the boys walk off, shoving each other in that obnoxious way only boys can, still laughing, the girls are left in a storm of fury, desperation… and something they hate more than anything:

Jealousy.

Because the boys don’t just have you. They know it. They revel in it. And worst of all? They’re so fucking funny about it.

Hours later, the front door slammed open like someone kicked it. Laughter exploded down the hall. Loud, messy, boy laughter. Shoes thudded against the hardwood, someone bumped into the wall (probably Abby) Romance is laughing so hard he’s leaning on Baby, who is not laughing. Just smirking a little while elbowing him in the ribs. Abby’s halfway shirtless again, sweat still drying on his skin, flipping a bottle of water upside down over his head like he thinks it’s hot. Jinu looks calm as ever, but his sleeves are a little too perfectly rolled and there’s a gash on his shoulder. Not much to say about Mystery, what do we expect?

You’re on the rug. Some huge designer monstrosity, handwoven by someone who probably had no idea it would become the lounging spot for a tiger the size of a bathtub and even bigger because I’m bad at comparing sizes okay the fuck am I kidding a big cat okay?!

You’re sitting cross-legged, humming to yourself while scratching under his monstrous chin. His tail thumps once. Twice.

“—AND THEN SHE THREW THE DAGGER AT ME,” Romance is shouting. “AND I CAUGHT IT WITH MY MOUTH—”

“No, you didn’t.” Abby interrupts, throwing the bottle across the room(?? asshole). “You screamed like a child and Baby had to teleport you out.”

“I choked on it!” Romance snaps back. “That’s basically the same thing as catching it! Besides, Baby’s obsessed with me, that wasn’t a rescue, it was a kidnapping—”

Baby trips Romance.

You glance up lazily, still scratching Derpy’s jaw. He purrs. The floor vibrates. “Hey.”

They all greet you back at once. A useless, overlapping chorus of:

“Hey, princess.”

“Hi.”

“Yo.”

“Wassup.”

“I missed youuuuuu.”

You roll your eyes but don’t stop petting the tiger. He lifts his head and rests it against your shoulder like a house cat. You smile a little. He’s warm. Your eyes flick up. And boy, they’re beat the fuck up.

Mystery’s knuckles are cut. Romance has a split lip. Jinu’s shirt has three claw marks across the back like someone raked through it (Zoey, probably). Abby’s hair is still slick with sweat, and Baby’s shirt is literally smoking.

Do they say anything about what happened? No.

Abby starts pushing Mystery’s shoulder. “Come on, leg day. You promised.”

But then you get up. Smoothly. Without warning. Grabbing Mystery’s hand.

Deadass.

Your fingers close around his wrist. Warm. Gentle.

“Mm-mm.” you say sweetly. “Mystery’s hanging out with me.”

…to be continued ❤︎︎

Thank you babeee💋

~ thank you for all the support! tags: @lasa27 @limerenceisserenity @zoeisdreaming6 @killinkiwi @xxying-yangxx @bubbleishiaaa @prettylittlelavvy @gl00muraaii @boo-shalala @stxrrielle @vixyvlo @ny0000mw00m @loreleis-world @mshope16 @littlemissfix-itfic @fandomhoedamien @spiderset @azzberry @aerrz3 @tatsuri-zomushiki @theferretkids @apelepikozume @scpdragon @justanindiangirl12 @fuevrois @soggumm @ri-eveowe @lucifers16ducks @elixua @xh01bri @greensunflowerjuna @valeriele3 @lovely-maryj @c0sm1cp0tat0 @wantstoliveinfantasy @i-am-here3 @naarra @confusedparticle @itsberrydreemurstuff @asphodeloss @x-w-a @nosbaby07 @prorpy @blobbyblobblobblobblob @ryukumi @ryuucollapse @rainbowcupcakes23 @nnasv @aika-3 @thegirloftheirdreams

[hearts4hughes]

TOLD YOU SO

clark kent x journalist!reader | warnings: mentions of mugging, mentions of violence, hate towards superman (#supershit)

“superman’s not even that impressive,” you say, setting your coffee down with more force than necessary. you plop into your chair next to clark kent and sigh. the tv above you shows headlines about superman’s newest conquest.

clark doesn’t look up from his desk. “you say that like it’s going to hurt my feelings.” he chuckles, continuing to scribble stuff down on his notepad. you glance over. he’s typing with one hand, glasses slipping slightly down his nose, tie loose. it’s just past 9 am and he already looks like he’s been fighting for his life in the bullpen.

“you act like you know him,” you shoot back, reaching for your planner with an eye roll. “you’ve got this whole boyish glint every time someone mentions him, like you’re president of the fan club.”

clark chuckles, low and amused. “i just think he’s misunderstood. people see the cape and forget he’s out there risking everything for this city.” of course he’d say that. conveniently, he’s the only reporter on the planet who’s had more than one conversation with superman. suspicious, if you were the type to keep a conspiracy board.

you’ve been at the daily planet for about a year now. you came in wide-eyed and ready to put your byline on the pulse of metropolis—investigative features, hard-hitting exposés, maybe even a column. instead, you got a desk next to clark kent—senior reporter, newsroom golden boy, devastatingly handsome in that infuriating, all american way. easily the most annoying man you’ve ever met.

you snort. “he leveled three rooftops last week stopping a runaway bus.” he’s still typing with one hand and scribbling with the other. your eyes shamelessly fall from his face to his figure. those white shirts he always wears make it impossible to stay mad at him.

“the bus didn’t fall off the bridge, though,” clark says, finally glancing at you, mouth tilting up at the corner. “so maybe cut him a little slack?”

“please.” you flip a page in your notes. “he flies around in broad daylight, flirts with reporters, and acts like it’s a favor. he’s a glorified himbo with heat vision.”

clark stifles a grin. “okay, first of all—ouch. second, are you saying if he flirted with you, you’d be annoyed?” he raises his brow with a smirk. he loves teasing you and it’s one of the many things you hate about him.

you look at him flatly. “i’d be unmoved.”

“right.” he leans back in his chair, arms folding slowly over his chest. those arms. “i’ll make sure to pass that along.” you roll your eyes, muttering something about overcompensating. but you can’t stop thinking about that flicker in his eyes when you said you weren’t impressed. the little shift in his smile like maybe he wants you to be.

with a deep exhale, you swivel your chair back toward your desk and get to work, pretending not to notice the way clark’s still watching you. he tries to look away—really, he does. but there’s something about you he can’t shake. he’s hasn’t been able to, not since the first time he caught the scent of your perfume from a mile out. he tells himself it’s harmless. just a crush. but maybe. he lets his feelings get in the way of being superman sometimes. like that one time lex luthor’s wrath swept through the city, and superman evacuated everyone…except your ex-boyfriend. (it did eventually happen, of course. and sure, it may have taken a few extra minutes, but the look of pure panic on that guy’s face was so worth the headline the next morning: is superman getting sloppy?)

“your next article isn’t on my lips, kent.” your voice snaps him out of his thoughts. with a few blinks and the shake of his head, he sits upright and turns back to his computer. you keep your head straight, posture unbothered, but your lips twitch into a smirk.

~

hours later, the city has softened. you’re halfway through one of your usual late-night walks—coat collar turned up, headphones dangling from your pocket, hands shoved deep into your sleeves. the streets around your apartment are quieter than usual. most people are in bed by now, but you’ve always liked the hush between night and morning. it’s the only time metropolis feels like it might breathe.

your mind drifts. not to your article. not to the press deadlines or politics or the new intern who nearly spilled coffee on your keyboard. but to him. to that flicker in clark’s eyes. the smile when you called superman unimpressive. the way his voice dropped just a little when he said, i’ll make sure to pass that along.

you shake the thought off, crossing the street toward the corner bodega. that’s when you hear it. there’s a shuffling sound. it’s too fast—too close. you tug out your headphones and freeze, but you barely have time to register the footsteps before a hand wraps around your wrist and jerks you back, hard. “hey!” you snap, stumbling as your shoulder slams into a wall.

there’s a guy. he’s young and wired-looking—eyes too wide, body too twitchy. there’s a knife in his hand and something wild in his voice. “phone,” he snarls. “bag. now.”

your heart jumps into your throat. you raise your hands slowly, mind racing through every self-defense article you’ve ever written, every sharp-witted comment you should’ve made at the time, every unfinished sentence at your desk. you’re about to decide between a groin kick or an elbow, but he beats you to it.

the wind shifts as if a force just entered the atmosphere. suddenly, the guy is gone. he’s just gone. shoved back so hard he lands against the alley wall with a thud and a startled yell. the knife clatters uselessly to the pavement. in his place, superman stands before you. he lands like something divine, cape flicking behind him, eyes glowing faintly gold beneath his brow. “you alright?” he asks, voice low, rich, undeniably amused.

your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. he steps closer, gaze sweeping down your body. he’s checking for injury, but also looking. you nod, dazed. “yeah. i’m—i’m fine.”

“you sure?” he asks again, eyes still scanning your entire body at lightning speed. you nod fast, teeth buried into your bottom lip. “ok, good.” he sighs and steps back. it seems like he’s about to fly up and disappear to god-knows-where, but he stops. he turns his head back to face you. “maybe next article,” he says, voice low, “you won’t describe me as a nuisance.”

you crane your head to look at him and blink. warmth floods your cheeks. “you read that?” suddenly, every thought out article seems like a children’s book. suddenly, you feel like the biggest joke in all of metropolis.

“page three, under the headline ‘superman stalls traffic in midtown.’” you can’t tell if he’s teasing or genuinely offended, but you feel the weight of it anyway.

“I didn’t mean-” a nervous laugh escapes your lips. your neck burns from how hard you’ve been scratching it.

he lifts a hand. “it’s alright. critics keep me humble.” your throat’s dry. he’s still standing too close, but not in a threatening way. it’s warm, oddly comforting. he knows how much adrenaline is still coursing through your body.

“thank you,” you say finally.

he meets your eyes. there’s nothing smug there. just quiet understanding. “you’re welcome.” then he’s gone. no dramatic exit, no sound, just space where he’d been. you stand there for a moment, alone in the dark, your heart still racing and your mind spinning. maybe you were wrong after all.

~

the daily planet bullpen smells like burnt coffee and deadline panic. so…nothing new. you push through the doors a few minutes later than usual, sunglasses on despite the cloudy weather, iced coffee in hand, and a very deliberate expression of calm indifference. it lasts about ten steps. then clark looks up from his desk. he’s already grinning, practically kicking his feet.

“morning,” he says, voice smooth and all easy, like he didn’t just save you from getting mugged twelve hours ago. “you look well rested.”

you slide your sunglasses onto your head and shoot him a look. “i am rested.”

he hums, tapping a few keys like he’s very focused on his work. “huh. must’ve been a peaceful night in the city, then.” your jaw twitches. you toss your bag onto your chair, take a sip of coffee, and don’t look at him. he keeps going. “no near-death experiences? no high-speed chases? alien invasions?”

you glare. “did you need something, clark?”

he shrugs. “just making conversation. you usually come in ranting about superman’s lack of regard for traffic laws.”

you inhale slowly. look at your screen. then, before you can stop yourself, you murmur, “he’s not that bad.”

clark freezes. not visibly, not enough for anyone else to notice, but you see it. the stillness in his shoulders. the tiny flicker in his eyes. “…what was that?”

you roll your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose. “don’t make me repeat it.”

“no, no,” he says, leaning back in his chair, arms folding across that annoying chest. “by all means, take your time. i’m just a humble reporter trying to process this historic shift in perspective.”

“you’re insufferable.”

“and yet, i’m right.”

you attempt to bite back a smile. “hypothetically,” you say, trying for casual, “if someone were to have a change of heart about superman, it might be because he saved their life. hypothetically.”

clark raises a brow. “well. that would certainly give someone a new perspective.”

“mhm.” you hum, eyes still glued to your computer screen.

he glances at you again. it’s longer this time, quieter. the teasing softens around the edges. “you okay?”

you nod, shoulders relaxing at the question. “yeah. i’m okay.” he studies you for another beat, then nods too, turning back to his screen. but his mouth curls at the corner, just a little. he doesn’t say it out loud, yet it’s all over his face.

told you so.

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @mojitrvo @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife @restinpaece @illumoria @meetmeintheemeraldpool @miaaaoa @imtalkinnonsense @strawberrymilk99 @angel06babysworld @rafesteddy @drewrry @urcoolgf @thegirlnextdoorssister @sydneysslove @dsfault @missabsey @ivysturnss @kisses4rafey @katiebby04 @kelbrave @bebebambs @leviathan0000 @yolgart @jkmylove97 @blushhbambi @lightreadingty

[lilhughesy]

°•*⁀➷ YOU & ETHAN — streets of ann arbor au blurb

in need of a friend

-> associated with this umich hockey gc leaked!

warnings! angst!

a/n: a lil follow up/connection to pt14 of umich gc leaked!

He was over in an instant after hearing you and Luke’s raised voices from the other side of the wall. The hockey house unfortunately had thin walls and the yelling match between you and Luke was heard by anyone who was walking past his room. Ethan saw you burst out of the bedroom, your hair slightly disheveled, mascara smudged and your tear stained cheeks. He saw your glassy eyes as you covered your mouth with the sleeve of your hoodie to hide the sob that slipped past your lips.

You only looked at him for a brief moment before you looked to the floor, quickly making your way out of the house with the loud slam of the front door.

Ethan followed you out, “You shouldn’t be walking home along this late.”

“I do it all the time,” You mumbled, staring at the cement ground, “Eddie, please.”

“No, Luke walks you home every time,” He corrected you, “I can’t let you walk home alone this late, especially when you’re clearly upset. C’mon, I’ll drive you.”

You stood still for a minute as you watched Ethan climb into the drivers seat of his car before you caved and pulled open the door to the passenger side.

“Thanks,” You said quietly, with your hands in your lap and your focus staying down. You could feel his eyes on you, but thankful that he didn’t push or pry for an answer,

“No need to thank me, let’s just get you home.”

He walked you to your door, ensuring you got in safely. You turned to look at him for the first time all evening, your vision was blurry with your eyes brimming with tears that didn’t seem to subside since you left Luke’s room.

“I don’t get it,” You said slowly in attempts to keep your voice steady but with your bottom lip quivering, your words trembled as they left, “I don’t understand him. I thought I did but then when he’s like this… I don’t even know who he is.”

Ethan frowned as he gently stroked your shoulder before pulling you into a comforting embrace, feeling your body shudder as you buried your face into the material on his sweater, “He’s an idiot.”

You let yourself be vulnerable in front of Ethan, with it being too difficult to keep the tears at bay as violent sobs escaped from you. That’s when the sobs come, they were sharp and unexpected, like a broken rib every time you try to breathe. Your hands clutched onto his hoodie, holding onto him almost like he was your lifeline. Like he was the only person who could keep you from falling apart entirely. The fabric bunched beneath your fingers, soft and worn and familiar with his smell clinging to it like safety.

He didn’t move. He didn’t ask questions. Just let you hold on. His hand rested on the back of your head, his thumb brushing a slow rhythm there. It was a quiet kind of comfort, the kind that didn’t need words. But he spoke anyway, voice low and steady against the chaos in your chest.

“You don’t have to keep it together for me. Not right now.”

You sucked in a shaky breath, your voice barely above a whisper, “I didn’t think he’d hurt me like that.”

Ethan’s jaw tightened, but his touch stayed gentle, “I know.”

“I feel so… stupid,” You added, voice cracking, “Like I should’ve seen it coming.”

He leaned back just enough to meet your eyes, but not far enough that you had to let go. He doesn’t say anything right away. Just takes one look at your blotchy cheeks and red eyes and pulls you into him.

You don’t fight it. You press your face into his chest like he’s the only steady thing left. He smells like laundry detergent and campus rink air, and suddenly you’re crying harder.

“I’m sorry,” You choked out although you weren’t sure what you were sorry for.

“Don’t,” Ethan murmured into your hair, arms wrapping tighter around you, “You don’t have to say sorry.”

You feel him shift slightly, guiding you over to the couch. He sits beside you and lets you curl into his side like a bruised thing. He doesn’t push, doesn’t ask for details. Just stays with you in the quiet.

After a few minutes, when your breathing evens out, he finally speaks.

“You didn’t deserve that,” He said softly, “Whatever he said...”

You squeezed your eyes shut, “I don’t even know how he and I got here.”

Ethan exhaled a long and slow breath, “Sometimes people say things they don’t mean when they’re scared. Luke’s got a good heart, but that doesn’t mean he’s always going to get it right.”

You blinked up at him, “Then why are you here?”

He looked at you like it’s the easiest question in the world, “Because you needed a friend, and I’m not gonna let you cry alone.”

There’s something in his eyes, something that was steady, something that doesn’t flinch in the face of your mess. It breaks you a little more, but in the softest way.

[yasministration]

after noon - harry potter

concussions and interruptions au summary: sirius and james are left at the potter household while lily, remus and harry are at hogsmeade. when you wake up from your peaceful slumber, they suggest a fun way to spend the day, but there's one flaw to their plan: you can't ride a bike. wc: 1.5k+ divider by @diviniyae

The Potter Manor was oddly empty for a Sunday morning. Usually, the house would be packed, at least six people inside at all times. However, today Lily and Remus were headed down to Diagon Alley, and Lily had insisted that her son was in dire need of some new summer clothes. So of course, Harry had been dragged with them. The invitation had been extended to you, but despite Harry’s begging for you to come along, you wanted to sleep in more than anything.

That left you with James and Sirius, who were laying on the grass outside in nothing but swim trunks. You had found them there when you trodded down the stairs, still in your pyjamas, spotting them through the tall glass windows of the Manor’s living room. You immediately detoured back to Harry’s bedroom, changing into a bikini, which you threw a pair of shorts over. Then, you had joined your boyfriend’s dad and his best friend outside, not saying a single word as you stretched out on the grass next to them.

“Good afternoon, sleeping beauty.” James had said with a wide grin, and you simply replied with “It’s not that late.”

”It’s a quarter past twelve. So, it actually is.” Sirius said.

“Right, but that’s not the afternoon, that’s after noon.”

“That’s the same thing, love.” You didn’t answer Mr. Potter’s argument, staring out at the lake in the distance, water rippling under the sun. Instead, you hummed, turning onto your stomach and laying your head down onto your arms, sighing at the warmth that engulfed you.

“You know what we should do?” James asked, turning his head towards Sirius, running a hand through his tangled curls. “We should go to that biking trail by the beach. Have some lunch then take a dip in the water.”

“That’s a lovely way to spend the day. I reckon Lils and Rem will be gone for a few more hours.”

“Yeah, what do you think?” You felt the two men’s attention turn towards you, and you moved your head towards them, squinting as the sun’s rays attacked your vision. “You guys can go ahead.” Both James and Sirius frowned at your words, expecting you to be on board with their plan. It sounded like a day you’d enjoy. At least to them.

“You don’t want to come?” Asked James, glancing back at Sirius, who held a matching expression on his face. You pushed yourself up, clearing your throat as you thought of a way to gather your words. “It’s not that I don’t want to come. I just can’t.”

That made the two best friends more confused, but then Sirius’s face fell into one of understanding. James caught onto his best friend’s expression, looking back and forth between the two of you. “Why not? Oh, are you on your period? We don’t have to swim then, we’ll all-”

“James.” Sirius muttered, shaking his head.

James sat up, running a hand through his short beard as he shrugged. “What? I’m serious-” “Mr. Potter, that’s not the issue. I just- I can’t ride a bike.”

“Oh. You never learned?” You shook your head slowly, smiling sadly at him as you repeated your parents’ words to him. “What does a classy pureblooded woman need to ride a bike for? It’s very unladylike.” James scoffed, standing up and walking away from you and Sirius, towards the side of the house. He returned a few moments later, poking his head around the house to see you.

“Well, come on!” You and Sirius stood up in synchrony, following James. When you rounded the corner, your eyes widened at the sight of the bicycle James was rolling towards the street. You stopped in your tracks, shaking your head quickly. Sirius noticed, tilting his head to the side with an encouraging smile.

“It’s easy, you know? Once you get over the initial fear.”

“When did you learn to bike?”

“Second or third year.”

James, who was already on the empty street, turned around to speak to you, furrowing his eyebrows when he didn’t find you or Sirius there. He parked the bike on the side of the road, retracing his footsteps. When he found you with Sirius’s hand on your shoulder, speaking quietly to you, he immediately understood what was going on.

He called out your name once, causing both you and Sirius’s heads to snap towards him. “We’ll do a demonstration for you. I promise you’ll be able to do it.”

“What if I fall?” Your voice was small when you asked, and James instantly felt his heart inflate in his chest. He stepped towards you slowly, extending his hands towards you. “I promise you won’t. And if you do, I’ll catch you before you hit the ground. Okay?” You didn’t look entirely convinced, but you took James’s hands anyway, and that was enough for him.

“Alright, do you want to get on?” He asked, but you stubbornly shook your head. “No, I want the demonstration.”

“Yeah mate. Keep your promises.” James laughed at Sirius’s words, putting his hands up in surrender before climbing on the bike. It was a little small for him, but he didn’t seem to mind, kicking away the stopper.

“Okay, biking is all about speed.” He started pedalling slowly, and the bike wobbled from side to side. You grimaced, fearing that he would fall. “You see how unstable it is like this?” You nodded, watching as James began increasing the speed of which he pedalled at. The bike’s movements became smoother, and he guided it down the road, before making a sharp turn and coming back.

“But when I started going faster, it became more stable, right? You just have to be confident. If you want to stop, use this breaks,” He demonstrated for you, slowing the bike down and putting his feet on the floor. “And that’s how you ride a bike. Your turn, hon.”

You shuffled closer to James, taking his spot on the bike. “You’ll stay next to me?” James grinned widely, nodding assuredly. You sighed, looking up at the blue sky and groaned. “I just wanted to tan.” James and Sirius both laughed loudly, and you looked back down, gripping the steering tightly and bringing a foot up to the pedal.

“Quickly, remember?” You nodded your head at James’s reminder, lifting your second foot off the ground, before immediately returning it to the floor. You shook your head. James leaned forward, wrapping a strong hand around the middle of the bike’s handle, his second hand gripping the rear bike rack tightly.

“I’ve got you.” His promise was correct, because when you lifted your second foot on the ground, the bike stayed straight. You began pedalling, and James began trotting next to you, his hands loosening on the bike. You sped your legs up as he let go of the bike, grinning widely when you realised that you weren’t falling yet. James ran faster next to you, laughing joyously.

“You’re doing it!” He cried, just in time for a lady with a stroller to walk out of her house. She continued onto the road without realising you were heading her way, and you shrieked loudly as you grasped the breaks, the bike coming to an abrupt stop that had your feet flying off their spots on the pedals to slam on the ground.

The bike wobbled, leaning towards the side, but two hands immediately flew to grip the the handles, stopping it from toppling over. The lady only shot you and James a dirty look, which he returned right at her, before looking back towards you. You panted heavily, swinging a leg over the side of the bike to stand next to it. “Okay, that’s enough for one day.” You decided, biting your bottom lip.

“You’re gonna have to do the walk of shame and drag it back, then.”

“Or you can just ride it back.” You countered, shrugging your shoulders. James nodded, sitting down on the seat. “Okay, sit down.”

“What?”

“On the rack.”

“Oh no, I’m totally gonna fall off then.”

But James didn’t budge, keeping his eyes trained on you. Clearing your throat, you huffed, sitting on the uncomfortable rack and leaning forward to tightly grip James’s shoulders. “Steady?” He asked, glancing back. You nodded. “Feet off the ground.” You hesitated before following his orders, squeaking quietly when he began biking away.

You folded your legs back, making sure to leave plenty of space for James to pedal back down the street. He gradually slowed the bike down, but it didn’t stop you from slamming into his back when coming to a full stop. James chuckled, waiting for you to get off the bike before following you.

Your legs felt wobbly when you finally stood, and you cleared your throat, looking between the two adults. Between the two of them, they seemed very proud. “Okay, I do have to say, that was way easier than riding a broom.”

A long silence settled between the two men, and for a moment, you thought they hadn’t heard you. But when you glanced between them, spotting the looks of disbelief on their faces, you knew you had made a mistake. Not that you had offended them, no, but that you had encouraged them to teach you something new.

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[wynnevee]

Bob getting injured and being taken care of by sunshine nurse(that he has been crushing on for ages) that makes him so red faced and stutter so much she thinks he has a concussion<33333

sunshine

bob floyd x reader

synopsis: a hot day lands bob in your clinic and his love drunk state gives you cause for concern

warnings: mentions of heat stroke, dehydration, and concussion, and poorly explained medical stuff lol sorry i’m an english major

notes: i hope you enjoy!!

“fuckin’ maverick,” hangman grumbles, struggling to keep his teammate up on his arm. “it’s a million degrees out there and he makes us run circuits? and now look at this: poor bobby’s gone and caught heat stroke.”

“not heat stroke,” bob groaned from his side, hanging onto him and rooster for dear life. “dehydration.”

“i think i’m the judge of that,” you jumped in, clipboard already in hand. it had been a long day; jake was right, it was hot as hell and you had had at least twelve soldiers in your clinic since noon.

as soon as bob lifts his head, his already pink cheeks turned a deeper shade of red.

months of brushing shoulders and shy smiles had only solidified for floyd that you were the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. kind, too, and so full of laughter and light.

the embodiment of sunshine.

you gave out lollipops and colorful bandages to everyone that passed through your clinic—even when maverick had cut his cheek the other day, you’d stuck a hello kitty bandaid on it and shoved a sucker in his mouth before he could protest.

every little aspect of you that bob discovered made him fall deeper and deeper.

and it may have just been the spots in his vision, but at this moment, he swore he could see actual sunlight seeping from your pores.

you smiled gently, moving past so the other men could set him down on an open cot—bob just looked at you wide eyed, wistful.

“hello lieutenant floyd,” you greeted, helping him lean back against the pillows. “we have gotta stop meeting like this.”

“hi,” bob answered airily, still blushing furiously. “yeah, it’s… it’s nice to—to see you again.”

god help him, he couldn’t even he make it through a full sentence.

your brow furrowed and you brought a gentle hand to press against his cheek and then his forehead. you checked off two boxes quickly. “well, you’re certainly warm. are you experiencing any dizziness or nausea?”

bob nodded quickly, trying to stop himself from leaning into your touch. your hands were so soft and so cold. he could engulf them in his and warm you right up. “a— a little dizzy…” he finally answered, eyes flickering down from your face.

“maybe not all from the heat,” hangman teased.

you looked down your checklist, checking off another box, and then two more. dizziness, flushed face, darting eyes, stuttering…

you raised a brow, turning to look at jake and rooster. “he hit his head?”

rooster shook his head. “no ma’am. he was feeling dizzy but maverick saw and told us to take him here right away.”

you frowned, putting on your stethoscope, pressing it to his chest just over his heart.

“oh bobby, honey, your heart is racing!”

bob frowns—you sound so worried. he doesn’t want you to worry over him, he wants to see a smile on your pretty face.

you return the stethoscope to your neck, grabbing a cold bottle of water from your fridge, as well as a pack of fruit snacks and crackers. “now are you sure you didn’t hit your head, sweetheart?”

bob took the goodies, briefly distracted by the way your fingers brushed against his. “yes ma’am. i’m— i’m okay, really, i just gotta take better care of myself.”

you smiled, patting his cheek gently. “damn right. can’t have you wasting away before you finally ask me out on that date.”

bob chokes on the water, and jake coughs on his own saliva. “w—what?” bob stammers, looking adorably confused.

you smile teasingly, shrugging. “what did you think i gave you those heart shaped suckers for?”

[iamgonnagetyouback]

hii! hope ur doin well

could i request box #12 + peter parker ?

tysm :))

peter can’t stop showing off the little doodles you drew on his hand—even in the middle of saving someone’s life and oh maybe he loves you

0.5k cw: lovesick!peter, fluff, love realization in the cutest way possible box #12: “the moment they realized they loved you”

earlier that day...

you’re sitting across from him at your tiny cafe table, chewing your pen cap and blinking at your notes, trying to figure out if sam really did buy 2,000 apples like the answer you had got said. peter on the other hand, having given up on sam and maths, stretched with his hand lazily across the table, fingers drumming in boredom while he waits for your attention.

“ugh, i've never been so bored and confused,” you mutter, snatching his hand and playing with his fingers.

"i'd rather watch paint dry," he groans as he ignores the tiny tingles your touch sends to his skin. you grab your pen as you sneakily bring it near his hand.

“what—what are you doing?” he asks, immediately still.

“decorating,” you hum.

you doodle a tiny heart near his thumb, followed by a smiley face on his wrist, and then—because you’re feeling dramatic (and bored)—you write in the smallest possible letters: p + ? (your intial)

he snorts. “real subtle.”

you grin. “you’re welcome.”

and even though it’s barely visible, and probably already smudging into the lines of his palm, peter stares at it like you just handed him a confession in cursive.

later that evening...

the city’s loud. full of car horns and sirens and people yelling, but peter’s got tunnel vision because there’s a guy dangling off a fire escape by nothing but sheer panic and a very untrustworthy shoe.

peter swings in like a blur, snags the guy by the arm, and lifts him onto the rooftop like he weighs nothing.

“you’re good,” peter says, setting him down gently.

“you’re… spider-man,” the guy gasps, clutching his chest. “i almost died.”

but peter? peter’s not even here right now.

he holds up his hand, the one you doodled on hours ago. it’s a little smeared but still there—heart, smiley, and that random “p + ?” that’s got him internally screaming.

“she drew this,” he murmurs, starry-eyed behind the mask.

the guy squints. “…who did?”

“her,” peter sighs. “the girl. my girl. she drew this on my hand this morning. i think she loves me.”

wait.

wait, wait.

oh no.

it hits him like a train. like, hard.

he’s in love with you. completely, totally, annoyingly in love with you. no one’s ever made him feel this soft. this… stupid.

he’s so screwed.

the guy though, freshly traumatized and still catching his breath, stares.

peter turns the hand toward him, like he expects feedback.

“…i think,” the guy says slowly, “i mean. not to kill the vibe, man. but i’m still kind of… traumatized from the nearly dying and clinging to life thing you know?”

peter laughs, salutes him, and slings a web off the edge of the building. “she’s gonna love this story. like i love her. oh my god, i love her!”

the guy just lies back on the roof tiles, sighs deeply, and mutters, “i need some coffee.”

a/n: hii darling !! i’m doing so so well, ty for asking. i hope you are too !! tysm for celebrating with me—it means the world

[killinkiwi]

This Life Isn't Happening, Is It?

Part Three of My Little Soda Pop

Summary: Your interaction with Abs at the bathhouse leaves you with mixed emotions running through your system. A particular girl group run-in has going to the mini-award show, but not for Saja Boys. So what does our favorite muscled demon think?

Content Warning: Language, Horniness But No Sex Yet, Anxious Thoughts, Yandere Vibes, Red Flag Energy

Check Out Part 1 and Part 2

This was more of a filler chapter, I won't lie. There was a lot I wanted to do but it didn't feel right trying to cram it into one chapter so I decided to break it up.

Writer's block is a bitch, so I am sorry if it's not as good as the other chapters, but I hope you all enjoy Part 3 of MLSP.

Enjoy!

-

“What the fuck?” You mumbled to yourself, staring at the now empty hallway.

You still felt rather dazed and horny, unsure where your head was at after that interaction – what was happening? How was this real life?

But regardless of your existential crisis, you still felt confused because how did the Abs Saja know your name? Did you accidentally give it to him at some point? You tried to sort through the memory of the entire conversation, but it felt so muddled and frankly unreal.

“I will see you again soon, Y/N…”

The way he said your name, his baritone voice low and lips twisted up in a smirk, it was enough that you needed that cold shower now. His voice echoed, as if he was still standing behind you, whispering it in your ear.

Your body felt hot as if you were sitting in the sauna once more, the flush settling deep in your skin. Your chest heaved as the breath you caught escaped just as quickly. You tried to fan yourself with your hand, but nothing seemed to help. It was like a spell was cast, your vision swimming as a dizzy heat crept along your soul. There was only one way to quench it…

“Miss, are you okay?” You jumped at the sudden sound of one of the staff approaching you. “Oh! I am sorry, I did not mean to startle you. We saw you standing here for a bit and wanted to ensure you were okay.” The attendant genuinely looked concerned at your state, unaware that the reason for it ran out the front door in a flash of pink.

You cleared your throat, mouth clammy from thirst. “No, no I am okay. I apologize, I was hot in the sauna and came to get some tea, but I dropped it.” You looked down behind you, seeing the puddle and your coin purse next to it and thankfully not drenched in it. You crouched down to pick up the little red purse only to have a revelation.

Oh my god, you’re a dumbass. Your name is stitched into the purse.

The bright yellow stitching of your name stark against the red fabric on the purse. It was a gift from your grandma when you were little. “Red brings wealth into the wallet and, with this, to you” she claimed when she gifted the little purse to you with fifty-thousand won. You have had the old fabric wallet for so long you honestly forget your name was on there.

Abby must have seen the little purse. That’s how he knew your name.

The attendant interrupted your thoughts once more, “Oh not to worry! We will clean that up. Please, go continue to enjoy the amenities when you feel well enough. Let us know if you need anything.”

After ensuring multiple times she did not want your assistance in cleaning the mess up, you shuffled back into the locker room to rinse off.

Your skin remained feverish, the surface pink and warm to the touch. You slipped on your shower shoes and threw yourself into a shower stall, barely removing your robe before turning on the shower to its iciest setting.

Abby. He was all you could think about. You could still hear his deep voice as he teased you. The way he smiled at you like he was a predator cornering his prey, plush lips flashing behind your closed eyes. You could still feel the warmth of his hands against your skin as he held you to his chest, his cologne sticking to your skin. The way his muscular arms flexed around your frame as he held you tightly.

You leaned back against the icy tile of the shower, trying to regulate your breathing and calm the raging want your system seemed to be experiencing. This was too much in one damn day and you REFUSED to masturbate in a public bathhouse. Hell no!

You stood under the freezing water for what felt like hours before your body began to cool and your mind finally calmed.

Only once the flush in your skin finally disappeared and your teeth started to chatter did you decide to step out. You quickly dried yourself off and dressed, throwing your wet hair up into a bun and hiding it under your hoodie. You grimaced when you glanced at the time at your phone. It was pretty late, and Missus was probably angrily awaiting food at this point.

By the time you returned your key and stepped outside, the sun had set and the moon filled the sky.

You didn’t mean to spend so much time in the bathhouse, but it felt amazing so no regrets. With a newfound sense of peace, you began to walk towards the bus stop on the other side of the bathhouse. There were only a few buses running this late so it would be a few minutes before it would arrive.

As you walked towards the bus stop, you found yourself humming Soda Pop once more. It was too damn catchy.

However, just as you started you stopped, the hair on the back of your neck standing up as an icy shadow climbed along your spine. Perhaps it was the chill of the night air, but your paranoia spoke otherwise.

You’re being watched.

You froze momentarily, listening to the eerie silence that seemed to ensnare the street. There was an unsettling heaviness on you, heart pounding at the sensation of eyes staring. No one appeared to be around as you glanced around, but the way your anxiety was suddenly rising convinced you that someone was indeed watching you.

You just couldn't see them.

You finally begin to move again, pace picking up as you felt someone or something trailing after you. You rounded the corner of the building, borderline jogging as you did, and stared down at the bus stop at the end of the street. It was empty, the orange streetlight casting a warm glow on the little covered station.

Only a few more yards and you’d be safe, right?

Before you could make it much further, the door of the men’s bath house swung open, a black mass rushed out and rammed straight into you.

You felt your poor heart stop for a second, a scream leaving your lips at the sudden flurry of action. You lost your balance as you skittered backwards, falling off the curb and landing on your side, your shoulder connecting with the ground harshly.

“Oh my gosh, I- we are so sorry!”

“Are you okay?!”

“Help her up!”

As you caught your breath for the hundredth time tonight, you felt gentle hands lightly touch your arm, a small voice asking, “Hey, are you okay?”

Despite your heart still racing, you felt a flash of anger. Of course you weren’t okay!

You snapped your head to look up at the offender, only to feel your retort dissolve as you were rendered speechless once more today.

Because why was Zoey from HUNTR/X here? In fact – why was all of HUNTR/X here?

What ultimate karma did you have that two idol groups would literally connect with you in one night? Were you living some type of fanfiction on Tumblr? This cannot be real.

You sat up, hissing as pain throbbed throughout your shoulder from the fall. “Oh gosh, careful! Take it slow,” Zoey warned, keeping a hand on your back.

“That was quite the fall, you okay?” Mira asked, long pink hair swaying with the breeze as she looked down at you with a concerned glare.

“Oh, um, yeah…” you trailed off, completely gobsmacked, and without much thought just blurted out, “You’re HUNTR/X.”

The concern was still written on the three girls’ faces as they stared at you, but they couldn’t help but smile at you. “Uh yes, yes we are. And we are so sorry!” Rumi, the leader, apologized once again, a blush of shame set on her tan skin. She was wearing much heavier makeup than you had seen her in before, but she sincerely rocked the heavy black eyeliner.

Holy shit, they’re even prettier in real life.

You scrambled to stand up from the rocky street, face beat red from embarrassment as you swiped rubble from your hoodie, bowing slightly as Zoey handed you your tote that scattered when you fell. “No, it’s totally fine. It was an accident; you were just leaving theeeeee men’s bathhouse?” You questioned, eyeing the opaque door they had come barreling through.

All three girls turned just as red as you, looking every which way but at your face.

“Oh, yeah, no-“

“Complete accident.”

“Men’s! Wrong one!”

The three girls fumbled over their words, each one attempting to cover their own ass as to why they were in the men’s bathhouse. Rumi finally took over, explaining, “We just finished the game show and came over here for a soak, but we got the wrong one it seems.”

“Oh,” you nodded your head in understanding. “Makes sense, the women’s is on the other side, but I guess that wasn’t labeled too well.” In the girl’s defense, nowhere on the large lit-up sign did it specify MEN’S bathhouse, that was only in small font on the door.

The four of you stood awkwardly for a second before your soul couldn’t take it any longer and you started to gush, “Okay, I am sorry, but I am a huge fan and I just- these outfits? Super badass! The leather and black makeup with the beat up look? So freaking cool!”

The girls instantly started cooing alongside you, thanking you for your kind words.

“I also love Golden, it really helped pull me out of a really dark time in my life and I just really love you guys,” you felt tears well up in your eyes as your heart swelled with emotion.

The girls also looked teary-eyed at your confession, Zoey and Rumi sniffling together as Mira covered her mouth. “We love you too!” They cried out. You always knew they loved their fans, but this was proving to you that they genuinely cared for their fans too.

“If it isn’t too much trouble, can I get a photo with you, please?”

“Oh my gosh- yes!” Zoey cheered, instantly snatching your phone to help take a selfie. “Alrighty, everyone squeeze in together and sayyyy Golden!”

You squished between Mira and Rumi, Zoey standing in front of you and raising the phone so you all could fit in on the screen. The girls put up a variety of finger hearts and peace signs, big smiles on their faces as they cheered their new single. Your cheeks hurt with how big you smiled, a sincere smile at that. You felt golden in that moment.

Of course, your bus would be arriving now to cut the moment short.  

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” You gushed once more, smile ear to ear now as you stared at the selfie. “I should get going, my bus is here but thank you again. This means so much to me!”

“You’re so welcome!” They chorused.

Rumi spoke up, “And if you want, please come support us at some of the award shows!”

“Oh! And don’t forget about our signing event next weekend too!” Zoey shouted happily.

“Yeah,” Mira smiled, “We would love to have you there.”

You gave them two thumbs up, “I will be there! Thank you!”

With a wave you ran off, barely catching the bus much to the chagrin of the grumpy looking driver. You couldn’t be bothered though because holy shit you just meant the HUNTR/X! You got a selfie and a personal invitation to the award shows?! Freaking unbelievable!

As you sat on the small bus, riding home, you changed your lockscreen to the selfie you had taken together, once again beaming at the image.

Blissfully unaware, once more, of the rageful shadow watching you from the roof as the bus drove you away. Stormy golden eyes glared at the vehicle, hissing a hateful snarl as he felt a little bit of his control slip from your mind from your interaction with the hunters.

“Those fucking bitches.”

-

It was finally Friday, the work week was finished, and you could not wait for tonight.

After your meeting with HUNTR/X outside the bathhouse, you immediately went online to see if there were tickets available for the mini-award shows. You managed to snag a ticket to the show tonight and you were beyond excited.

Several other idol groups would perform tonight, such as TWICE, KARD, and rumors of STRAY KIDS. But you were there to support HUNTR/X, ready to cheer your girls on.

Although you felt guilty about admitting it, you were there for Saja Boys too. They had quickly become a nationwide sensation with Soda Pop. They trended on social media, fans making TikTok dance trends to them, creating merch and make-up looks. The fans were making edits of the boys, clips of Baby winning the hot sauce challenge on Play Games With Us being popular. His nonchalant win and “Goo-goo-ga-ga” sent everyone into a feral frenzy.

You also may have zoomed in on a certain someone’s abs one too many times during the show but who was watching?

“Heels, nails, blade, mascara,” you sang along to your playlist as you got yourself ready, voguing a bit to the chorus. “Fit check for my napalm area. Need to beat my face, make it cute and savage. Mirror mirror on my phone, who’s the baddest? Us, hello?”

And you felt badass.

You were wearing a black crop top with the HUNTR/X logo shining in purple and gold letters, little glittering stars surrounding the words. You decided to go with high-waisted black shorts paired with fishnet stockings underneath.

You went with a more golden look for your makeup, donning a smokey eyeshadow with glittery gold inside. Your eyeliner was sharp, eyelashes long and dark from mascara, highlighter shimmering on your blushed cheeks and nose. All you needed was some lip gloss and your look would be complete.

A sudden clatter came from the other side of the bathroom door. You paused your rummaging for the lip product, listening for any further disturbance. It was otherwise silent from the music coming from your mini-speaker on the counter.

“Missus?” You called out as you opened the door to look into your room. “Are you getting into something you’re not supposed to?”

The furry culprit was nowhere to be seen in the room, but the crime scene was evident.

There, lying in the middle of the floor, was your Saja Boys light stick, too far from the shelf it had been sitting on. Missus must have been climbing on the shelves again and knocked it over, fleeing the scene after her crime was committed.

You walked over and picked it up, inspecting it for any cracks or damage. Nothing appeared broken, but you felt the lion’s eye taunting you, almost asking:

Shouldn’t you support us, Saja Boys?

As if your playlist heard it, Soda Pop started blaring from your speaker – seemingly louder than before. Weird, because you don’t remember adding the song to this playlist.

You settled the light stick into its stand on the shelf before walking back into the bathroom to look at your phone. Sure enough, the playlist was closed out and the boy’s single was playing on its own. Strange.

You did not dwell on it long. The clock on your phone showed it was already half past six and you needed to get to the venue ASAP. You swiped on the gloss and rushed out of the bathroom, grabbing your purse and HUNTR/X light stick.

“Be good, Missus,” you warned the lazy cat as you struggled to put on your boots. “No more climbing on shelves. You could break something or even hurt yourself.” She simply flipped onto her back in the hammock, ignoring your scoldings.

Afterall, she didn’t do anything.

Boots on, door locked, you were running to the bus stop.

-

All the groups had finished performing, HUNTR/X second to last with How It’s Done as Rumi’s voice still was not fully healed, and they didn’t want her to harm it further. It was still an amazing performance, but you were a little saddened not to see Golden live still. However, you still cheered from your spot in the back, waving your lit-up wand and screaming for the girls.

Then came Saja Boys.

Truthfully, they stole the stage with Soda Pop. This was their second performance of it live and it was even more spectacular than the first. The flash of abs, body rolling, the kisses at the crowd – their stage presence was dominating and everyone swooned over them. Yourself included.

It was time for the awards now, the groups of idols on stage shifting nervously as this dictated who would go to the next round and ultimately to the Idol Award Show of the year.

It was neck and neck, the only unnamed victors being Saja Boys and HUNTR/X, but only one could place first.

Both groups stood on opposite sides of the stages, looking calm and waving at the crowd as they waited for the dramatic announcement.

“And this week’s winner is…” the announcer drawled, “Soda Pop by the Saja Boys!”

The crowd erupted into cheers, flowers thrown on stage at the boy band as they bowed and smiled. They waved and blew kisses as the host had them move center stage, a mic stand appearing so they could give a mini speech to their fans.

“Thank you to everyone who has streamed Soda Pop,” Jinu said, holding a large bouquet of roses and smiling at the crowd, “We love you all so much and could not be here if it wasn’t for you, our fans.”

Your eyes wandered from the leader and surveyed the other members, appreciating their appearances when you felt your blood freeze as you made eye contact with one member in particular.

There was no way he could see you, right? You were all the way in the back for heaven’s sake.

Maybe it was your delusional hope, but Abby’s eyes were seemingly locked on you. He waved to the crowd and smiled, but his eyes never once left yours and it made your heart race with anxious glee. A blush settled on your cheeks under his power gaze. Your weak knees nearly giving out as he darted his tongue out, wetting his lips…

“And please, join our fan club, join the Pride,” Jinu was finishing his speech and finally, your and Abby’s staring contes broke as he looked away towards the crowd. “We need you, our fans. And never forget, Saja Boys love you.”

Soda Pop began to play as confetti showered down on the crowd, the boys bowing while hoots and hollers filled the venue. The idols began to file off stage, bowing and waving at their fans as they went. After the stage emptied, the crowd quickly disbanded, and people began to shuffle out. You chose to sit there and wait, no point in fighting to walk out of the venue only to run to the bus stop and try to squeeze into an overly crowded bus. It was easier to just sit and wait here for a little bit and scroll on your phone.

The venue hall was empty now, five minutes had passed but you could still hear the crowds outside the room, the hallways echoing with various conversations and cheers, the vendors shouting to buy merch at a discounted price. Meanwhile, you were scrolling through Instagram, chortling to yourself at the memes that filled your page.

“I was hoping you’d be here.”

Your soul nearly left your body as a familiar deep voice whispered in your ear. You knew that voice all too well at this point. Snapping your head to look behind you, you gasped as his face was mere inches from yours, noses practically touching.

Abby.

“Holy shit,” you scrambled to stand up and create some distance from the idol, hand over your pounding heart. “You scared me!”

He chuckled, standing up straight from bending over to whisper in your ear. “Well, you were so deep into your doom scrolling it was easy to sneak up on you – I didn’t even have to try.”

A strong blush dusted your cheeks, embarrassment filling your face. “I wasn’t doom scrolling!” You defended yourself, “I’m just waiting for the crowds to die down so I can go home.”

“Hmmm, I see. A solid plan,” the fuchsia-haired smirked. “I suppose I should be thankful for it. Afterall, it allowed me to come see my traitorous lioness.”

Your brows scrunched together, a frown marring your face as you echoed, “Traitorous?”

He motioned at your outfit, “Well clearly you weren’t here to support me, were you?”

You struggled to make an excuse, how could you? You were wearing a HUNTR/X shirt and holding their light stick around your wrist.

“You look so beautiful, yet none of this was for me,” he gave you a mock pout, an angry mischief glinting in his dark eyes. “Gotta say, I am disappointed in you, Y/N.”

You looked down, tears welling up in your eyes as your emotions became a jumbled mess. Why were you crying over this?

“Because you’re pathetic.”

You had no time to register the whispering voice, Abby’s cologne invading your senses as he suddenly towered over you. “Babygirl,” he cooed, a finger hooking under your chin, bringing your watery gaze up to his. “Oh baby, don’t cry. I’m not mad.”

This was so fucking embarrassing.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled through wobbly lips, shame building in your system from this conversation, but also because you disappointed him. “I’ve been a fan for awhile and-“

He shushed you, stopping you from talking any further. “I forgive you,” he nodded, an insincere smile on his lips. “So, let’s not wear this next time, okay? I want you all to myself.”

His fingers fell from your chin, instead falling to the bottom of your crop top. The back of his knuckles grazed your stomach as he tugged at the offending fabric of your shirt. “I said it last time we talked, Y/N,” he looked down at you through his thick lashes. “I want you in my shirt, screaming my name…”

Your breath stuttered as a whole new warmth settled in your system, eyes widening and cheeks blushing at his statement.

You imagination tortured you, images conjuring in your mind - you underneath him, partially wearing his button-up, screaming his name as he fucked you...

He was talking about supporting them, Y/N, get your mind out of the gutter.

“I’ll wear the Saja Boy merch next time, I promise,” you mumbled, your mental state overstimulated by the roller coaster of emotions this man seemed to bring.

“Good girl,” his voice lowered as he praised you, your knees weakening at his statement.

Fuck, you wanted him.

You both stood silently for a moment, him simply studying you while you tried not to have a panic attack when your phone screen lit up with a notification from Snapchat. Abby’s eyes were drawn to your phone, a disapproving ‘tsk’ from him as he saw your lockscreen.

“Let’s change that picture, shall we?” It was less of a question, more of a command that you felt like you had no choice but follow. “Give me your phone, we can take a photo together.”

You shakily opened the camera and handed him the small device, the phone looking even tinier in his large hand. He lifted the phone up, getting you both in the frame for a second before he made a humming noise, “Not good enough.”

His hand was suddenly on your bare waist, dragging you to his side. Your chest lay flat against his side, the HUNTR/X logo hidden from the view of the photo.

“There we go, much better,” he smiled down at your blushing face. “Wrap your arms around me.”

Your head snapped up, shocked at the command. Did you mishear him? “What?”

“I said,” he drawled, lowering his voice more, “Wrap your arms around me, Y/N.”

Your arms snaked around his fit waist, feeling the sturdy muscles as you slid your hands around.

You were going to pass out at this rate.

He smiled at you and looked back at the phone. “Good, now smile for the camera and say ‘Abby’.”

Your cheeks were red, eyes crinkled as you smiled while saying his name. He smiled for the photo, sharp canines on display as he did. Once the photo clicked, you dislodged from him, giving the idol space and truthfully trying to regulate yourself. This was beyond overwhelming and you couldn't tell if you needed to run away, beg for death, or beg to be fucked.

“And there we go,” he sang you out of your internal turmoil. He was finishing setting the photo as your new lockscreen before handing the phone back to you. “Now you’ll always know who you belong to, Saja Boys.” He said with a wink.

You nodded your head dumbly, not a single thought forming there.

He smirked once more at you before turning his head to the doors. “Sounds like things have cleared out, you should start heading home before it gets much later.”

Right, heading home. It was getting late, and the buses would be a bit emptier now.

“Um, yeah, thank you,” you mumbled, unable to speak properly it seems. “I will head out now, thank you again for taking a photo with me.” You bowed before brushing past him, nerves on high alert.

“You’re welcome. Oh, and Y/N…” You stopped to look at him, his hands in his jean pockets and body language relaxed. His dark eyes met yours while he teased, “Get home safe. We don’t want any other demons to get you, right?”

Your head nodded on autopilot, “Will do, thank you, Abby.”

He smirked, “My pleasure, babygirl. See you soon!”

You scurried out the door, no longer looking back to see how his smile dropped and his eyes glow golden. A small snarl formed on his lips right before he vanished, only wisps of pink left behind.

You ran through the empty halls, boots squeaking loudly. You burst through the doors outside, the air crisp and chilling on your skin. You hurried down the stairs and around the corner and down to the bus station where a bus had just pulled up. Just in time.

Aftwe swiping your T-card, you walked to a seat at the back of the bus, flopping down onto the uncomfortable chair. You felt exhausted now.

There were only a few people on the bus with you, but you couldn’t pay them any attention. You just stared down at your phone lockscreen, admiring the new photo with utter disbelief and want.

What the hell was happening?

-

[iamthatonefangirl]

this just have been on my mind, i don't think I ever saw someone talk about but: CEO!Bucky with a loser!reader. bear with me, he's rich, he is a respectable man, has the fanciest shit ever, drink and eat the best; but he meets reader who's absolutely feeds on junk food and energy drink, she dresses in loose clothes and bedroom is a mess and people ask how did she pulled a man like Bucky.

(you can absolutely ignore this if it's not your cup of tea, im just rambling and projecting at this point)

wait no I totally see your vision anon.

*heads up for this one I am NOT trying to shame anybody’s food or lifestyle choices!

like imagine when you first meet it’s a whole awkward thing like,

imagine you’re in a grocery store. you’re walking down the aisle with a basket on your arm. you’re not paying a lick of attention to where you’re going, staring down at your phone with chunky over-the-ear headphones on and chewing gum annoyingly

he’s trying to keep his head down and not get noticed. most of the time he loves the luxurious life but sometimes it’s nice to pretend to be normal

you’re walking to the end of the aisle and you totally bump into him as he’s walking the other way

“so sorry!” you tell him casually, yanking your headphones off your ears. “total accident. my bad.” you’re still chewing the gum loudly, mouth wide open as you do.

“no, it’s okay,” he responds politely, noticing the way you’ve stopped to look at him. he wonders if you’re about to say something to him, being who he is

you look down to his basket. “wow, look at you, mr health nut,” you tease with a snort.

he looks down to his basket and back up to your slightly amused expression. he laughs a little bit. you have no clue who he is, you realize

he sees your basket full of nothing but processed crap. boxed kraft mac n cheese, white monster energy drinks, instant coffee, sugary cereals, etc

it’s insanely refreshing for him to see

“you… don’t know me?” he asks

“don’t believe we’ve met, no,” you say, shuffling all your stuff to your right arm and jutting out the left arm to shake his hand

it’s hilarious to him that you don’t even know proper handshake etiquette

he gently squeezes your hand, amused, and you’re completely oblivious. you tell him your name with a crack of the gum in your mouth and he tells you his

“you really don’t know me?”

“no, sir, i don’t!” you smile, your confidence never once faltering

“the ceo of <idk some rando company>?”

“oh! that’s you? congrats, by the way!”

you’re the funniest fucking thing ever and he adores it. he loves how fucking carefree you are. how you don’t even know him

“can i take you to dinner sometime?” he offers.

“nah, not if you’re gonna serve me that crap,” you smirk, pointing to the stuff in his basket. “i’ll make you macaroni, though,”

when’s the last time he had boxed macaroni and cheese?

“okay,” he laughs.

you intrigue him, and he loves your snarkiness. the sex you have that night after eating macaroni is fucking intense

you keep him honest. he’s only partially a capitalist prick but you keep him humble and grounded. and you refuse to go to events with him, but he’s okay with that. it’s not your scene. and he’ll gladly come home to fuck you and eat macaroni with you

okay i also completely just rambled!

[unholyhelbig]

I'm going to need more doctor Caitlyn pls

[A/n: Oh, absolutely. I'm still in my Greys Anatomy era until I'm not. I never make it past season 10 when I'm bingeing.]

Ship:Attending!Kiramman x Resident!Reader

Wordcount: 3.4k

Dt♡: @thinking1bee, @naponiac, @gwscloq, @all-things-lilac

Warnings:Medical talk, medical exam, mentions of surgery, mentions of morphine, hurt/comfort, major character injury, a lot of blood, injury to ankle, mentions of concussions, cannon-typical medical drama terms. (I make no claim to good grammar, or correct use of medical terms.)

Read Part One

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Dried blood garlanded your ankle. It was flaked and an odd type of brown color that darkened closer to wound. But, the wound wasn’t something you wanted to think about right now. The looming thought of wiggling your toes was far from your mind because you made it that way. Put the thought of an injury so bad that you’d lose your foot altogether out of your head. That wasn’t possible. You’d picked your specialty. It wasn’t possible.

But as an intern, you’d seen everything and knew that forcing the narrative was impossibly out of your control. People who had slipped from ladders stringing up Christmas bulbs. Families that were on the way to the movies one minute and trapped in the wreckage of a car the next. Someone who was so healthy perishing because of the hiccups, or a stubbed toe that led to sepsis.

So, it was possible for you to lose your foot. But that wasn’t what you wanted to think about right now. The EMT trainee was digging into your arm like she couldn’t locate the vein in the first place. They’d slipped an oxygen mask over your mouth to keep you from panting yourself into a panic attack.

You mumbled something that the man in charge of your vitals for the next ten minute drive didn’t hear. He paled instantly because he didn’t. You had been there. You didn’t want the person in charge of keeping you stable to lose color like that.

Your own shaky hand lifted the mask, “Stop the bleeding. They’ll draw labs in the ED.”

“But we have a process, I can’t just… You’re stable!”

“Not for long. Stop the bleeding.”

An unbecoming scream ripped through your throat the second the EMT started to pack the wound. He gave you a look that screamed ‘you asked for this’. And you had, but it didn’t stop the metallic taste of blood filling your mouth or the way your vision swam with black splotches.

Your back arched off the gurney, and the thump of your heart in your limbs had taken your sense of time. The ambulance had stopped, another man that smelled like spearmint and anti-septic clouded your lungs.

The jolt of simply moving onto the slicked pavement made you pull in a sharp breath, eyes clenching until you saw stars. God, you’d never been on the receiving end of this, but it was seeping with chaos. A beehive that buzzed with such ferocity it was palpable.

“What do we have?”

You didn’t’ recognize the voice, but it was clipped. He was frothing at the mouth with the extreme excitement and adrenaline that came with a trauma rolling into the bay. You’d been there countless times. Been ashamed of it afterwards. Didn’t care quite so much now. Even if it was a selfish display, it was enough to ensure haste.

“Twenty-six-year-old female with a possible compound fracture to the right ankle. Something hit an artery, lost 300 cc’s of blood on the way over here, and possibly more at the site. Pretty sure you can tell what did it. There was some type of cranial impact, may have a concussion or worse.”

You faded out again, felt a wave of nausea wash over you. If you had the strength, you would lean over the side of the bed and empty your stomach. Your breakfast wasn’t satisfying to begin with and this was even worse.

“She’s tachycardic.” Another voice ticked through your haze. A light was being shined in your eyes, so bright you could see your veins just below the surface. “Page Lanes and Talis, now before she goes into hypovolemic shock.”

“I’m not going to go into shock.”

You thought you formed words, real, snarky words that would calm the trauma interns down enough to smartly assess the situation. A pained whimper came out instead, your eyes fluttering as your head turned to the side. You could make out the trauma room. You were in a trauma room and that wasn’t a good sign.

“Y/l/n, I need you to hold on for me, okay?” Jayce’s smooth timbre pulled you back to the room. The pain was instantaneous. When had he gotten here? You were surging from the bed, screaming in agony. He didn’t have to try very hard to keep you down.

“We’ve got to get this trap off right now.” Vi, now, voice hurried, eyes blown wide. “we’re getting dangerously close to avascular necrosis. If we don’t get her down to an OR now, she’ll lose her foot.”

“No, no I don’t trust it right now. The bleeding is controlled; I need a CT first.”

“No way, Talis. She can’t lose her foot. She’s a pediatric surgeon; her whole job is staying on her feet for hours at a time. Y/n would never forgive me if I saw a viable option to save it and didn’t.”

“Yeah, well, she’d never forgive herself if she has a subdural hematoma that cuts off the oxygen to her brain entirely.”

A hush fell over the room. Was it always this tedious when you argued in front of the patients? Perhaps they were weighing their options, or having a starring match that Vi was surely meant to win. Neither asked you your opinion in the matter.

Jayce rasped out “Doctor Kiramman. You weren’t meant to be paged.”

You tried to lift your head, thought that you did, but you weren’t getting a glimpse at the woman that you’d had dinner with just hours before. You could smell the lavender on her, it cut across the stench of your own blood flowing.

“Doctor Talis, the pupils aren’t dilated, all response time was adequate for this type of injury.” Vi snarled with authority. “I am taking my patient to OR four to remove the beartrap cutting off supply to Y/n’s foot. If you’re so inclined, you can join me and screen for a concussion. I don’t have time to wait. Do you have a problem with that?”

“No, he doesn’t.” Caitlyn’s voice came out much shakier than you’d ever heard it. “Do what you must, Vi. It’s the right call.”

The right call.

The right call would have been paying attention to where you were walking. The right call would have been to check if you had cellphone service before going on a hike. The right call would be anything but lying here useless as you tried to gather where exactly you were in the endless labyrinth of the hospital.

“She’ll come out of this, Cait. I promise.”

“You’re a doctor.” Caitlyn replied coldly. “You’re not meant to make promises.”

Doctor Caitlyn Kiramman did not do pacing. It was beneath her entirely. Not being able to regulate her emotions that the excess energy needed some form of escape seemed trivial. Yet, she’d been crossing the same patch of discolored tile for the last hour. Her knee stopped at the edge of the uncomfortable chair wedged in the corner. She’d turn, and her long stride would have her to the sharps box on the opposite wall in four paces. 

Another thing Caitlyn didn’t do was sweatpants. Not in a public place, and certainly not in the very building that she worked. She owned them, of course, showered and pulled them on the second she got home. But she was nothing if not put together. People wanted a physician who was. It was comforting. It was professional. 

She worried the nail of her thumb between her teeth, sucked in a cold breath as the blood pressure monitor attached to your arm started it’s latest round of squeezing. She knew you, nearly better than herself, and you hated the thing. It pinched and ended up driving your numbers up anyway. White Coat syndrome for someone who wore the coat well. 

“When was the last time you slept?” Vi leaned against the doorway, arms crossed and fighting to bulge out of her scrub top. “You were on the tail end of a 48 when she came in. This can’t be healthy.” 

“Are you keeping tabs on me now, Doctor Lanes?” 

Even to her own ears it sounded harsh, too clipped to be driven by anything other than stress. She tucked her chin, let out a sigh and squeezed the bridge of her nose to ward off a pulsing headache. Vi was observant and no one gave her enough credit for the fact. She wasn’t upset, her grey eyes were trained on your form, so small in the center of the bed. 

“We won’t know anything until she wakes up. I can send Maddie in to keep an eye on her so you can close your eyes for a few.” 

“No, thank you.” Caitlyn’s voice was purposefully softer, scratchy with exhaustion. “I think if y/n wakes up and the first face she sees is Maddie Nolans, it’ll send her into a code.” 

“Fair enough,” Vi scoffed and Caitlyn watched as she set a styrofoam cup of shitty vending machine coffee on the nearest surface. She’d added enough cream to tint the color and dull the taste. Neither of them acknowledged the small gesture of kindness. She turned to leave, but stopped just short of the corridor. “Doctor Kiramman, I am good at what I do. I don’t say this to prove myself. I say this to prove to you that y/n is in the best hands possible. She trusts me. I need you to do the same.” 

If there was malice or unease behind the words, Caitlyn didn’t detect any. She and Vi had worked  many cases together and she had no doubt that if there was a way to save your foot, the best orthopedic surgeon topside would be the one able to do it. Caitlyn allowed herself to flop into the chair dragged to the edge of your bed and took a tentative sip of her coffee. It was scalding. 

Caitlyn hated you. 

Caitlyn hated how much you made her care. 

She didn’t get invested in personal relationships besides a feral cat she’d coaxed from a barn in med school. His name was Abby, because even though she could locate all the parts of the genital system on humans, cats were a different story to her then. Once she found out he had to get neutered, she kept his name Abby, even if he was huffy about it. 

You’d make Caitlyn care, and it was nice. She had gotten so used to your warmth, the way your eyes crinkled at the edges and the soft touches that were noticeable to your coworkers, but would certainly be scrutinized now, if you pulled through. When you pulled through. She was startled by the cold she felt now. Not even shitty hospital coffee could pull her out of the icy waters. 

A bear trap. A bear trap. You weren’t stupid enough not to pay attention to your surroundings. Your career was on the line and you’d sustained a gnarly concussion and more than anything, Caitlyn wanted you to wiggle your toes and blink up at her so she could scold you properly. So she could hold you and never let go, because maybe you were just stupid enough for something like this to happen. 

She doesn’t remember drifting off. It wasn’t a restful or dream-filled sleep, it was more akin to unconsciousness forced upon her by her brain. She’d dozed in an uncomfortable position, all limbs and not enough chair. It wasn’t her own discomfort that woke her, but the pained hiss from the bed that made her spring up in a less than graceful way. More limbs, more flailing. 

Your eyes fluttered; a sign of life that was gentle. 

What wasn’t so gentle was the way you surged from unrest with a gasp that let Caitlyn know you were feeling the ache of the chest tube they’d slid down your throat hours before. You’d started breathing on your own again, and that was a good sign. Your bruised hands clenched at the plastic edges of the hospital bed as you hauled yourself up. 

Caitlyn treated this like any other startled patient. She placed her hand on your chest, pushed you back down until your back was on the mattress. Your eyes were frantic, fearful, like a cornered animal. She felt her resolve crack and stitch itself back together quickly for your sake. 

“Y/n, there was an accident.” She said in a smooth timbre. She could feel the quickness of your inhale and exhale under her hand. “You’re okay. Everything is okay. You need to lie back for me, though. Can you do that?” 

It seemed to take you a few seconds to process what she had said, but you obeyed, swallowed and winced. Caitlyn, when she felt safe enough to remove her hand, provided you with an ugly pink cup, guiding the straw to your lips. She watched as relief clouded your expression. 

Maddie rushed in at the commotion. Cait pretended not to notice the way that you stiffened and rolled your eyes in annoyance all in the same breath, her hand traveled down to your shoulder, giving it a possessive squeeze. She didn’t miss the way the nurses gaze darkened in something akin to anger. She didn’t have time for that right now. 

“Please page Doctor Lanes.” 

“I really don’t think-” 

“Page her.”

Caitlyn had great respect for her nursing staff. Just not ones that slept with you in an on-call room before reporting in the same clothes that she’d stripped off, just how many rules were broken to the head of the hospital. Ambessa didn’t care how brilliant of a surgeon you were, she was very conscious of the power imbalance.

And there was you. The two of you hadn’t slept together yet. You were much too nervous to do anything other than soft petting and steamy makeout sessions. Caitlyn was equally enamored and furious by the fact. She didn’t notice anyone else. Her brain clung to everything you would give her, and Caitlyn didn’t grovel. 

“Promise me you’ll never be so dense ever again.” except for now. 

Her hands had clamored around your own. A flash of confusion moved past your eyes, but you squeezed her in comfort all the same. You had lost enough blood to stop your heart on the table. You couldn’t breathe on your own for the last few hours. But then you could. Caitlyn took the tube out of your mouth herself when she heard you struggle around it. 

You hadn’t spoken yet, and she didn’t expect you to. Vi had cut off any chance of that when she stormed into the room with less grace this time. Caitlyn had stopped her in the middle of dinner, judging by the half-chewed bread roll in her other hand she glanced at it, took another bite, before tossing it into the wastebin.

“Welcome back, asshole.” She spoke with her mouth full, situated herself at the end of the bed. “Nothing like a Thursday night dedicated to attaching your foot back to your body. Which means, I get to pop quiz you. It’ll be fun. Just like when you were on my service.” 

She moved the blanket covering your foot back enough to see it. Caitlyn couldn’t look at it too long, but you frowned and scrutinized the ugly bruising, the ring of blood. Your foot was uncovered, but your ankle was bandaged to keep you from moving it. If you could move it. 

Vi pulled a pen from her pocket, placed it in the center of your foot. “Feel that?” 

Caitlyn didn’t need you to speak, she felt your hand grip onto her tighter, with urgency. Your voice came out ragged from disuse “No.” 

Vi moved lower, pushing on your heel. “What about this?” 

“No. I don’t.” 

“Okay,” Vi clicked the pen out of nervous habit before placing it back in her pocket. To her credit, she kept a stoic facade. It didn’t betray her worry. She could be holding a beating heart right now or she could be holding a spoon, about to dip it into mint chocolate chip ice cream. “That’s alright. One last test, can you wiggle your toes for me?” 

You sighed out, looking up at Caitlyn with the saddest eyes she’d ever seen. Tears were welling up at your waterline. This didn’t just mean the end of being a surgeon. It meant the end of everything. She gave you an encouraging nod, squeezing your hand again. If Vi wanted to crack a joke about how close the two of you were right now, she held her tongue well. 

Glaring down at your foot, Caitlyn could tell that you were holding your breath. One second passed, then two, and by the third one she could tell you nearly lost hope, but then your foot gave the slightest twitch. Your pinky-toe moved so fast you would miss it if you weren’t paying the closest attention. 

“Yes! Good.” Caitlyn could hear the utter relief in Vi’s voice, the wobbling of it betraying her. “That’s good. You’re going to need a lot of physical therapy, and bedrest, and pain management, but you’ll eventually gain 70 to 90 percent of the feeling back in your foot.” She settled you with a glare. “If you follow all of my instructions.” 

“Take my foot. It’d be better than being under Vi’s thumb.”

“Funny. I’ll be back to check on you in a bit. You’re stupid. This is stupid. You’re lucky I’m a good surgeon. The best, really.” Her face softened, something that almost unnerved Caitlyn. You had that effect on people. She laid a scarred hand on your shoulder, tilted her head. “I’m glad you’re okay. Doesn’t make you any less of an asshole. But I’m relieved.”

Another soft pat and a small smile directed at Caitlyn, and Vi was out of the room. She’d slid the glass door shut for privacy, trusted her enough to diffuse anything that may arise. Caitlyn had lowered herself onto the side of the bed, her leg curled up under her. She hadn’t let go of your hand.

Caitlyn swallowed hard. “You can’t do that again.”

“I’ll make a point not to stick my foot on a live beartrap again.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know,” You chuckled nervously, trying to push through the slosh of emotion. Laughing was easier. Making jokes was easier. Somber now, your voice breaking. “I know.”

You gave Caitlyn’s arm a little tug that seemed pathetic. It should have been pathetic, but she folded right away to your call. She didn’t bother to toe off her shoes before she slotted herself into the empty spot on the bed. You looked so small when you curled into her side, clinging to her as if you’d lost her entirely. You smelled of blood, of mint, and the sharpness of tears.

Caitlyn pressed her nose to your temple, breathed in. “I thought I lost you. I thought I lost you because you wanted to go on a hike.”

“I didn’t,” You voice caught, the coolness of your nose making Caitlyn suppress a shiver. You clenched onto the fabric that you could of her sweater, anchoring yourself. “I wasn’t… There was a dog. Which is stupid, because I bet he belongs to someone. But it was hot outside, and I strayed from the path. He probably knew where the traps were, and I didn’t. I didn’t and I almost lost my foot because of those big blue eyes.”

She could feel you tremble, hear you sniffle against her collarbone. The rest of Caitlyn’s resolve fractured and fell away. She was always a silent crier, but couldn’t stop the hitch in her breath, your ear pressed to her chest.

“Kind of reminded me of you, actually.”

“Darling, comparing me to a dog is not winning you any favors.”

“Why not?” You peered up at her with the most endearing expression that she’d ever seen. “I think it’s a compliment. You’re headstrong. Sure of yourself. Brave. Adorable, but I imagine you bite if you really want to.”

This elicited a chuckle from her as you settled back in. It was natural. She wanted to hold you forever, feel your warmth, the steadiness of your breath. This was something she didn’t want to face right now, so she nuzzled closer instead.

“You’re okay.” Caitlyn repeated to herself as your breathing evened out. “You’re okay.”

[loceiswhereyouleastexpectit]

Soon enough - Chapter 3

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

Word count- 2.6k

a/n: I need you guys to bare with me, this is def gonna be all over the place for a while but you'll see the vision. Thank you for all the love so far, if you have any recommendations of where u want this story to go please feel free to share. Enjoy :)

Chapter 3 

Azzi POV

What the hell is wrong with me? I need to get out of here. I should have move my hand three freaking years ago. Omg. She knows, she can read my brain. Fuck I can’t pull away now, she’ll know. Its ok Azzi ur ok, we are almost there. 

Soon enough Paige pulls right in front of the frat house. Azzi immediately jumped out, not even thanking her best friend for the ride. She needed some space, she needed to think and honestly she needed a fucking drink. Caroline was walking right beside her instantly catching a weird vibe from her. “Azzi, what’s up girl, u look so tense” carol asked. 

“Nothing, just weird day yk”.

“Yea I guess but thats why were here, we have been working nonstop, we all deserve a break”.

“For sure” said slowly but all Azzi could think about was Paige, how she just abandoned her back there with nothing, not even a thanks. She felt guilty and knew that Paige had always been the kindest person to her, she deserves everything in this world, not a confused best friend. Just as she was walking though the frat hours door, she turned her head, making sure Paige was ok, however, she was still at her car. “Oh lord this is gonna be fun…” Azzi whispered. She just hoped her best friend wasn’t as confused as she was. 

As soon as she and carol entered the frat party, there was so much chaos. Loud music, bodies dancing, and drinks everywhere. Exactly what Azzi needed in this moment to forget about Paige. 

Carol and her grabbed drink right away and went to go look for the rest of the team. They quickly saw Aubrey and made there way over. 

“Hey guys, you all look great” Aubrey said. “Where the rest of them, I thought Paige took y’all”.

“She’s around” Caroline stated, however when carol said around she really meant around, around the fucking corner surrounded by a bunch of girls already. OF COURSE, thats just perfect.

In that moment Azzi decided to drown out all her emotion in alcohol, hoping to distract from the confusing feelings of the blonde. The brown eyed girl was not a drinker, but tonight was definitely an exception.

She sat with the team and began to realize that no matter what, as long as the drinks kept coming she would have a good time. 

——————————————————————————————

A few hours had gone by and at this point Azzi was slightly wasted, more than most of the frat guys. She was having fun, laughing hard, and most importantly not thinking about the blue eyed girl only 50 feet from her talking to some girls. Nika and Ice had been having a very heated debate when a man came approaching there table. He was tall almost 7ft and very much built, he had dimples and fluffy brown hair with the biggest green eyes ever. He was attractive alright and no one could really ignore it.

Nika immediately saw him and hoped he was coming there way for her but instead he stopped right in front of Azzi. 

“Hi, im Kyle, i just had to come over and say your beautiful. I hope thats not weird.” He said shyly. 

It caught Azzi off guard, he was sweet. She definitely wasn’t opposed to talking to him so she said “Hi, im Azzi, wanna grab and drink?”

And with that he extended his hand and walked to get a drink from Azzi. 

To be honest, Azzi knew that this wouldn’t go anywhere but what’s the harm in talking to a guy for a bit. 

However, the harm was Paige Bueckers heart. 

Paige POV

Paige decided she wanted to be sober tonight. No more distractions, she was finally going to get the girl. At least thats what she hoped. However the problem with wanting your girl is that everyone wants her to. 

It has been a few hours since they all had arrived at the party and from the start Paige was surrounded, to be fair she did have a breakout game the other game so the attention was more aggressive that usual. She had a lot of people giving her drinks which she respectfully declined because she knew this season she needed to be healthy, strong. 

Azzi and her had talked about that this past pre season, wanting to actually take care of there bodies, worried that if they didn’t injuries might take over. 

But when Paige finally got away from the grasp of the crowd she looked for her best friend, confused that she was no where to be found by the team. 

“Hey guys, have you seen Azzi?” 

“Yea, uh some guy came over, they went to get a drink” Aubrey replied, Nika and KK gave Paige a little head nod, in hopes to encourage the girl to not back down this time. 

“Thanks”, and just as she walked away, Nika joined by her side. 

“Im not letting you give up this time Paige, its time”. 

“IK IK, the time just slipped away, and everyone was so excited to see me, I guess I have been in isolation so long, haven’t done social outings in a minute” 

“Paige, that fact that you referred to a party as a ‘social outing’ gives me all I need to know. You’ve been so caught up in Azzi, you forget about everything else. If she doesn’t want to go out, you dont either, and then you miss out. You can’t do that anymore. I know you love her but this cant continue dude”.

“Can we just find her and if I chicken out, thennnnnn you can lecture me?”

“Ok”. 

Paige and Nika didn’t have to look long, as they made there way to a smaller living room they say the two, drinks in hand. Azzi’s legs draped on top of the guys legs, him running his hand on her calf. It was sickening to say the least. 

Immediately Piage turned around, not wanting to see this anymore, but Nika knew she needed to do this. She pushed Paige forward, just enough to get a “UH” out the girl, which got the attention of the brown eyed girl. 

Wow she looked perfect, slightly tipsy for sure, but in a way that made her eye bigger and her cheeks flushed. 

“Hey Paige, you ok?” 

“Yea, can I steal you for a second, sorry”, she said looking at the guy. 

“Of course, sorry Kyle, thanks for the drink, and the company”. She said sweetly. She never once disrespected anyone, even if there was a reason to. On the court she was as calm as ever, and nothing is more frustrating than playing rough basketball, but Azzi never complained. Always keeping her composure and her kindness. 

“What’s up P?”

“Nothing, I just needed some Azzi time yk”, why would u say that omg, she’s gonna think your obsessed with her. 

“Yea me too, missed you”.

Oh ok cool. 

“Wanna go outside, its just a lot in here”.

“Yea, are your headaches coming back, I know you get overwhelmed when your in loud spaces, it might be your headache”.

“Honestly now that I think about it, yea, my headache is coming back”.

“I put some Tylenol in your car earlier, here come,” the younger girl said and grabbed Paige’s wrist, weaving there was though some crowds and eventually to the passenger side of Paige’s car. 

As soon as they got to Paige’s car, Azzi reached into the girls pocket and grabbed her keys to unlock the door, the pocket right by her thigh. It immediately sent a jolt right up Paiges spine and she had to back away, Breatheeeee Paige, she barely touched you. 

Then Azzi leaned into the passenger seat and went digging for the Tylenol, leaving Paige a perfect view of her butt, she immediately looked away. This still was her best friend, respect, Paige. 

Azzi finally found the Tylenol and opened the bottle giving Paige two pills. 

“Shoot I dont have water, ill go back inside”.

“No”, Paige said holding Azzi back from her waist, “I can swallow dry”.

Paige took the pills from Azzi and popped them in, keeping eye contact with the younger girl for much longer than necessary. Azzi’s lips looked perfect, nice and plump, reddish from her lipstick earlier, but most importantly there were attached to the most beautiful and kind girl in the world, and nothing could beat that. 

Azzi began to form a soft smile and reached up and started gently rubbing the sides of Paige’s head with her thumbs, it was something she used to do a lot back when Paige had chronic headaches. The younger girl always did it right. 

“Mmmm thanks”, Paige said and she began to close her eyes, she started leaning forward and was met with Azzi forehead. 

They both stood there forehead to forehead, just soaking in each other company, both girls thinking the same thing, neither of them knowing it. 

I could stay here forever. 

Slowly both girls started to open there eyes. Azzi now moved her hands down to Paiges shoulders while Paiges hands remained at her waist. There was a twinkle in Azzi eyes that Paige had only seen a few times before, but the fact that is was directed towards Paige made her weak at the knees. 

“Hey, you feeling ok?”

“Yes better, thank you” 

“Ofc that’s what friends are for,” FRIENDS. 

“Azzi?”

“Yes Paige.” 

“Thank you, seriously thank you. I-I just love you so much. Your the best person in the world, your alway so kind to me, I just have never trusted anyone the way I trusted you”. 

“I-i love you too”. 

Azzi POV

SHE TRUSTS YOU. She trusts you more than anyone and your over here fansticing about her abs and her arms and all she did was trust you. Azzi realized it was unfair to ignore her BEST friend. Even if her feelings were complicated, she would not let that get in the way of there friendship. However saying those words, those three little words felt different to Azzi this time. 

“Azzi, you look beautiful btw, idk if anyone has told you that today”.

And there her heart went again, a slight gasp escaped for her mouth and she knew, these feelings were just starting to wrap around her heart, leaving her to suffocate. 

“Thanks P, you look good too, too good”. 

“Too good?” Paige responded with a sly smirk on her face. 

“Yk what I mean, those girls were all over you." 

“Jealous Az?”

“No” Yes.

“Well you have no reason to be, ill always be your best friend. No one can take me away from you”. 

And that was true, for the next few months the two girls were more inseparable, both knowing there feelings for one another, neither mentioning it, but always knowing that being in the confront of the other was all that they wanted. 

“Hey, do you wanna just chill in you car until everyone else is ready to leave, ik ur head still hurts.”

Paige’s head no longer hurt so she said “Yes”.

The two girls made there way into the older girls car, turning on the heat and the music. The car flooded with “Nobody Gets me” by SZA and both girls just looked at one another, knowing that this song was there’s. It perfectly resembled how they felt not in just that moment, but in most moments, never feeling misunderstood by the other. 

The night had ended with both of the girls just sitting in the car, talking, about nothing, and also everything, just as they did every single day. Neither getting tired of being in the presence of the other. 

——————————————————————————————

Paige and Azzi woke up the next morning in Paige’s dorm, just like most nights they were not able to fall asleep without each other and always made it a plan to end up cuddled next to one another. However Azzi woke up way to early. Seeing Paige wrapped up next to her made her heart beat just a bit harder than normal. 

Omg Azzi now is not the time please, she’s your best friend, she’s your best friend, she’s your best friend. 

And because she was her best friend, Paige felt Azzi’s heart beat out of her chest, all of a sudden waking her. 

“Hey, Paige said groggily, “You ok, nightmare?.” Paige sat up looking straight into the brown eyed girl. 

“Hi, sorry to wake you, yea.”

“Was it the same one?” 

Azzi had had a recurring nightmare for the past few months. She had the ball, it was the national championship and there was 6 seconds left on the clock, they were down by two. All she needed was a heave up a three, 3, 2, the ball left her hand and it looked good from afar, but as soon as the buzzer hit, the ball had just rimmed out the basket. They had lost all because of her. 

When she told Paige about her dream she said “I would never put that pressure on you to take that shot, if for whatever reason that happens, pass the ball to me and let me take the blame”.

It wasn’t that Paige didn’t trust her to take the shot, it was the pure selflessness of Paige, she never wanted anyone to feel like if was there fault, so she always took that pressure away, making it her problem. 

“Yea, same one”, she lied, she couldn’t tell her best friend that the reason her heart was going crazy was because she looked so good and was so kind and made her feel like she had fire on her every time they touched. 

“Come here” Paige said, just as she pulled down the younger girl back to bed, however, this time this was actually the worse case scenario. Having Paige all over her made her even more fidgety. 

I need to get out of here. 

“Actually” Azzi said all of a sudden, popping out the bed, “Im gonna go on a run”.

“Its 6 am?”

“Yea ik, just need to clear my mind for a bit.”

“You sure, we can talk about it, im not tired.”

“Paige go back to sleep, I know you tired”, she walked over to the blue eyed girl and smoothed out her hair. “Ill see you later ok?”

“ok, text me when you get back to your dorm.”

“I will promise. Bye Paigey” and just as she was about to leave, she turned back real quick and gave a quick peck on Paiges cheek, earning a smile from the older girl. It was something they did a lot, just to ensure the other that they were ok. 

Azzi walked through the door and felt fire on her lips, she brought her finger to her lips, feeling them tingly all over. What is happening to me, She thought, but before she can slip free, she caught Nika in the kitchen. 

“Hey” Azzi said. 

“Hey Azzi, everything ok with you and Paige?”

“Yea ofc why wouldn’t it be?”

“Oh no just asking, your leaving earlier than normal”.

She’s right, im being weird, stop being weird. “Yea, I know, just have some things to do this morning”.

“Right ok, well see ya later”.

“Bye Nika” and she walked out the door without another word. 

I miss Paige already. Was the first thought that popped into Azzi’s head as soon as she exited the door. Omg I need to get a grip. 

That day a few things were certain, Azzi was slowly falling in love with her best friend, Paige was never going to do anything about it, and Nika would make it her mission to get the two together. 

[sungbeam]

BIRDS OF PREY — seventeen

nonidol!kim hongjoong x f!reader

living in gray areas of your city, out of the way of gangs and mafia territories, could only keep you safe for so long. it was only a matter of time before you began running into problems, or rather, problems began running into you.

▷ genre, warnings. nc-17, strangers 2 lovers, slow burn, mafia au, angst; swearing, violence, mentions of bombs and explosions, mentions of death and dead bodies, dislocated shoulder, concussion, allusions to torture methods, allusions to murder, mentions of blood, pretty much kidnapping, mentions of breaking and entering, there's a thing where hj alludes to scooping out someone's eyeball (no descriptions of this whatsoever), losing consciousness (x2), bloody nose smoke inhalation; PLEASE lmk if i missed anything

▷ HEY, READ ME: there are two scenes that could particularly be shocking to readers, and they involve choking to the point of passing out and a brief torture scene where a bone is shattered. the scene itself doesn't describe things in too much detail and it 'fades to black', implying something worse and letting the reader fill in the blank themselves; but please be warned if u get squeamish w these types of things!! you are responsible for what you consume here.

▷ word count. 7.3k (i indulged a bit)

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a/n: the things i would do if i could turn this into a tv show... i have a vision, guys

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: HOOK, LINE, AND SINKER

IF YOU WERE DEAD, this was definitely Hell. 

When you came to, all you felt was the heat—in your thick, winter coat, it swarmed you like a bird being roasted alive, stifling, suffocating. Every inch of your skin felt damp, or mildly burned; you couldn't tell. Then came the ringing, drilling into your head through the soft tissue of your ears, the sharp sound intensifying as you tried to lift your head and clock your immediate surroundings. 

You winced as your eyes fluttered open, attempting to squint through the smoky haze. The sting of ash clung to your tear ducts, making you weep. Fire was the only source of light for you to see the amount of destruction around you. There were limp bodies about, some moving, others stiff as the dead. 

Where were you, you wondered, your brain stuffed with cotton and the ringing incessant. You couldn't think, couldn't move, couldn't—

“Oh—my god,” you swore under your breath, body crumpling back to the floor. 

Pain seared through your right arm, crashing through as a tsunami wave born out of the depths of the ocean. You lost your breath for an entire moment as you fell onto your back, left hand grabbing your right with a delicate hold. 

You couldn't move your right shoulder, but you could feel everything. 

Out of its socket? Yeah, out of its socket. 

You were no longer in the train car, you realized, as you stared straight up. Instead of steel and broken LED panels, you were met with a dark, cavernous tunnel. 

Everything was slowly coming back to you. It seemed that when the last bomb exploded, it must have flung you out of the train car—right? Those were bombs, right? How long had you been unconscious for, anyway?

Carefully, you rolled onto your good side. Your breathing became ragged as you exerted the rest of your energy to push yourself into an upright position, knees digging into the hard stone beneath the train tracks. You let out a groan as your right arm dangled precariously at your side, the pain pulsing like a beating heart. 

Did anyone know where you were? Blood rushed to your head too fast for you to think through. You couldn't find your phone, your bag, your—

Amongst the roaring crackle of fire, you could've sworn you heard the crunching of gravel beneath shoes. A low murmur—a voice—pushed through and you braced your left hand against the ground in an attempt to focus on it. 

Muttering still… you couldn't hear them clearly. 

“Help!” you decided to scream, your voice a measly scratching sound, rough from the amount of smoke in this tunnel. “We're over here!”

The sounds of movement grew louder, closer. 

Your eyes scanned your immediate surroundings, snagging on a familiar bag just several feet in front of you. With a slow crawl, you made your way over to the bag and hovered over it to dig around in its innards. 

Without a phone, there was one last way to notify someone aboveground. 

“There you are.”

Your head bolted upward and blood thundered through your head. Why was that voice familiar? A wave of nausea nearly knocked you over and the goddamn ringing made you seize up. Too fast, ouch. 

Vision darkening at the edges, you saw the dark shine of boots moving toward you. A man. Someone you could not identify at the moment, and he was coming right for you. 

Panic suffocated you like the acrid smoke in this room, and not even adrenaline could clear your head. 

Runrunrun—you needed to run. 

You didn't know his intentions, but he knew you somehow, and every alarm bell in your head was going off. (Or was that your ears ringing again?) Something bad was going to happen if he reached you, and you couldn't find this fucking lipstick—

He was closer now, close enough that you could see his face. He did seem oddly familiar, so remarkably unremarkable; his walk, his stature… it didn't matter if he was lean rather than built, he could still crush your throat beneath his boot like you were a fly. 

You fell back onto your side with a grimace, wriggling backwards—you needed to run. But you couldn't get up. Why did everything hurt so goddamn badly?

Your teeth bit into your bottom lip hard enough to taste iron. Keep moving, you screamed inwardly, despite the pain in your right shoulder screaming at you. You had to keep moving. 

“Don't,” you croaked uselessly to the man. “Please don't.” Whatever you do…

Something viscous seeped out of your nose, and when it dribbled onto your lip, it tasted like metal. Black dots danced in your vision; you wouldn't have much time left conscious.  

He kept coming closer, each step painstakingly slow as if taunting you. You can't get away—step. But it's fun to see you try. 

Your fingers enclosed around the slim tube of lipstick just as all the fight flew out of you. Your back landed against the hard floor of the tunnel, breathing haggard. Something wet streamed down the side of your cheek, and your eyes began to flutter closed. 

The throbbing in your shoulder beat in time with the blood pounding in your eardrums. As your last dregs of consciousness bled out, your sight filled with the blurred face of the man. 

What Hell would you wake up in next?

Shin Ryujin had seen the news on social media. Footage and clips taken by bystanders who were mainly above ground flooded the web: the streets crumbling, telephone poles toppling over, the ear-shattering sounds of explosions. She immediately got off the train after seeing those few clips, opting to take the remainder of her commute home on the bus. 

For a moment, her mind flickered to you. You worked near that area, but—

“Right, day off,” she murmured to herself, relief making her shoulders droop. Maybe it was selfish to feel so much better knowing that her closest friend was alright. You were probably at home working on your assignments or napping. 

Still, she grabbed the link for one of the news articles and took it to her text messages with you. Her eyes flitted from her phone screen to the bus line, as she filed onto the vehicle. But when she opened up the text channel, she paused. 

There were two messages recently exchanged between her phone and yours:

ryujin's phone: heyyy would u happen to be home or on ur way home? i just realized i forgot my keys and the landlord isn't picking up 😅 ynie 💖: i'm omw!! just sit tight

She had never sent that first text to you, nor had she received or seen the text you sent her afterward. The timestamp marked the exchange from about thirty minutes ago, and Ryujin rummaged through her purse to check that she did have her keys with her.

When she fished her apartment key out, she squinted down at the texts for longer. What in the world was going on? She didn't recall sending or seeing either of these, but why would someone hack into her phone to send that message?

And where were you returning home from?

She shot you a quick text: Idk who sent you that message from before, but are you home? Call me when you get this. 

“Next stop: 14th Street.”

Ryujin gripped the handle above her head, her free hand reaching over to pull the cord near the window. She resisted the urge to begin tapping her foot against the floor like a rabbit—how much longer? This had to be the most drawn-out five minutes of her life. 

When the bus pulled up along the curb at 14th Street, Ryujin hopped off with a hasty goodbye wave to the bus driver. With little time to lose and a lot of anxiety left to burn, she made her way down the couple blocks toward the apartment. 

You still hadn't called her back or read her message by the time she arrived on the third floor. 

Ryujin had her eyes practically glued to her phone screen as she approached the apartment door. She extended her hand forward to insert the key into the lock, only for the door to give way and drift open. Voices inside suddenly came to an abrupt stop—she froze. 

There were people in her apartment, people she both recognized and didn’t recognize. 

“Ryujin, it’s not what it looks like,” said Chan with his palms up in front of him. Beside him stood Yeji, and on the other side of the kitchen counter were three other men, whom Ryujin had never seen before. Around the five of them, her and your apartment laid in absolute ruin. The couch and tables had been overturned, the doors to both of your rooms were thrown open, lamps and mugs were shattered on the floor. 

“What it looks like, Chan, is that you broke into my apartment!” Her hand switched to her phone dial, raising it up with a tremble in her fingers as if it were her own weapon. She was digging in her bag for her pepper spray. “What the fuck are you doing here? I—I’m gonna call the police if you don’t get out—”

Yeji stepped forward with her hands outstretched. “Hon,” she said softly, “we just got here, swear to God. We swung by to make sure you were okay, but when we got here, the door was unlocked and the place looked like this.”

“And you three?” Ryujin aimed her pepper spray nozzle in the direction of the other three, all of whom took a generous step back when they found themselves on the other end of her wrath. “Did you trash my apartment?”

“No, ma’am,” one of them was quick to say. He was hugging the screen of his laptop to his chest like a comfort item, his wide eyes taking in the amount of crazed alarm radiating off her. “We got here just after they did.”

“Why are you here then? Who are you?”

“We’re looking for Yn,” said the one with red hair, narrowed eyes glancing between Ryujin and the apartment key dangling from her pinky finger. There was a deadly gleam in his expression, a tightness in his jaw; Ryujin couldn’t decide if her increased heart rate was out of fear or frustration. “You have your apartment key.” It was less of a question and more of a statement, a fact he was confirming.

She curled her lip back. “Of course I have my apartment key. Why wouldn’t—” The realization snapped into place. “The text…”

The red-haired man nodded with his lips pressed together. “Yn was with me when she received a text from you that you had lost your apartment key. That’s why she left to come here.”

Ryujin stepped backward, nearly tripping over her own shoes as she leaned back against the door jamb. Yeji scurried forward to offer her an elbow to hold onto, and Ryujin pressed the back of her hand against her temple where a headache was slowly coming on. There were too many questions running through her mind to sort through, and… she was so fucking confused. 

“Where’s Yn? You said she was coming here to meet me.” Did you run into whoever hacked into her phone? Was this partly her fault? Where were you? 

Yeji placed a warm hand on Ryujin’s shoulder, her brows creased together in an ill-concealed wince. “We don’t know, but” —her gaze lifted up to the others in the room— “she might have been on the train.”

Ryujin slapped a hand over her mouth as her fingers went numb. Nonononono—

“You didn’t send her that text then?” the same man asked. 

She shook her head. “Definitely not. I saw it on my way home and asked her to call me when she could, but she hasn’t read my message or replied.” All of that relief and false hope from earlier, where was it now? This couldn’t be real; things like this didn’t happen to people in the gray area. Not you, not her, not anyone either of you knew. 

Ryujin lifted her eyes back up to the three men whose identities had yet to be disclosed. “You didn't answer my question earlier: who are you?”

“My name is Kim Hongjoong,” he said, “and this is Wooyoung and Seonghwa. We work with Yn.”

“Like—coworkers?”

Yeji's hand wrapped around Ryujin's arm to nudge her to the outer hallway. “Let's talk out here, okay? There are some things I need to explain.”

Ryujin's head went on a swivel between Yeji and the other men in her apartment, but allowed the former to lead her out. “But we need to find her,” she said, her throat closing up. “What if she's not okay?”

As the door closed, the four men could hear the hushed whispers of Yeji attempting to calm Ryujin down. It was only natural that she would feel overwhelmed, scared, and even panicked at this moment; Hongjoong could certainly relate. 

While Kim Hongjoong never admitted to being worried, concerned, or anxious, there were always signs. 

The members of Ateez whipped their attention back to the heir to the Gold Village. There was business from before that needed to be resumed. From the back of his waistband, Seonghwa withdrew his pistol and leveled it in Chan's face from across the island. 

“Alright,” Hongjoong drawled, leaning back against the stove and folding his arms over his chest, “you were saying?”

Chan lifted his palms again, this time, to placate the Boss who looked about five seconds away from giving the command to blow his head off. “It’s just as Yeji said: we came by to make sure Ryujin was okay.”

“And why would you think she wasn't?” Seonghwa asked as he cocked his head to the side. 

Wooyoung set his laptop back onto the kitchen island to continue his work. When the Captain had summoned him and Seonghwa, Wooyoung had already begun to pour over the CCTV footage around the Hala Town train station and the station on 12th. His program was currently zipping through every frame of video in search of you or anyone else of interest. There were moments when Wooyoung was outwardly nervous, but with your life on the line, all he could feel was cool adrenaline powering him forward. 

He couldn't imagine what Hongjoong was feeling right now. 

“Yeji received a text message claiming to be Yn that asked her if she'd heard from Ryujin,” Chan explained. He pointed a finger in the direction of the door. “I can prove it to you; it's on Yeji's phone. But when Yeji wanted to follow up, Yn only texted to meet at their apartment as soon as possible.”

“And the apartment was like this when you got here?”

Chan nodded. “Yes.”

Hongjoong could feel the fear in his chest building. It was all covered up by cold rage on the surface, his face a mask of blank steel. He wanted to hurt someone—he was going to hurt someone, soon. As long as he could feel anything other than useless… or whatever his heart did when he thought of you and your state of being at this moment. 

(What use was power and authority if he couldn't even use it to find you, to help you?)

He inclined his chin to Wooyoung. “Give him Yeji's number and he'll check it out.”

The sounds of hurried clacking filled the room as Wooyoung corroborated Chan's statement. The commander pushed out a weighted breath, shaking his head. “He's telling the truth, Cap'n,” he said, glancing over at Hongjoong. 

“Can you track the IP address the texts came from?”

“Already on it, Boss.”

Hongjoong gave a solemn nod, then returned his gaze to the heir. There was a part of him that wanted to pin some sort of blame on Chan, to pin the blame on anyone—anything that could make the hole in his chest dissipate. But he knew that could only be fulfilled when he was sure about you. 

Chan swallowed, keeping his head held high. “I never thought to hurt her, Kim, you know that.”

“Didn't you stalk her for 'reconnaissance’?” Seonghwa cut in with a scowl. “Show up at her work place, manipulate her roommate into introducing you, all to get to the Captain?”

Hongjoong didn't have a problem with Seonghwa speaking for him; he feared what he might say if he did speak. It was still so strange to him how at least two others outside the Ateez network knew who you were to him: Bang Chan and the Wings Express assassin, Q. It didn't help him sleep better at night, that was for sure. 

A small scoff erupted from where Wooyoung was standing, and the man lifted his gaze momentarily to send Chan a snarl. 

“I believe you didn't do this,” Hongjoong said at last, his stare nor his posture easing up. “Because if I did have even an inkling that you were involved, you wouldn't still be standin’ there.”

“And I believe that.”

Wooyoung loosened a swear from his lips. “Shit—you need to see this.”

Seonghwa and Chan maintained their positions, and Hongjoong was the only one to move. He slipped in beside Wooyoung, leaning over to peer down at the computer screen. 

This security camera was angled to capture everyone ascending and descending the first set of stairs at Hala Town station. It was a crowded set of stairs, but there was a very familiar figure that slipped into the crowd and strolled out onto the equally busy street. Hongjoong could recognize his copycat anywhere, with his hat, cane, and audacity. 

There was the flame of ire in his stomach again. It burned his insides, scalded him. His blood boiled beneath the surface of his skin. 

“Where did he go next?” Hongjoong asked, bracing his hands against the counter. 

Wooyoung skipped through frame by frame, hopped from camera to camera, but came up empty. After that one glimpse, the imposter Captain seemed to disappear completely. At least this confirmed two things: the imposter is neither Mr. Young nor Jung Joonseo, and he wanted to be seen. It was another goddamn taunt. 

Hongjoong folded his arms over his chest again. When he finally met this son of a bitch face to face…

“There was no way he could have gotten here in time to turn Yn's apartment upside down,” Wooyoung muttered, throwing a hand up in frustration. “Were they looking for something?”

“No,” Hongjoong said, shaking his head, “there was nothing here to look for.” He knew it as confidently as he knew his own name—it was all just a fucking game. 

Strictland didn't need to steal anything or grab Ryujin to make their point; they orchestrated the phone hacking pandemonium and knew where you and Ryujin lived. They were watching them, all of them, and they knew which pressure points would hurt most, even those that were lesser known. 

The sound of a phone ringtone cut through the room. Hongjoong shucked his phone from out of his pocket and pressed it against his ear. He had been expecting a call from Yunho and Jongho; they had gone straight to Hala Town station where their inside men on the police force would let them get past the tape. 

“Give me some good news, Yunho.”

From the other side of the phone came the sounds of crunching gravel and echoed voices, then an audible wince. “It's good news and bad news, Captain.”

Hongjoong braced his hand back against the countertop. “Well?”

“The bad news” —an exhale, more steps— “is that we found Yn's phone, but not Yn.”

The Captain pinched the place between his eyes, inwardly trying to keep the tidal wave at bay. “There's good news?”

“Her bag's missing along with her. It has to be a sign that she's still alive, otherwise, what's the point of lugging around… y'know…” 

A dead body and its cargo. Right. “Thanks, both of you. Rendezvous at headquarters.”

“Aye, aye.” 

Hongjoong caught the hesitation in Yunho's breath, the beat before he pressed the button to end the call. “Is there something else?”

“Noth—nothing on your end?” The question was almost whispered with how low he spoke. There was an unmistakable softness, a sympathy to it. Though Hongjoong was his leader and boss, they were still friends, brothers. 

Hongjoong stared past Bang Chan, past Seonghwa with a gun, and at your apartment in ruins. There was no sign of you anywhere in these rooms, and no word from you since you left the Shipwreck. 

He wanted to hit something. “No,” he said, then hung up.

Headquarters was suffocating. The top brass of the Ateez mafia family was stressed about something, to say the least. It only made all the rest on-edge. When the bombs went off beneath Hala Town station, it was clear that this would be another day with all hands on deck. 

The Captain stormed in through the front door in coat and hat, not even bothering to let his cane touch the ground between steps. Like nature, the sound of “Captain on deck,” followed by spines snapping straight and boots stomping into place, resounded throughout the building. His second in command and his other commanders followed after him, one by one breaking off to disperse orders to their respective men. 

Only Hongjoong and Seonghwa remained attached and the two of them took the elevator at the far end of the warehouse not up to the Crow's Nest, but down into the brig. 

Seonghwa stood with his hands clasped in front of him. “Do you want me in there?”

“No.”

The second released a breath from his lips. Good luck, Jung. 

As the elevator touched down into the depths of the Ateez's operations, Hongjoong stepped out of the carriage alone. The hallway leading to the holding cells down here was shadowed and dim, boasting only a limited amount of lighting because, well, prisoners didn't need to see shit. 

Hongjoong was only a few steps away when he called out to his right-hand. “Find out who's been selling C4 in the city. I need names.”

“Consider it done,” Seonghwa replied as the elevator doors closed. 

And then there was one. 

The door at the end of the hallway was made of rusted iron. It locked from the outside, opened with a key, and kept in sound incredibly well. 

Just outside the door were several hooks attached to the wall. Hongjoong slowly began disassembling his uniform, lifting the hat off his head, slipping the coat from his shoulders. He tugged the bandana from around the lower half of his face, but kept the gloves on and tightened his grip around the neck of his cane. 

His heart hadn't been this steady, this calm in hours—before he feared you were gone, before he heard about the explosions, before he thought about kissing you, and your lips seared against his cheek.  

If he stopped for even a moment too long, that was all he thought about. 

Hongjoong hauled the cell door open and was greeted by the stench of human fear and pain. This room in particular was used for the special methods employed by members of the family to coax information out of prisoners. It had been several months since he had visited these chambers, only because there had been other things occupying him. Yunho and Seonghwa, as well as the others, frequented the brig more, though. 

While Hongjoong would like to sit in during interrogations when he could, rarely did he ever get his own hands dirty. It was partly because there was no need to when his commanders could do it themselves; but also, he only got involved when there was something he really wanted. 

He had surefire ways to get things out of people. 

The lightbulb in the room shuttered on with a dull clink sound. A body was strapped to a chair in the middle of the room, clean and dry from the last time he was transferred here from his individual cell. Between sessions, prisoners were attended to just enough to keep them alive. 

Hongjoong heard Joonseo's breath hitch at the sound of the lightbulb, and the corner of his mouth curved upward. 

As he nudged the door shut, he began slowly rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, taking his time. It'd be a shame to get blood on the white fabric. 

“It's a Pavlovian response,” he voiced into the quiet. “The sound of the lightbulb turning on—it means we're about to begin.”

Hongjoong passed his prisoner a cursory glance as he inspected the tools hanging on the far wall, the array of serums and toxins sitting idly on the shelf. He never needed to use these; he had two hands and a cane. But they were always nice to look at. 

“Your body knows exactly what's about to happen. The bulb elicits a physical response: sweating, increased heart rate, the like.” He stepped back in the direction of Joonseo, marking the bandages wrapped around each of his fingers, the nails undoubtedly torn from their beds beneath. “You know where we learned that tactic from? Your good friend, Lee Yunseok.”

When he was stationed before Joonseo, he leaned over his cane to be eye-level with him. There was light bruising on his face, likely because most of the injuries he endured were below the collar. 

Hongjoong's eyes dragged over the man's features with a clinical coldness, noting the way his mouth wobbled and his breath shook. He wondered if you were in a similar state, wherever they had taken you. “Do you know why you're still alive right now?”

“I've given you everything I know.”

“And we're checking all of it,” he replied with raised brows. He straightened up from the cane, taking a step back. “But you know, for a shrewd, scheming con man, I would have thought you would be a better liar.”

Hongjoong slid his hands to the bottom of his cane, cranked it back, and swung. 

When the metal crow's head of the cane met the hard bone of Jung Joonseo's shin, it released a sound so loud from Joonseo's throat that Hongjoong couldn't even hear the bone shatter. 

Oh, the sweet sound of suffering. Hongjoong didn't do this often, but there was a reason why. 

Joonseo keeled over, his chest rising and falling in rapid pants. A whimper crawled out of his throat as something damp trickled down his cheeks and onto the cement floor below. 

Hongjoong inspected the head of his cane to ensure it wasn't broken or deformed. When he was satisfied, he grabbed a fistful of hair from the back of Joonseo's head and hauled it up. The man's face was contorted in agony, eyes squinted shut from seeing the gleam in Hongjoong's eyes and the blinding burn of the lightbulb overhead. 

“What were you saying about giving us everything?” Hongjoong smiled, saccharine sweet. 

He lazily drew the curved beak of the crow's head through Joonseo's tears. The man stiffened beneath the change in position, his neck angled over the back of the chair, Hongjoong leaning over him and forcing him back. 

“I don't—I don't know what more you want,” Joonseo rasped, his voice mostly harsh breathing at this point. 

An unsatisfied deadpan came to Hongjoong's face. “Who is Kyungmin?”

“I told your man—”

“It led us nowhere, Joonseo-ah.” Hongjoong tapped the beak between the center of Joonseo's eyes, making him flinch. One could see the dread slowly dawning in Joonseo's pupils. Or maybe that was panic. “That IP address? That physical location? Poof! Nothing there.”

If possible, the man beneath him trembled even more. “That—that can't be. He must have changed servers or hidden it somehow.”

Hongjoong tutted. “Uh-huh, I have very good people looking into all of that. But what I'm wondering is how much this Kyungmin means to you if you've gone this far lying for him?”

“I haven't lied!”

“That's cute,” Hongjoong chuckled. “Did Kyungmin shoot Mr. Young in front of you? Is that why you're covering up for him like a loser?”

Joonseo shuddered, but he did not answer further. 

Hongjoong released a sigh from his lips and outlined the shape of Joonseo's eye with the point of the crow's beak. “I will get it out of you,” he promised, “it's just a matter of how quickly you break.”

“I swear—there’s nothing else I could tell you about where he might be.”

There—that hitch in Joonseo's voice, the slight wavering. Hongjoong knew a tell when he heard one. It only confirmed for him that he was suspecting correctly, that Joonseo still knew more. 

And what he knew could lead Hongjoong to you. Anything was game now. 

Hongjoong removed his fist from Joonseo's hair, but swiftly applied force over his face, pinning him down backward, his neck still craned at that painful, awkward angle. With his elbow and forearm being used as an anchor, his gloved fingers pried open Joonseo's left eye. 

It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what plans he had. Joonseo figured it out fast enough and began to thrash as much as he could. 

“Did you know that crows are carrion feeders?” Hongjoong mused airily. The beak of the crow's head ghosted over the outline of Joonseo's eye, the organ flicking back and forth wildly, panicked. “They’ll eat the rotting flesh off human bones and pluck the eyes out of their sockets.”

The begging started then. The violent jerking paired with pathetic pleading. Hongjoong almost couldn't hold the man down… almost. 

“Tell me where my bird is, and this one won't take your eye.” 

“What do you have for me?” Hongjoong pressed his phone between his shoulder and cheek, eyes watching the dark red intertwine with the rush of water, disappearing down the sink. The sink faucet was a small, stainless steel application installed just outside the interrogation room across from the hooks. His cane hung under his arm, the metal crow head perspiring after being washed from thorough use. 

The crow had its fill tonight. 

Hongjoong grabbed a paper towel to pat his leather gloves dry, absentmindedly rubbing at a reddish-brown stain on his sleeve.  

“We've got two names” —Seonghwa’s voice carried through the call as the captain took the phone out to hold with his hand— “Cho Namyoon and Bae Jinki. I'm with Cho now, and Yunho's with Bae.”

He picked up his hat from the wall hook and slid it on, head bowing in the darkness. Those names did sound familiar, but only one of them was more closely associated with this part of town than the other. “Tell Yunho to drop Bae Jinki. Ask Cho Namyoon where he made the C4 drop exchange.”

He heard murmuring from the other side of the call, the exchange audible if he deigned to hear it. One of the voices was low, calm—Seonghwa undoubtedly—while the other was high-pitched and frazzled. Definitely Namyoon.

“He says it was in the parking lot of the shopping center on Paradigm Avenue.”

“Paradigm, huh,” Hongjoong muttered to himself. He straightened out his sleeve, rolling his wrist. None of the places Joonseo mentioned were anywhere near Paradigm, but at this point, Hongjoong was certain Joonseo was never the true mastermind behind all of this. “We'll need to pull the Strictland files again and go through them for any properties near that area.”

He could've sworn he'd seen some mention of Paradigm somewhere…

“Aye, Captain. Did you get what you were looking for?”

Hongjoong didn't spare the cell behind him a glance as he shouldered his coat and made his way toward the elevator, cane tapping against the concrete. The sound was steady and constant, a haunting metronome. “Some,” he hummed. “I’ll catch you up when you all get back. I need to go call down a medic to tend to our guest.”

A low chuckle from the other side. “I'm sure they have their work cut out for them.”

“They certainly do.” As the elevator doors closed in front of him, sealing him away from the bleeding and unconscious body down the hall, Hongjoong ended the call. 

He slumped against the back wall of the elevator, leaning his cane against his thigh while he lifted his hat just enough to card his hand through his hair. How monstrous was he to enjoy doing something so sick? He wondered how he got to this point of desperation. Months ago, the only people who could ever coax this kind of response from him was his inner circle. 

Well, he supposed that included you now, too. For those couple of hours he was in the room, he didn't have to think about what horrors you were facing—or the fact that he blamed himself. (He should have insisted he drove you home. Why didn't he reach out and stop you? That damn kiss… it still branded his cheek, the place your lips had been. It was so fleeting, just a taste, and he wanted more and more.)

The elevator arrived on the ground floor with an anticlimactic thump. As the elevator doors rolled open, Hongjoong fitted his hat over his head to shade his eyes from the blinding lights above. 

He caught sight of a familiar man standing nearby speaking to one of the other soldiers. “Doctor Shim, just the man I was looking for.”

The doctor raised his head immediately in acknowledgment.

“Your next patient awaits,” Hongjoong said, gesturing to the elevator. 

“Aye, Captain,” he replied promptly. He bowed at the waist and headed straight for the elevator. He knew well enough that he needed to be swift if he wanted the man in the brig to see another session. 

Hongjoong glanced at him over his shoulder. “I apologize in advance for all the blood.” If he had time to mop, he would, but there were too many things that needed to be done. 

He was just about to make his way across the floor when his phone buzzed in his coat pocket once again. “Talk to me,” he answered, pressing the device up to his ear and striding down the main walkway. 

As he went, the customary greeting erupted like falling dominoes, in time with the calls to attention. 

“We have a problem,” said Seonghwa. 

“Captain! Is the Captain here—”

Hongjoong raised his head to track down the origin of the voice. It was female and familiar, certainly in distress, as well. “Hold that thought, Hwa.”

With all of the soldiers at attention, it wasn't too difficult to spot the outliers. At the opposite end of the warehouse, two figures could be seen barreling in through the door with haste. Wooyoung was on a young woman's tail, both of their faces some shade of grim. 

“I don't think this should wait, Joong. Namyoon just said that Strictland bought a fuck ton of C4 recently—”

“Captain, we need to talk,” said Wooyoung as he neared. There was no impish twinkle in his eyes, only a rare sort of storminess. 

Hongjoong's head spun as he was caught between two different conversations. He cocked his head at the woman, the name falling from his tongue. “Sakura, right?”

“Aye,” she nodded. Her eyes darted around them, fingers twiddling in front of her. She swallowed, and said, “We need to speak with you. Now… uhm, please.”

He glanced at Wooyoung, who only pressed the corners of his mouth into his cheeks, a firm line. Now. 

“Come with me—at ease!” Two fingers curling, beckoning them to follow him to the elevator. “What do you mean they bought a lot, Hwa? Wasn't that what the train explosion proved?”

He jammed his thumb against the elevator button to call the carriage, his pulse gradually increasing as the time ticked onward. 

“He said the amount needed to pull that number on the metro line was only about half of the quantity they purchased” —the elevator doors opened; about damn time— “there's more out there.”

“Christ,” Hongjoong muttered under his breath as the elevator doors closed behind him, Sakura, and Wooyoung. A muscle flexed in his jaw. What was the point of even more C4? Was the plan to raze the whole fucking city? “I need to think,” he huffed, dragging a hand down his face. 

A cough from beside him: “Uh, hyung.” Wooyoung pointed at the phone in Hongjoong's hand, then made a slicing hand motion across his throat. 'Mute yourself,’ he mouthed. 

Hongjoong's brows creased, but he pressed the corresponding button. 

“I didn't know if he was with Seonghwa hyung or not,” the commander explained. Just as the elevator landed on the Crow's Nest level, Wooyoung continued, “Did you know we have a mole problem? Sakura came to me an hour ago; she knows who it is.”

Every cell in Hongjoong's body skidded to a halt. “Who?”

Sakura made a hand motion, vigorously waving her two superiors into the privacy of the office. There was a jitteriness about her, but Hongjoong had seen some of her work before, and she already worked with you recently. Jittery or not, he was sure he could put some level of trust in her intel. 

As soon as the office door closed, she asked, “Do we know where Yang Jungwon is?”

Your conscience awoke to the sounds of a news broadcast. For one fleeting, delusional moment, you believed that you were home and Ryujin was watching TV again in the next room; everything was just as it should be, and you would head out to the Shipwreck later to see Joong and the rest of the crew.

But then reality, the rip current of our living nightmare, yanked you back. The past twelve hours all came crashing down on you at once. 

“‘—will keep you, the viewer, updated as more information comes to light. As always, this has been Lee Seokmin, at your service.’ That was a statement made by Teleparty News anchorman, Lee Seokmin earlier today after the tragic—” 

Your body ached against the hard floor you laid on. There was an unbearable throbbing sensation coming from your right arm, and any attempt to even move it was followed by a sharp pain piercing through your shoulder. 

What the fuck happened? Where were you?

“Oh, you're awake.”

Your body stilled like the dead. 

“No point in trying to pretend.” The voice had gotten closer, and you reluctantly let your eyes flutter open. There wasn't much light in this room, but there was one lamp that emitted a warm amber glow, a far cry from the cold of the floor you were dumped on. Your eyes still blinked rapidly to adjust, and you winced—the throbbing wasn't just in your arm but in your head. 

A small chuckle, followed by easy footsteps. Wood… were you on hardwood? One of the floorboards creaked as he continued to step toward you. “You weren't out for as long as I thought you would be, but I guess that's a good thing. I was starting to get bored.”

You wracked your brain for the identity of that voice. It haunted you as you wrestled down a whimper of pain. Dislocated shoulder, wasn't it? And now a goddamn concussion. 

Someone leaned over you and filled your entire field of vision. 

The name Kyungmin popped into your head as the man smiled. He tilted his head, lifting his hand toward your face. 

You jerked away, hissing as that pain erupted violently in two places. “Don't touch me,” you managed to snarl like the wounded animal you were. Helpless, broken, alone. 

You didn't even register the sound of clinking metal when you moved so suddenly. 

“You had an eyelash on your cheek, but have it your way,” he said airily. 

This man… he was so different from the quiet boy at the meeting. Who replaced him with this bastard? Or perhaps, you'd been stupid enough to fall for the charade he put on. 

“What do you want from me?” you asked, watching as he stood up and wandered back toward the couch he was seated on before. That was when you clocked the big, burly man stationed in the corner of the room, eyes never leaving your form. There was not a trace of sympathy in those eyes; you were merely a prisoner, a charge. At his feet, however… your bag was slumped on the floor. That was where Aurora was. 

How could you get to her?

Kyungmin settled himself on the arm of the couch nearest to you as he muted the television. “They keep replaying all the broadcasts that Lee Seokmin guy hosted. He's so… annoying. Like a little fly in your ear. Can't they obsess over someone else?”

What? You gritted your teeth. “Who cares?” And Lee Seokmin was nice, unlike this son of a—

“Just making small talk, I guess,” he said with a shrug. “Do you know why you're here?”

He was messing with you, right? He had to be. 

At your silence and the undeniable look on your face, Kyungmin huffed another laugh. “You're right; you did just ask me that, huh?”

This guy had to have grown up a loner, a pathetic loser who perpetually only had himself to talk to. That had to be it. 

Kyungmin slid off the furniture and stalked over to where you were again, squatting down to lean over you like you were nothing but a cadaver in the bay: interesting, but not significant enough for him to care about. “You're here because your Captain” —he spat out the word as if it were nothing but the scum under his boot— “killed my father and took my empire. So I'm going to destroy everything he treasures without ever having to touch him.”

Great, you thought, even as fear bullied its way through your veins, making your heart rate kick up. We have a supervillain wannabe on our hands. 

Wait, did he just say Hongjoong killed his father and took his empire..? But that would make him... Fuck.

When you remained silent, Kyungmin's expression flattened. “You don't believe me?”

“You're so sure that kidnapping me and holding me here will help you reach your goal—of course, I don't believe you.” You forced the tremor out of your voice, hoping you at least sounded somewhat confident. If you were going to die here, you might as well go down wounding this punk's pride. “You're just as cowardly as your father. I hope Kim Hongjoong delivers you that same fate.”

You nearly missed it. There was a flash of something sinister across his unremarkable face, red in his eyes. A bolt of fear zipped down your spine, but that expression was gone just as fast as it came. 

Kyungmin rose back onto his feet. He didn't say anything more to you as he turned back toward the couch, but he began to hum something under his breath. 

Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me. 

We pillage plunder, we rifle and loot; 

Drink up me hearties, yo ho…

Your pulse had only just calmed when Kyungmin raised a hand at the guard in the corner. “Knock her out. Make it hurt.”

Everything in you screamed. 

The big man didn't so much as nod before stalking toward you, slow and unhurried. You chanted swears in your head, eyes widened like a doe in headlights, left arm pushing up to scramble backwards—

Ca-schink! 

Your eyes darted down at the iron cuff around your left ankle, attached to a link of chain not even a foot long, hooked to a square of metal in the floor. Your heart dropped into your stomach, body falling against the floor in a pathetic sound as your right arm crumpled beneath you. 

You could only grimace at the pain, your head shaking vigorously. Pleasepleasepleaseplease. The man stepped over you and wrapped his meaty hands around your throat, and no thought besides RUN blared through your head. 

As you scratched and clawed at his hands with your one good arm, he stared at you with dead eyes. 

You could feel the heaviness in your limbs as you were slowly, torturously deprived of oxygen. The fight in your legs went first… then your left arm. 

Tears sprung from your eyes. You couldn't even blubber out a prayer. 

As black spots danced in your vision for the second time, you were dragged into unconsciousness to that accursed tune.

Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me.

a/n: pls reblog if u enjoyed !! :'))

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[bluebnny]

would you consider writing a yandere/ obsessive law nsfw one shot with dubcon , blood play and and bdsm 🫣 feel free to make that shit the nastiest freakiest shit ever

So pretty when you break

trafalgar law x reader

contents: reader is in a horror movie; law is in a romcom. established relationship, so not yandere, but law is fucked up and sadistic <3

warnings: MDNI, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT! domestic violence (reader punches law), general toxicity, dubcon (law is coercive, reader is reluctant, but consents), blood play (law gets super horny bc they’re both bleeding. he uhh sort of licks reader’s blood), pain play (law keeps touching reader’s injuries on purpose), reader is slightly afraid, unprotected sex, very irresponsible handling of wounds (law is a little ooc for this, ngl), squirting, dacryphilia, size kink - reader is mostly GN, but has a vagina

a/n: thx sm for the request! This is uhm the darkest thing I’ve written so far lol. I assume you meant bondage when you asked for bdsm, but I ended up not adding it bc it was hard to incorporate that without turning this into full-on noncon. almost passed out from how horny this made me. I really hope you like it! :D enjoy! <3

word count: 4.209

You land on the floor. It takes a second for the events to sink in.

You and Law had just returned from a fight; bruised, bloody, completely exhausted. Arguing about something stupid, like always.

But the fight had escalated, and Law had gotten so angry as to grab your wrist.

Then, a punch.

It was completely instinctual. You never meant to do it. But before you even knew you had raised your arm, your knuckles had made contact with his face.

Horrified at your actions, you had stumbled back. The dull pain in the back of your head marks where you made contact with Law’s desk on your way down. And there’s a sticky sort of warmth pooling in your nose. Trickling down over your lips. Dripping down your chin.

“Y/n?” There’s no anger in Law’s voice, even though you can plainly see the fresh blood in his mouth. Like he’s already completely forgotten about what you just did.

But all you can think about is the heaviness of your actions. Weighing you down. Anchoring you to the ground.

You stay down.

After all, why shouldn’t you?

It’s almost comforting down here. There’s no further to fall. And therefore, no reason to get up.

Tears and blood dot the fabric of your pants, but you barely see it. Law’s silhouette looms in the edges of your vision, waiting for you to do something.

When you don’t, he speaks.

“Hey.” His voice is unreadable, but you know by now that it’s a good thing. It means he is composed. Rational. Predictable.

Silence. Only your heaving breaths and strained sobs can be heard. You’re utterly weak. Chest muscles so fatigued you can’t even cry properly. But there’s nothing else to do; nothing to stop you from falling apart. So, you simply let the tears flow.

“Come on, get up.” Law sounds impatient, but his voice doesn’t carry the rage from before. It sounds worried. He crouches down, and you look up.

You flinch when he touches your face. Not because it hurts. On the contrary. What makes you jump is the fondness in Law’s eyes. How carefully he leans close to you. So tender. So… loving.

“Does it hurt?” You know he’s asking about your head, but his eyes are fixed on the blood on your lower lip. Thumb brushing over it, smudging it around.

You shake your head. Law’s quick change in attitude surprises you more than anything. Something about it makes you uneasy.

You cry harder.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” He clearly senses your nervousness.

You shake your head again, averting your eyes. You just want to be left alone, which he doesn’t seem to understand. Or if he does, he's ignoring it.

A light chuckle. There’s nothing particularly threatening about it, but the foreign sound makes your stomach churn. Law scares you right now.

“You’re adorable when you get like this, you know?” The statement makes your eyebrows knit together, hands clenching. “All angry and frustrated.” Another chuckle. “What, you gonna punch me again?” He’s teasing you now, grinning from ear to ear, but his voice remains soft. He doesn't want to fight anymore.

Still, he doesn’t get an answer. You’re too intimidated to think of what to say. Even during your argument, he was composed. Livid, yes. But still undeniably in control of himself. Now, those restraints are gone. The only thing dictating Law’s actions are whatever random impulses take hold of him.

“Come. I’ll help you.” He pulls you to your feet, into his arms. You don’t resist. The warmth of his embrace too inviting. “Let me take care of your wounds, yeah?”

You give a nod, still sniffling too much to speak. Law looks pleased as he leads you over to his desk. He motions for you to sit on it, pulling a first aid kit from one of the drawers.

A soft tug on your shirt. “Let me see.”

You remove it, wincing because of your wounds, and Law helps you. His eyes roam over your bare torso. There’s an admiration in them. Trailing up and down your chest, following every bruise like he’s trying to memorize it. His hands find your sides, gently squeezing the fat on your ribs. But his actions don't make you feel any more at ease.

A shiver runs up your spine, and his eyes snap to yours. There’s that glint again. Mischievous. Like he’s playing a game he knows he’ll win.

Without another word, Law leans in and catches your lips in a kiss. Hot. Metallic. You don’t know whether it’s your own blood you’re tasting or his. Maybe both.

But you don’t pull away. You can’t reject him when you’re this vulnerable. And you think a part of him knows that.

Law breaks the kiss first. Eyes heavy with lust. Deep, dark, all-consuming. Hands trailing down your body, coming to rest on the waistband of your pants.

You try to protest, but he just shushes you. Giving you little kisses as a distraction while he undresses you. First your pants, then your underwear. Discarding them somewhere on the floor.

You’re completely bare, feeling very exposed. And it doesn’t help when Law suddenly trails his hand up the inside of your thigh and presses his thumb against your core. Watching for your reaction darkly.

You moan involuntarily at the contact, but you still push him away. Small hands planted pathetically on either side of his broad chest. “Law-”

“C’mon, y/n. Let me make you feel good.” He’s delirious from arousal. Leaning in closer despite your resistance. Just to show that he can. There’s an impossibly love-sick look on his face. “Don’t you just want to forget about everything right now?” He’s rubbing your sides again. Like there’s nothing he needs more than to feel you.

But there's something else in his touch. A promise of safety. A break from reality. And after everything that’s happened today, you’re starting to crave it. The feeling of his hands on you. Warm, large, steady.

So, you give in. Willingly. Letting him take what he needs. Knowing you’ll feel less alone if you give yourself to him. Even though you know it's exactly what he wants.

“Yes.” Your voice is so small compared to his.

His mouth finds yours again, more tender this time. Less frantic. Like he knows you won’t try to stop him again. And when you pull back to speak, his lips stretch into a smile against yours.

“I want to feel good again.” You had just stopped crying, but the sheer desperation is bringing the tears back. Now that you’ve been promised some relief, it feels like you’ll die without it. “Please, Law.”

Law is already on your neck, sucking a hickey into the side of it. You close your eyes. Aching arms draping around his neck. His kisses wander further down. It feels nice. Just indulging in the feeling.

You give a low moan, then yelp.

A sharp pain shoots through you. Law is being anything but gentle with his mouth, sucking and biting at your skin, even when reaching a gash on your collarbone. Completely indifferent to your protests.

“Ah! That hurts!” You whine, weakly pushing his head. He’s grinning. Of fucking course, he is. “Law!” You reprimand him. Voice shaky. But your pout does nothing to make you seem intimidating, and you’re sniffling pathetically.

“Aww I’m sorry.” He murmurs, smirking. Already lowering his head again. “I’ll be more careful.” It’s not very convincing. But you don’t really care anymore.

Truth be told, you’d let him do just about anything to you right now. No matter that you’re a little scared. Or that he’s hurting you. Or that he’s doing it on purpose. You’re too horny to think straight, and so desperately in need of his love that you’re willing to do just about anything to get it.

When he feels a hand on the waistband of his pants, he looks up again. God, he’s terrifying when he’s aroused. The fear coils in your stomach. Deliciously.

“Someone’s eager.” Is all he comments, gently pushing your shoulders until your back is lying flat on the desk. Without another word, he undoes his pants, freeing his cock. Already leaking precum.

When you feel him at your entrance, your breath catches.

“So fucking wet already.” He’s mostly talking to himself, rubbing his fat tip up and down you slit. Then, a low chuckle. “You fucking get off on this.”

“Please…” You’re whining. Need to feel his body against yours. Wrapping around you. Pressing inside you.

And he does.

The large head of his cock pushes through the tight muscles of your entrance, and you let out a strained moan.

The stretch is overwhelming, and you can tell from Law’s exhale that his head is spinning just as much as yours. But he’s taking his time. Working you open. Not forcing his way inside in one thrust like he sometimes does. Well, not yet.

When he’s about halfway in, he leans down over your shivering body. Chest to chest. Hands under you, holding your shoulders to keep you from moving away. And you know why. He’s not even fully in, but it already feels like you can’t take him any further.

You try to relax your body as he adjusts you to his size. His black hair is dishevelled, but it only makes him more beautiful. You wind your fingers into it, simply admiring him. Your eyes find his stormy grey ones. Tracing the dark circles around them, trailing over his thick, black eyelashes.

A few moments pass like this. Law is almost completely inside now, but his patience is wearing thin. You’re still so tight around him.

Then, he does it. Without warning. A harsh thrust that knocks the breath out of you. Then another.

Law exhales through clenched teeth. Shaking from exhaustion, but satisfied. When he has fully crammed himself inside you, he slows down to a halt.

All you can do is squirm in his tight hold, torn between pleasure and pain. The brutal stretch is making your eyes water, but it’s mixed with the most delicious feeling as his thick shaft presses against your g-spot, tip nudging your cervix.

You hadn’t realized how roughly you were pulling Law’s hair. He barely seems to notice himself. But you loosen your grip when he leans his head down to your torso to nip at your skin again.

It hurts. He’s still making no effort to avoid your bruises; quite the opposite. The sting makes you twitch every time. He’s completely shameless about tracing your wounds with his mouth, and it burns when his tongue glides over a bleeding cut. There’s still blood in his mouth from your punch. It mixes with yours. The scent of iron makes you dizzy.

But you don’t stop him.

You don’t even know why.

Maybe being buried safely under him while he bruises your body for his own enjoyment is still preferrable to being away from him. Maybe some sick part of you likes it just as much as he does.

You’re incredibly sensitive from everything that’s happening to you. So much so that even just feeling his size against your cervix, not even moving, is making you all tingly. You snake a hand between your bodies and press a finger to your clit, rubbing it in slow circles. Law’s dark eyes flick to your face when he feels it, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, bringing his hand up to pinch your nipple. You gasp again.

It only takes a few short minutes.

“Law. I- think I’m close.” Your voice, no more than a breath, is still loud enough for Law to hear in the silence.

He waits a little. Just until he can feel your muscles start contracting around him. For your breath to come out in strained moans.

Then, he starts slowly working his cock into your cervix. Barely pulling out, still nestled all the way inside, fucking only the deepest parts of you. But it feels like a lot.

He knows it doesn’t take more.

That you can’t take more.

A few more strokes. You break. Orgasm hitting you like a punch to the gut. The intensity of it makes you scream, your muscles tensing so much that you’re curling in on yourself.

You feel nothing and everything at the same time; only conscious of that one spot inside you that has the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter every time Law nudges into it.

Law has taken over rubbing your clit, all while supporting your neck. Your body is thrashing around so violently that you would have otherwise slammed your head directly into the desk again.

His mouth is off you, the taste of you still fresh and tingly on his tongue, mixed with his own blood. As delicious as you are, the sight of your sorry, helpless body breaking for him is one he can never get enough of. You’re so pathetic. So perfect. He’s utterly obsessed.

You’re squeezing him so tightly, almost pushing him out. But he simply keeps driving himself further inside your tight body every time. His fat tip rough against your poor cervix.

It takes a moment, but your shaking eventually dies down. Law only stops his movements when he feels you push against his hips, sensing that you’re at your limit. That he should show you some sympathy, knowing it really would be going too far if he didn’t.

He pulls out when you try to sit up. Your hips are aching, and you need to somehow ease their soreness.

“What are you doing?”

“My- my legs… I can’t- hurts too much.” You whimper incoherently.

When you shift unsteadily on the edge of his desk, Law understands that you’re trying to stand up. He helps you.

Your exhausted body shivers when you hug him, trying to steady yourself. Needing him to hold you up so you don’t fall again.

Law has never seen something so cute in his entire life. Any normal person in this situation would want nothing more than to cuddle up with you in bed. Maybe kiss you until you fall asleep.

But Law isn’t normal.

Seeing your helpless form cling to him, so desperate, makes his cock twitch. The urge to taste your bruises again becomes overwhelming, and he finds himself craving your skin under his teeth.

“Think you can lie down again?”

You shake your head violently. Surprised that you even have enough energy left in you for that.

“We’ll put you on your stomach, then.” He’s already motioning to reposition you, but you protest again.

“No…” You grip his shirt tighter.

“Hm?”

“Want to hold you… please.” Your voice is low, but Law doesn’t miss a single word. A wide grin spreads across his face. He’s quite terrifying when he shows emotions like this. The usual composure thrown completely out the window.

No longer able to hold himself back, he picks you up and sits down on the desk chair, making you straddle his lap.

“How ‘bout this, hm?” But his mouth is already on you, lips tenderly tracing a gash on your shoulder. His tongue darts out and the sting makes you jump for what feels like the thousandth time that night.

But you don’t protest. Even though it makes you twitch every time. You barely register the way his teeth feel on your flesh. How they dig into your skin. Breaking wounds trying to heal. Drawing more blood, then cleaning it up with his tongue.

All you think about is the soothing heat of his breath. The warmth of his thighs easing the soreness in your own. The way his hands are so steady while holding you close. Stable. Firm. You could almost – just for a moment – delude yourself into believing that this is what safety feels like.

You don’t pull away. Not when his nails dig into your sides. Not when his teeth tug at your sensitive nipple. Not even when he adjusts your position, making you sit over his cock. Rubbing it against your tight entrance again.

“Fucking soaked…” He mumbles. “It was that good, huh?” You see his shaft glistening in his hand. Already coated in your wetness from brushing up against you.

“You can take one more” It’s a statement. Not asking. Not commanding. Simply informing you of what’s to come.

And you don’t stop him. Only bracing yourself against his chest, hoping he would be just as sympathetic with you on the second round. But knowing he wouldn’t.

One hand on your hip, the other on the back of your neck, Law firmly guides you down on his cock. It doesn’t take long before he’s buried down to the base again; the intrusion thankfully much smoother the second time. And although your body screams for a break, you can’t bring yourself to give in to that urge right now. The prospect of being with Law a little longer, just taking him while he makes you feel good, is impossible to pass up.

He quickly works up a rough pace. When you don’t try to stop him, his movements become even more ruthless.

Law’s grip isn’t tight anymore, just enough to make sure you don’t lose your balance from his thrusts. He knows you’re not going to move away, no matter how unforgiving he is, and something about that thought is delicious. Even more so than holding you down and watching you struggle to take it.

He can’t help lifting his hands to trail over your form. Haphazardly pressing his fingers over the wounded spots littering your body. Just for the thrill of getting to see you cry out from the pain.

Your body rocks up and down from his forceful thrusts, brain not functioning properly anymore. Eyes closed, biting your lower lip, you simply allow your boyfriend’s undivided attention to wash over you. Your eyebrows are restless, tensing and untensing every few seconds from his affection to your bruises. The medical kit sits long forgotten on the edge of the desk.

When your legs regain a little feeling, you subconsciously start grinding back into him. Law’s gaze finds your face, but your eyes are still closed. You look overwhelmed. Defeated. A cocky smirk finds its way to his face again. He absolutely loves the idea that you enjoy this as much as he does. The way you let him wreck you with so little resistance. Even when it’s clearly a little more than you can handle. There’s something about the way you recognize his need to corrupt you for what it is: love. It makes him go insane with want.

Although Law’s mouth keeps wandering over your body, his eyes never leave your face for long. His thrusts becoming increasingly more ruthless. As if trying to see how much further he could push you. Testing how easy it would be to bring you to your limits again.

The minutes pass like this. With you grinding into Law’s lap like he isn’t already fucking you with enough force to hurt. Your wails and the sound of skin on skin are the only thing to fill the silence.

But Law’s patience is completely gone now, all heavy breaths and passionate eyes. There’s an openness about him that you can’t gauge. Like he’s acting on a whim. Only listening to whichever feelings are currently strongest.

And you’re squeezing around him. Whimpering at every brutal thrust, the pressure quickly building in your abdomen. You’re crying again. You don’t know why, maybe from pleasure.

“Sorry pretty, this position’s just too annoying.” Law stands and turns you to face away from him. Despite your earlier protests, he bends you over his desk. You can only moan weakly when your chest makes contact with the cold surface. But you’re quickly distracted when he slams back into you in one deep thrust.

Law’s hands are still on your shoulders, and he bends over so his torso pins you to the table. The gesture feels almost protective. But you know he’s doing it to keep you in place for what’s to come.

You’re all but squealing now, Law working you with a brutal pace. The new position has him somehow reaching even deeper than before, and you know you’re not going to last much longer like this.

You try telling him that you’re close. It’s a blessing that he somehow understands your mindless babbling, because you’re entirely too fucked out to string two words together.

“Gonna cum again?” That crazy smile is back. The scary one. It’s probably a good thing that you can’t see his face. “Let me help you with that.” His hand trails down your body, stroking your sensitive little clit in circles.

You whine out, thrashing weakly. Unable to take the agonising ecstasy anymore. But it’s no use. You’re only able to focus on the tightness in your abdomen. Coming closer and closer to your breaking point every time Law breaches your tight walls.

And before you know it, you’re cumming. Like a flash of lightning striking you down. Rendering you completely defenceless. The searing pleasure courses through your body like electricity. Shivers running up and down your spine, extending to every nerve. Every limb.

It’s thrilling. Beautiful. Unbearable. Law keeps thrusting inside you, still stuffing you completely despite having stretched you out for the better part of an hour.

You feel a new wave of your orgasm building, a weird tingling feeling around where Law’s fingers are still making you unravel. And a second later, something inside you snaps.

It’s all too much.

Before you can understand what’s happening, a spurt of clear liquid shoots out of you. Soaking Law’s abs and trickling down his v-line. You barely notice over the ringing in your ears. You think your vision goes black for a second from the feeling.

You hear Law groan above you. It’s like seeing you squirt gives him a new wave of energy, because he pounds into you with so much force now that your eyes are rolling into the back of your head. Your sore legs helplessly flailing around in the air.

You’re completely shattered. Only able to tremble and whimper; forced to somehow endure the torturous pleasure he’s subjecting you to. Law doesn’t even notice, too focused on the way more liquid gushes out of you every time he snaps his hips into your ass in punishing thrusts.

And he’s so impossibly deep; you’re sure he must be bruising your stomach. He’s panting now, but you’re already way past that. The only air you’re getting is from your strained gasps as he slams your poor little body into the desk. Making a complete mess out of you.

Luckily for you, your intense convulsing is racing Law towards an orgasm of his own. You’re sure he would have otherwise kept pounding you for hours.

The desk scrapes against the floor from the sheer force of his movements, wood edge digging into your thighs. Law can’t be bothered to keep both you and the desk in place; not when he’s this close. So, he stands upright, hands locking onto your hips in a searing grasp.

When he starts slamming your smaller body onto his cock, you see stars. Your instincts take over. Fingers scraping against wood. Scrambling to escape the way he’s impaling you on his thick length.

You know he’s close when he starts letting out strained moans. It’s his turn to speak incoherently now.

“Fuck, baby. So pretty under me… so- perfect like this.” His thrusts are erratic, he’s impossibly close. “So good… letting me- fuck you up. Just how I like you…”

Law cums at those last words. Emptying himself into you in thick spurts, mixing with your own cum already running down your legs. Your spasming walls wring him out completely. Squeezing him so deliciously, he can’t stop spilling everything he has inside you.

His thrusts slow down as he rides out his orgasm, eventually coming to a stop. You both stay like this for a while, panting hard, brains slowly returning to normal along with the atmosphere in the room.

Law’s hands are still on your hips, keeping your body pressed firmly to his. You faintly notice his thumbs rubbing into your sore lower back. Although you’re at your limits, both mentally and physically, you start to feel a calmness settle over you.

A few moments pass in comfortable silence. But Law eventually pulls out of you and leans back slightly to assess your condition. You’re a mess. Roughed up, bruises all over, a thin layer of sweat and blood making your skin glisten in the dim light. Every muscle in your body is twitching, legs shaking uselessly where they hang off the desk, failing to find purchase on the floor. And Law watches in awe as a trickle of your cum mixed with his slides out of you and down your messy thighs.

He caresses your skin, unable to contain a satisfied smile as he leans over to mutter into your ear. “You know, you’re so pretty when you break for me.”

With that, he gently lifts you off the table, and carries you to the bathroom, making sure to bring the first aid kit as well.

Dividers made by me

This is my fic, don't repost or use in AI training! Reblogs are always appreciated <3 Here are my rules, and my masterlist.

[cuddlenano]

older!rafe x younger reader

warnings: NSFW, cheating, manipulation, degradation, breath play, emotional dependence, age gap, reader cries.

words: 0.7

y/n remembers when she first met rafe cameron, only for months earlier. the way he looked at her made her feel like the most beautiful woman on the planet.

everyone knew rafe was damaged — she knew it too — but he knew exactly how to get into her mind through manipulation and gifts.

rafe cameron had been married for four years, with a baby on the way, but that didn’t stop him from having an affair with the young and beautiful y/n. the way he kissed her, the way he pulled her hair, left her breathless. she knew it was wrong. she tried to walk away, but she never could — rafe always found a way to make her come back.

mr. cameron: i want to see you. at 6.

it wasn’t the first time rafe had sent her a message like that. he meant his office — no one would bother them at that hour.

y/n put on a pretty pink summer dress, one she knew rafe liked. he had bought it for her himself. she knocked softly the office door, and he let her in.

“i couldn’t take another second without seeing you, my precious doll. i’ve been thinking about you all day,” he said, taking her face in his hands and kissing her. she could tell he was desperate to fuck her. his hands ran down her back to her waist, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close.

rafe easily lifted her and set her down on his desk. y/n’s face and body were burning. he knew exactly where to touch her to make her give in completely.

“you have no idea what you do to me.”

y/n brushed her lips against his neck, leaving soft bites. rafe took her hand and guided it to his crotch. “this is what happens when i think about you all day.” instinctively, y/n let out a small moan, trying to hold it back by biting her lip.

“god, i need you so badly,” rafe whispered, his voice rough. y/n’s eyes sparkled. “on your knees.”

she obeyed without hesitation. rafe stroked her cheek, tracing her lips with his thumb before slipping it into her mouth. “suck.” and she did, looking up at him “who do you belong?”

“you, rafe,” she whispered, her cheeks flushed, lips parted.

“you’re so good for me. so obedient.”

he unbuttoned his pants slowly, freeing his hard cock right in front of her face. he took her by the chin, forcing her to look at him. “open your mouth.”

she obeyed. he teased her lips with the tip, taunting her, before pushing himself all the way in. rafe grabbed her hair, thrusting deeper.

“fuck,” he groaned, tightening his grip. she closed her eyes, digging her nails into his thighs. “look at me.” her eyes filled with tears as she felt him deep in her throat. he pulled out with a wet sound, then slammed back in again. “oh god, you’re so good, my little slut,” he growled, moving his hips faster.

suddenly, he pulled out of her mouth, grabbed her under the arms, lifted her, and bent her over the desk, positioning himself behind her. with a single thrust, he was inside her. y/n arched her back, and rafe took the opportunity to grab her neck, cutting off her breath.

“so good for me,” he whispered. “whose are you?” he asked, digging his fingers into the sides of her neck.

“yours, mr. cameron,” y/n cried, her vision blurry and her fists clenched tight. “i’m only yours.”

he released her neck and brought his hand down to her clit, while the other held her head down against the desk, keeping her completely still. “so perfect. made for me.”

they were both about to finish. without thinking, y/n begged him. “come inside me.” he did and shortly after, she followed. her legs were shaking, her head was spinning, and her throat was dry. rafe pulled out and adjusted his clothes. y/n took a few minutes to recover. rafe kissed her back and helped her get dressed.

“you were incredible, my love. as always.”

y/n smiled at him with love in her eyes, still sitting on the desk. he drove her home, and before leaving, he gave her an expensive handbag — a subtle reminder that she belonged to him.

“i’ll see you tomorrow, doll.”

[silver-the-pendejo]

Chapter 2: Denki, Don’t Lick My Trauma

Couple: future Poly!Chain and Platonic Wind x Reader Warnings: Confusion & disorientation ,Confusion & disorientation,Mild language, Emotional distress Summary: After waking up in a strange new world, disoriented and injured, you’re met by a group of strangers who feel oddly familiar.

Pain pulsed behind your eyes like a stampede of Tauros.

You groaned, dragging your arm over your face as the world slowly came into focus. The stone floor beneath you was cold, and the dull throb in your forehead confirmed one thing: you’d passed out. Again.

Great.

A low whine reached your ears.

"Denki?" you croaked.

He was already by your side, licking your cheek in worried little bursts. Sparks snapped faintly from his fur, his eyes were wide and full of concern.

You sat up slowly, trying not to pass out for a third time in the same day . Your muscles ached. Your brain buzzed. But you were awake, and more importantly, still alive.

Luna stood silently near your things, her arms folded and her eyes glowing ever so faintly. A barrier. She’d shielded you while you were unconscious.

Before you could thank her, you heard the same voices that before, closer this time.

“They are awake.”

The voice was unfamiliar but not unkind. You tensed anyway, reaching instinctively for another of your pokeballs.

“Easy,” came another voice, this one calm, measured, and older. “We’re not here to hurt you.”

You turned your head, vision still slightly swimming, and finally got a proper look at the voice’s.

There were several of them aside from the ones that you heard, all of them with some kind of weapon. Their clothes were unlike anything from Galar or any other region, things you have only seen in history book’s and videogames.

Denki let out a warning growl, placing himself between you and the strangers. Luna didn’t move, but the pressure in the air grew tense….subtle. They were ready to fight if they had to. And that included your pokemon inside their resting place’s, you could feel Eclipse’s pokeball tremble near where your hand was, and you knew it wasnt good.

But the men didn’t draw their weapons.

The one in the heavy looking armor took a slow step forward, hands raised slightly in a placating gesture. He had markings on his face, you think you recognize them from somewhere but your head is still bothering you so you can't be bothered to try and remember. His eyes scanned you, not with hostility, but with something that looked like curiosity.

“You’re not from this era,” he said. “We figured that much. Can you tell us your name?”

You hesitated. Luna’s energy pulsed gently against your thoughts, trying to reassure you.

“…Y/N,” you said at last, voice hoarse.

“Y/N,” the man echoed, then gestured to himself. “I’m Time. These are my companions.”

He signals toward them and says something, but you’re lost in your mind now. You recognize the marks on his face, too distinct to be coincidence. They correspond to the Fierce Deity Mask. A mask that belonged to what used to be one of your favorite video game sagas.

But that can’t be right. (Never mind the fact you fought a horde of Bokoblins earlier.)

​​This couldn’t be happening.

Yet the ache in your body was real. Denki’s weight against your leg was real. Luna’s hum in your head was real.

So what did that make this?

A dream? A hallucination? Giratina fucking with you over what happend the last time you went to Sinnoh?

You grimaced. You knew you should have apologized more to them. Maybe this was your punishment for poking around Turnback Cave like an idiot.

Either way, you were here now. And Arceus didn’t seem in a hurry to undo that.

A wet tongue dragged up the side of your cheek, snapping you out of your spiral.

“Denki!” you flinched, laughing weakly despite yourself. “Gross, what did I say about boundaries?”

Denki gave a happy bark, completely unrepentant, and nuzzled against your neck with a wag of his tail. The static discharge made your hair frizz slightly, but you didn’t have the heart to scold him again. He was just trying to help, in his own way.

One of the smallest figures in the group, stepped forward. He barely seemed older than Bonnie the last time you saw her. His blonde hair was messy, windswept, and his blue eyes were wide with poorly hidden amazement as he stared at Denki and Luna.

One of the smallest figures in the group stepped forward. He barely looked older than Bonnie the last time you saw her, maybe thirteen, tops. His blonde hair was messy and a bit dirty, he probably needed to take a bath  and his eyes shimmered with barely restrained amazement as he stared openly at Denki and Luna.

“What are they?” he asked, voice high with excitement. “Are they monsters? Spirits? They don’t feel like magic, but they move like they have magic!”

Denki barked at him once, curious about how the boy acted and the boy actually jumped back a step, eyes sparkling.

“That one makes lightning!” he added, clearly delighted. “Can you talk to them? Are they yours? Did they choose you or did you choose them?”

Your lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile breaking through the haze of confusion and exhaustion.

It had been a while since you’d seen someone, especially a teenager, look at Pokémon with that kind of awe.

Most people treated them like battle partners, assets, or creatures that didn’t deserve respect. Even your friends back in Galar sometimes forgot the wonder that came with getting your first pokemon. But this boy was looking at Denki and Luna like they were something sacred.

Denki, of course (the ever-present attention seeker) soaked it all in, his tail wagging with smug pride. Luna offered the boy a slow graceful nod, acknowledging his curiosity, even if she remained cautious to the group.

“They’re Pokémon,” you said, your mind still not grasping being away from home. “We battle together. It’s… kind of a thing where I’m from.”

The boy blinked, mouth slightly agape as he processed your words. “‘Pokémon,’” he repeated, as if tasting the word for the first time. “That sounds… cool.”

He looked back at Denki, then Luna, then at youlike you might sprout wings and start flying any second.

A voice called from behind him.

“Wind,” The one with Fierce Deity marks, Time, you reminded yourself. “Give them space.”

Wind. So that was his name.

He blinked, startled, then stepped back a little, cheeks tinged with embarrassment. “Right. Sorry. I just… they’re really cool.”

Then a new voice interrupted.

“Anyone hungry?”

You turned your head toward the new voice, cringing a bit in pain because of the small pain you could still feel in your head.

He was crouched near the fire (since when there was a fire), stirring a pot suspended over the flames. “I made stew,” he added, like that explained everything.

Your stomach chose that exact moment to betray you with a loud growl. You winced, rubbing at your midsection, and tried to pretend that didn’t just happen in front of several strangers that you were starting to be sure about being Link’s from the different Zelda games. Denki tilted his head at you, and Luna raised a brow in what you swore was amused judgment (the traitor).

The one by the fire looked up at you with a smirk that said he absolutely heard it. “Sounds like someone’s voting yes.”

“Uh… thanks,” you muttered, awkwardly pushing yourself to sit up straighter. Luna immediately moved to steady you, her hand lightly resting on your back. You gave her a grateful glance.

The man grabbed a wooden bowl and ladled out some of the stew before offering it to you.

“No poison,” he added with a cheeky grin. “Promise.”

You stared at him, then at the bowl, and sighed. “I’ve eaten curry made by Hop after he stole the berries from wild pokemon. I can survive this.”

He blinked. “I don’t know what any of that means, but I respect it.”

As you took the bowl with trembling hands, Wind plopped down beside the fire, still watching Denki with unashamed fascination. Denki, naturally, trotted over and curled beside you, but not before giving Wind one more sniff of approval. “So,” the fire man said casually, poking at the fire with a stick, “mind telling us how youjust fell out of the sky?”

You froze with the spoon halfway to your mouth. You could feel multiple eyes land on you.

Right. That part.

You lowered the spoon slowly, stew forgotten. The warmth of the fire couldn’t quite reach the cold pit forming in your stomach.

“I… don’t really know,” you admitted, fingers tightening slightly around the bowl. “I was in Wyndon City. We were walking outside the stadium going back home. We were headed to the battle tower. Everything was normal.”

You paused, swallowing hard as you continued telling what happened.

“Then…. the ground started to hum. Just a little at first. Then…. suddenly I got pulled down by gravity…. Hop tried to grab me but….”

You trailed off, staring into the bowl. The bowl shook faintly in your grip.

“But he didn’t make it,” you finished, barely above a whisper.

Denki whined softly and nudged your side again, his ears flat. Luna’s hand rested lightly on your shoulder once more, grounding you before you started crying. Time slowly walked toward’s you, you could feel him standing at your side” That kind of magic… it’s rare. Dangerous. And usually not accidental.”

You looked up, startled. “You think this was on purpose?”

“I think,” he said carefully, “that someone – or something – wanted you here.” You stared at him, your appetite disappearing after hearing those words.

Wanted you here?

The words echoed in your head, louder than they had any right to. Who would want you here? And why?

Time didn’t elaborate, but something in his expression told you he had his own suspicions, ones he wasn’t ready to share with you. Still, his voice was steady, calm. The kind you used to fake after long battles when you needed to comfort your pokemon.

Now someone else was offering that calm to you.

Wind shuffled closer again, this time quieter. “If it helps,” he said, voice softer, “falling out of the sky’s not the weirdest way someone’s joined us.”

That startled a huff out of you. “I’d hate to hear what it is.”

“Twilight showed up because his horse fell into a portal while he was investigating it. So… yeah. You’re fine.”

You blinked. “His horse?”

“Long story,”  Cooking guy chimed in from his spot by the fire, grinning as he poked the pot again. “One that goes great with stew, by the way.”

“Ignore them,” Time said with a small sigh, though there was the faintest ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “Eat and then get some rest, if you can. We’ll figure things out. One step at a time.”

You could feel the others in the group still watching you. But for once, people watching you didn’t make your skin crawl. It didn’t feel like the press hounding you for answers or strangers waiting for you to mess up. It just… was.

And that was fine.

Is short? Yes. Do i prefer short shit cause otherwise this was not gonna go out? Also yes. ANYWAYS IM BAAACK, summer school is over i passed all my clases and I can be happy, so byeeee, Ima go write the requests on my inbox before starting a new part for traiblazer reader -runs away- LU Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Last Part | Next Part

Taglist: @sleepifonlyigoti (Comment to be added)

[accidentcache]

needed to beat him the fuck up. anyways what's the sexiest non sex related thing ever the answer is always fighting with your estranged lover warnings; language, mild violence, reader is mean (justified anger ok walk with me here), mild gun violence, dazai being a flirt/freak. okay pls throw rocks at me im sorry

chuuya told you he had come back on his own volition. why? he doesn't know. and why chuuya decided to tell you this information will always be in the back of your head as well. it's not like chuuya knew all the details of yours and dazai's relationship.

or did he?

walking down those steps to find that bastard chained to a slab of concrete told you that chuuya knew the cards he was playing. the way dazai's eyes widened the moment they locked on you— oh, chuuya knew what he was doing, wasn't he? you'd have to thank him later for giving you this opportunity.

hell hath no fury like a lover scorned.

"hey, cutie," dazai drawls with a smirk that twitches at the corner. trying to save face because even though he's killed before, even though he's been on the brink of death— no one scares him like you do. and he's dreaded the day he'd have to see you again after leaving the port mafia.

you don't give him a chance to speak again before your knuckles meet his cheekbone. his head twists with the force, a grunt leaving his mouth— and you think you've effectively silenced him. but this is dazai, and your ex-boyfriend slash traitor never knows when to shut the fuck up.

he keeps his head turned to the side. the corner of his mouth is twitching upward and his body shakes ever so slightly as he chuckles under his breath. the room is otherwise silent, save for your angered breathing; so his laughter is not missed.

"i see you missed me, bella," he keeps his voice low— teasing. his eyes finally meet yours and you feel such a violent mix of rage and longing course throughout your body. a smirk dances along his lips and heat bubbles at the bottom of your spine.

"you are going to regret coming back here," your voice shakes with the amount of mental force you're using to restrain the anger. your hand slides into his hair to yank it backwards harshly and you revel in the way his face twists in discomfort.

dazai's throat bobs as he's forced to look up at you. and yeah, a lot of people call him messed up. he's used to it— he knows he does a lot of weird and odd things. he's into a lot of weird things. but right now, he still thinks you're the hottest thing he's ever laid eyes on. even when mad. even when you look seconds away from killing him.

his tongue clicks in mock disappointment. "you don't miss me?"

on reflex you yank his hair again and force the back of his head against the concrete. he winces, but the small smirk he sports doesn't seem to waver. almost like he's enjoying this.

your lip curls in distaste— but both of you know it's not genuine. your hand leaves his hair you push the flat of your boot into his chest. "still a fuckin' freak i see." you don't miss how his throat bobs and his eyes seem to dilate when you scoot your foot upward to rest on his throat.

"of course i am," he replies, his voice ever so slightly strained due to the pressure you're putting on his windpipe. his smirk curls higher. "it's you."

you swear you blink and all of a sudden his hands are free from the cuffs. his hand wraps around your ankle and you don't have time to react before you're suddenly on your back on the floor. the force knocks the wind from you, your vision is just a tad fuzzy but luckily for you; with years of training with him and chuuya and others, your reflexes are quick.

you're back on your feet before you know it, drawing the gun from your hip to aim it at the spot right between his eyes. you'd pull the trigger, but one thing about dazai is that he is fast. he's smart and he's quick, and he knows how to disarm you even though it's been years since he's been in hand to hand combat with you.

it's muscle memory for him almost. how his hand snaps forward to wrap around your wrist and twist your arm so your body flips and your back turns to his front. in response, your leg kicks out and takes him down by his ankles. he laughs as he tumbles, latching onto your calf to tug you down as well as your gun clatters to the ground only a few feet away.

brought down to your knees beside him, only a moment of silence passes. your breathing is labored, eyes locked on his in almost a western standoff. neither of you move quite yet, stuck in the odd tension in each other's gaze before you're scrambling towards your weapon.

dazai's hand wraps around your ankle just as your hand secures your gun. when you move to aim at him, you find him smirking; lips parted as heavy breaths leave his mouth. he's got a bit of dirt on the side of his face, and his hair is tousled from you yanking it earlier and the scuffle.

he still looks pretty. unfortunately, even more so now.

your finger wraps around the trigger and your jaw clenches. it'd be so easy to pull the trigger. would it? you've wanted to kill him since the day he left you without a word years ago. you've lived with so much resentment and hatred towards him; this would be considered closure, would it not?

dazai is up on one knee in front of you, holding onto your ankle in a vice grip. his mouth twitches again into a wider smirk. still perceptive, still arrogant.

"you won't shoot me," he taunts.

and yet, still so fucking stupid.

"watch me," you retort. so you shoot him in the shoulder. the way he cries out and screams is just enough to satiate your blood lust. for now.

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