#I smoked crack 3 times today

[ptsdickgrayson]

Why can’t the highs last forever

[rosegolden13]

Hardware store owner!John Price drabble <3

He’s on his smoke break in his office in the back, window open to let in the cool evening breeze and let out the stink of cigar. Store’s been slow today, but that’s no surprise for a random weekday.

Gaz and Soap are messing around out front, their voices carrying into his office from the cracked open door. No doubt they’re playing their makeshift version of floor hockey with a roll of duct tape as a puck and the yard sticks as sticks. Normally, he’d tell them off, but with no customers in, he let them have their fun. It would be closing time soon anyways.

The mechanical ring signalling the arrival of a customer is familiar enough that he tunes it out entirely. It isn’t until that sweet chirping filters through his door that he finds the need to immediately tap out his barely finished cigar, despite the fact that both Gaz and Soap are free to help you. Those muppets don’t know about the leaky sink you’ve been struggling with or the marigolds you’re desperate to help bloom. He needs to be there. It’s only reasonable.

His pace quickens a bit when he hears how your voice seems to be laced with anxiety, words spilling into one another. By the time he gets to the front, Soap has got his palms up, clearly trying to placate you like you’re a spooked horse. 

“Poison?! I-I don’t want to kill them!” You’re wringing your hands, stress palpable, as your bracelets clash against one another on your wrist. And this is what he’s been waiting for since you last came in, another chance to help his favorite girl.

Gaz is moving towards you as if to reach out a hand to place on your arm, but before he can, John’s heavy hand is on your shoulder, standing just behind you. “I’ve got this one, boys. Start cleaning up for me, will ya?”

Gaz and Soap exchange knowing smirks as they head off with a simple “sure thing, cap’n” and a “you got it, Price”. You’re looking up at him and he has to fight back the rush of pride that flows through him when he catches the relief in your expression. 

His thumb absently runs over the fabric of your flowy pink top, feeling your warmth through the thin fabric. “What’s the problem, doll? Never seen ya worked up like this.”

“John, oh, thank God. There’s mice in my attic- a whole family of them. I really wouldn’t mind, but there’s droppings everywhere. Animal control told me to call the exterminator. But I couldn’t live with myself if I had to- They’re only looking for a warm place to stay!” The words are a rush from your glossed lips, his hand rubbing over your shoulder the whole time and then squeezing gently once you’re done. 

God, you’re adorable. This passionate over the lives of a few woodland critters. He’s never flinched at bloodshed, but he’s not one for needless killing either, especially of anything as small and helpless as some mice.

His smile is patient as he looks down at you. “No exterminator necessary. I’ll handle ‘em for ya, lovie. Got a few humane traps I can set up for ya, free of charge. Wouldn’t want ya to get your finger trapped in ‘em.”

Your trust in him is all the payment he needs. Oh, and that sweet smile you give him as you babble happily about how he always knows just what to do. 

—

He follows you back to your place in his pick-up truck.

As you lead him inside, murmuring sheepishly about how it’s a bit of a mess inside, he’s focusing on how your smaller form squeezes in next to his in the tiny entryway, how you put your keys away with a gentle metal clatter, the movements unconscious because you’ve no doubt done them day after day. The intimacy of being in your space gets to his head, filling his mind with thoughts of placing his keys over yours on the little hook. 

You’re leading him upstairs to the attic soon enough. While he busies himself with setting up the traps, you sweep up mouse droppings. Settling into the work, a comfortable silence lingers over you both. John’s taking note of the christmas decorations, old books, and various bins you have stored up here, making a mental reminder to offer to come over if you ever need help getting the boxes down from here. He wouldn’t want you tripping down that rickety ladder leading up here. 

He’s setting down one of the last traps, placing it by a crack between the wall and floor that he wants to offer to fill for you, when you shriek, the sound loud enough to cover up the scurrying claws of the mouse that had just ran right by your sneakers. In an instant, your hands are digging into his hairy arm, clinging to him. 

It takes him a moment, looking between your hands and then your scared expression, before he’s springing into action. “Shh, darl’. It was jus’ a mouse. Can’t hurt ya. I won’t let it.”

He lets you hug his arm, using his free hand to gently rub your other shoulder. There’s a slight heat in his cheeks that he hasn’t felt since he was a teen, that small thrill of being alone in the dark, tucked close to another warm body. One touch from a pretty little thing and the seasoned captain is falling apart.

The moment is broken when you pull away with a sheepish smile. You’re apologizing again and again for getting spooked like that but John’s just watching you with a smile, sneaking glimpses at the crescent shaped divots your manicure left in his arm. He doesn’t want them to fade, mind wandering to how you could tear up his back with those claws.

Once the job is done, you say goodnight to him at the door, the yellow porch light casting a halo over his hair. He promises to come back once any of the traps are filled to bring the mice to a field so they don’t end up back in your attic again. 

And, no, doll, you don’t need to repay him but, how could he ever say no to a homecooked meal sometime?

[bunnyhugs77]

Mr. Take Your Bitch

Pairing: Idol! Jungkook x Reader

Word Count: 8.2k

Content Warning: jk is a little cocky, player! jk, reader gets flustered so easily, jk is such a tease, smooth talker jk, clubbing, ft bts, interviews, reader is small (like 5'1), insults, alcohol consumption, infidelity, readers boyfriend is an asshole, mentions of smoking, impulsive jk, what happens in vegas stays in vegas, messyyy, suggestive themes, sweet gestures.

Other Content: hair pulling, manhandling, oral sex (f! receiving), squirting, missionary, jk splits reader in half, big dick! jk, doggy style, dacryphilia, praise and degradation, cream pies, minor possessive jk, unprotected sex (be better than them), recording.

"How do I look?" Sunny tosses the perfectly sculpted curls in her hair once more, pouting in the dressing room mirror, making sure that not a strand was out of place.

"For the eighth time, you look great, as always." She stands, her red off-the-shoulder top accenting her white pencil skirt and perfect figure, she really did look gorgeous. "Great isn't enough. This is the first time I'm interviewing THE BTS. I need to look perfect."

"You do. I promise." You reassure with a comforting right hand on her shoulder while you center her necklace with your left. "Y/n, we need you out here to help set up." Your manager cracks the door open to call for you briefly before leaving.

"I still cannot believe you dragged me into this coffee girl job just for you to get close to Namjoon." Sunny's full lips stretch from ear to ear showing off her million-dollar smile, "What's so wrong about me wanting you nearby for emotional support? But at least I got you a job out of it, 3 weeks ago you were on the brink of poverty.'' Her arms crossed and you had to admit, she did have a point.

"What was the whole point of this again?" You simply had to ask, remembering the midnight phone call Sunny surprised you with about a month ago when she landed the Hybe interviewer position.

"Remember the story I told you about, in Junior year, me and this boy from math camp snuck out 6 miles away with fake IDs and got shitfaced at the nearest bar then hooked up but I never got his name and he was in the middle of signing my journal we were interrupted and I never saw him again until-"

"You saw Namjoon's face on a billboard in Seoul, and you took this opportunity to get close to see if it was him or not. Yes, I remember now, it's all coming back to me." You finish her story for her.

"Exactly, and-"

"--Y/n, sometime today would be great." Your manager interrupts once again and you leave, apologizing frantically for making them wait, not wanting to lose this job. It actually paid pretty well considering all you did was make drinks.

Walking out of the dressing room, ignoring the buzz in the back pocket of your jeans as you followed your manager to the coffee cart offset. Although from here you had a perfect view of where the interview would take place.

They set it up to be very stylish and modern with BTS albums and concept photos placed strategically around the set within the camera shot. Along with a small coffee table, one chair on one side where Sunny would sit and seven on the other side.

It almost gave you chills to think about. The fact that in a few moments, the most popular boy band in the continent would be sitting right there. All seven of them, including the tempting one.

The one who makes you stumble over your words every time he comes down to the first floor to get a coffee even though there's a gazillion other places to get something to drink in the building.

Every time you see him, he's displaying a new style. Sometimes he comes down stacked with complex layers of clothing and covered in jewelry, or with nothing more than a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, although the latter was possibly the worst of your few interactions. He's just so handsome, it made you want to squirm.

That day he was saying all the right things, yet saying nothing at all. Asking you simple questions like when you started working here, and if you liked coffee, meanwhile all you could mutter was an embarrassing 'yes'. What exactly you were saying yes to? You may never know.

You turned your back to the set and focused on making the pre-ordered drinks the members had sent down with their manager beforehand. By the time you turned back around Sunny was sitting in her place, anxious but ready.

You've been best friends since the 6th grade. She's incredibly outgoing and sociable, a balancing contrast to your more introverted nature although you could be a little extroverted with some alcohol in your system.

She was born for this job, you're sure she'll kill the interview. She mentioned that she'd bumped into a few of the members since she started working a month ago, but not Namjoon.

She definitely underestimated how hard it would be to 'bump' into a man who is guarded by security constantly and extremely busy, not to mention rarely in the country.

Hoseok was the first one to walk in, looking sharp as ever in casual attire but he he made it look incredible. Next was Jimin, and you noticed the way Sunny's eyes nearly widened when she finally saw Namjoon walk in behind Tae.

Finally, they were all inside and all greeted Sunny with a friendly hug and you can see she enjoyed her hug with Namjoon a little too much. Somehow finding something small to laugh about with him as they pulled away.

With an empty cup in your hand, you watched the most handsome group of men you've ever seen, file into the room and take a seat. "Go set these down before cameras start rolling." You feel a tap on your shoulder from another worker.

Did you zone out?

You placed a firm hand on your chest, taking a deep breath before placing a sturdy grip on the handles of the cart and bringing their beverages over. 'One foot in front of the other' you remind yourself, doing your best to ignore the feeling of their gazes turning to you as you got closer.

Unable to look any of them in the eyes as you set down their drinks on the table saying the name of each one so they know which one is theirs.

You could feel his gaze on you whilst Sunny got to witness it first hand from where she sat. The way his jaw slowly clenches with each passing moment, watching you with dark, intense eyes. In that moment, the world around him blurred, and all that remained was the captivating image of you.

It was while you were placing down the final cup that you felt bold enough to finally look up from the table, glancing at Jimin who was talking to Hoseok on his right. Slowly your line of sight inches up and over his head to Jungkook who was sitting on a taller chair behind him.

He was looking right at you.

And that was more than enough for you to return to the cart and retreat to your station. The boys reached for their cups as the countdown to the interview began.

You watched with engaged eyes from the sidelines as the interview began, going through basic introductions and standard questions, you were listening along to the jokes made along the way.

It seemed they were having a great time out there, but you couldn't focus on all of them for too long. You wouldn't be doing your duties as Sunny's best friend if you didn't watch Namjoon's every move; including how he seemed to be the first one to answer almost any of her questions.

The questions were flying by and the discussion was so entertaining to watch but it was over before you even registered it. Sure, cameras had stopped rolling but they were all still talking.

You felt another buzz in your pocket, finally deciding to check.

 Daehyun: Are you still mad? It's been 2 days, you're being dramatic. 12:02 pm

 Daehyun: Why aren't you answering my texts? 1:12 pm

 Daehyun: Fine. Keep ignoring me. Real mature, Y/n. 1:13 pm

You scoff at the messages.

Unbelievable.

Your boyfriend has left you astonished. Again!

You put your phone back on silent, secretly wishing you'd never checked it in the first place. Muttering under your breath about what a jerk he's been to you lately but you stop yourself. Because he's still your boyfriend, and sure, he fucked up a few times, bad. It doesn't change the fact that you're in a relationship with him.

If you could even call it that.

You've slept together twice. Well- 1.5 times if you wanted to get specific. The second time was so bad that you simply had to stop it altogether and make up some excuse so that you didn't hurt his feelings.

Shaking him out of your head and focusing back on your task at hand which was collecting the empty mugs from the table. Repeating the same process as before, avoiding all eye contact, but this time you didn't look up.

You didn't bother because you already knew he was watching you.

You were intimidated but you weren't oblivious.

-

"Y/n! Y/n! Y/n!" You hear her from around the corner before you see her running towards you at your coffee station on the first floor. Sunny was practically bursting. You would think that she had captured the sun between her hands but it was something that would take your life for a spin, but you didn't know that yet.

"You're interview went so well!" You slip in your comment first knowing that once she says whatever she has to say, it'll go on for years.

"I know right! After you left to pack up, I was still talking to the guys and they really seemed to like me so they invited me and any +1 I want to invite on their weekend in Vegas trip tomorrow night! All expenses paid for!" Jaw-dropping wasn't the word. Knee buckling may be a better fit as you had quite literally stumbled and dropped a mug, thankfully it didn't break.

"No. No no no." You say, backing up and her entire demeanour deflated like a devastated puppy. "Why not?" You lean in close, whispering, "Because Jungkook is gonna be there--" She interrupts you, practically exploding with emotions. "Oh my god, he wants you so bad. Did you see the way he was looking at you?!" She whisper shouts.

"I know!" you plain shout out, realizing your volume needed adjusting and leaning forward onto the counter. "But he's Jeon Jungkook and I have Daehyun-" The most disgusted look runs across Sunny's face.

"I cannot believe you are even comparing the two right now. You said it yourself, one is Jeon Jungkook, and the other is Daehyun, a man you should've left in the dust months ago." Here we go again, you sigh.

"C'mon Y/n. He's an asshole, he's childish, he's bad in bed and honestly, the list should end there but no, he humiliated you in front of your family and he was caught in your sister's dm's on Christmas!!"

"It's May for god's sake and he's still stressing you out, and seeing you stressed makes me stressed. So why don't you come tomorrow, I'll keep you away from Jungkook if it comes to that, but please, you need to let loose a little and forget about him for just the weekend." She begs.

She could see you were starting to consider it.

"Please?" She pouts, giving you those same puppy eyes that convinced you to work here in the first place. "Please don't look at me like that, stop." You try to avoid her sorrowful gaze but It's like it intensifies to a point where you just can't look away, nor can you deny.

"Fine, fine. Okay, I'll go."

--

Considering you only just found out you were leaving the country yesterday, you think you did pretty good packing light but efficiently.

That's what you were thinking as you stepped behind Sunny onto the empty private jet. She'd already made arrangements to sit beside Namjoon.

She was crazy but you had to give the girl credit, she worked fast.

You weren't taking in a single thing, part of you was still in disbelief you had even seen the boys up close and personal yesterday.

This would all sink in for you in 5 years and then you'll be hit with a numbing regret of not doing things differently.

Or maybe it'll sink in for you right now, Jimin's full head of brown wavy hair is the first one you see to pop up on the plane and he flashes you a kind smile, taking a seat beside you.

He introduces himself as if you and half the world don't already know him but you engage anyway, giving him your name and the rest is history.

The flight was 11 hours so there was a lot of ground to cover between the two of you for the first 6 hours. Jimin was just such an easy person to open up with, any time you said something crazy you felt like he would have an even crazier story of his own to share.

He'd told you all about his first impressions of the guys to his first scandal that the label somehow managed to cover up because even you were in shock. It would have been over for him.

Then it was your turn, telling him about your exhausting boyfriend since it all started seven months ago.

"On Christmas?!" He shouts, "Why are you with him again?" You groan, "God you sound just like Sunny!"

The two of you were clearly enjoying your conversation while Sunny worked on getting Namjoon to talk a little bit about his past, trying to see if he really was the boy from all those years ago, but he seemed occupied reading his book and she wasn't going to interrupt him any longer. She sighs softly, looking out the window, watching the clouds fly by like art.

Meanwhile, at the front of the jet, Jungkook typed away on his laptop, sometimes blurbing some possible lyrics, but mostly keeping himself busy with a thousand rounds of Tetris. He tuned out the sound of your angelic laughter with his headphones, but it couldn't stop him from glancing to the back of the plane where you sat with Jimin every so often.

Only about an hour left before you landed and you really needed to pee but Jimin was in the way and fast asleep. You looked around, it seemed that everyone was fast asleep, but you really had to go.

Lightly tapping Jimin and asking him to let you through, he moves, half awake, just giving you enough time to pass before going back to his original position.

You exited the bathroom, nearly falling to the ground in horror when you came face to face with the man you'd nearly forgotten was on the jet. He smiles that classic bunny smile that the fans go crazy over.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you." He says it so sweetly, and in this hushed tone due to the late hour of the night it was making your head think things. Things that you should not be thinking about.

"You okay?" Checking in, seeing that you seemed to have zoned out mid-conversation. Shit. You were doing it again. "Y-yeah." You hated speaking to him it made you feel like you couldn't speak at all. He was just so tall, and his eyes were so big and endearing and-

"Really? Cause it looks like you've got something on your mind." It comes out in such a way that brings heat to your face, suddenly hyper-aware that everyone is asleep, and the two of you are out of sight in the narrow hall of the bathroom.

"Yeah, just excited for tomorrow." You lie, you felt sick to your stomach. He made you sick to your stomach. He gets a little closer, now close enough for you to be able to smell the soft cologne on his clothes. "What's got you so excited?"

It felt like you were watching yourself fall from the sky, it was slow but graceful, but you knew once you hit the bottom, things would get ugly. So you grew wings. "My boyfriend. We're planning on Facetiming tomorrow." It was like a repellant, the way he stepped back.

"Oh, that's nice." He mumbles and you take this opportunity to run back to your seat, hopping over Jimin and strapping yourself back in your seat, shaking your head over and over again.

This was a bad idea. You should not have come on this trip.

-

"She has a fucking boyfriend." Is the first thing Jungkook says to Yoongi and Jimin while the three sit in the back of the taxi that is en route to the hotel. Yoongi wasn't listening, still half asleep after only waking up 30 minutes ago. He would need a repeat of it all tomorrow.

"Pfft. Barely." Jimin mumbles. Triggering quite possibly the fasted head turn known to mankind, Jungkook looks at him with intrigue, "What do you mean by that."

"He's an asshole. Like a literal piece of shit, but she's still with him for whatever reason. It's gotta be Stockholm syndrome." Jimin shrugs. "But you can't tell her I told you this, I think she's pretty cool, so before you get your dick wet, think with your head first."

Yoongi hums in agreement with that one statement. He may be asleep but he knows a good statement when he hears one.

-

Jungkook did think. He thought about you all night. From the cab to the hotel, until he fell asleep and again when he woke up. Sure, you had a boyfriend, but it sounds like you shouldn't be with him, or at least deserved someone better.

The morning sun seeps through the curtains, casting a warm glow on the lavish surroundings. You and Sunny share a glance, a silent acknowledgment of the incredible experience that awaits. Or at least that's what Sunny thinks.

Instead, you retreat under the covers of your bed with an unpleasant sound. "How could I let you bring me here." Your voice is muffled and scratchy from it being the morning still. "Because you love me." She runs from her bed and jumps onto yours.

"Should we get room service?" She proposes and you slowly pull the covers down, revealing an interested expression. "Who's paying?" You ask. "Who cares! It's not us." She springs up and bounces for the phone.

By the late afternoon, you'd gotten an invite from Jimin, inviting you guys down to the pool, it was reserved just for them. "We're going, this isn't up for debate, Y/n. You said you would relax on this trip, so it's my job to make sure you do!" She pulls out the violet two-piece you'd packed in your luggage and shoves you into the bathroom, throwing the clothes in there with you after and shutting the door.

"I hate you y'know," you say from the other side of the door.

"You'll thank me one day, Y/n. One day."

-

There was a roar of cheers from the guys as the two of you walked into sight, the sun was beaming down on you and you were glad you brought your sunscreen.

Jungkook tried to be respectful to the sham of a relationship you were in but what was he supposed to do? You looked so hot in your bathing suit, you were so small but you still had curves in all the right places.

He just wanted to break you in half. Pin you down and-

A splash of water hits him in the face, "Stop eye fucking her and act like you've been neutered for once." Yoongi warns, swimming away before Jungkook could retaliate.

Jin calls Sunny into the water, and she just about jumped in while you were working on unwrapping your new bottle of sunscreen. Jungkook uses this as an opportunity. Looking down at the white shirt that was now soaked through, sticking to his abs he slowly steps out of the water.

Looking you right in the eyes as you shook the bottle. Now you were staring but you didn't care. You were looking at the son of Adonis, or maybe the god himself.

In the warm glow of the poolside sun, Jungkook emerged from the sparkling water, droplets cascading down his glistening skin. The pool's rippling surface bore witness to his athletic grace as he approached the pool chair where you reclined, still shaking the bottle.

His steps were confident, each one leaving a trail of water on the tiles beneath his feet. As he neared, he held your gaze with an intense, playful glint in his eyes. The air between you became charged with a magnetic energy, and a sly smile played on his lips.

With deliberate movements, Jungkook reached down to the hem of his white shirt, clinging to his sculpted physique. The fabric peeled away, revealing the contours of his toned abs. Beads of water followed the curves of his body, accentuating every defined muscle.

As the shirt came off, the sunlight caught on the droplets clinging to his skin, creating an ethereal effect. The sensual eye contact between the two of you intensified, creating a moment suspended in time. The poolside ambiance seemed to hush, allowing the connection between them to take center stage.

Your fist clenched, the sunscreen blurted out of the bottle, some landing on the smooth skin of your thigh but most hit the chair.

Jungkook's expression hinted at a playful confidence, acknowledging the allure of the moment. Your little accident told him all he needed to know. You wanted him.

Even if you didn't know it yet.

Wiping desperately at the sunscreen that had landed on you, a bigger hand comes to help. Gently rubbing the soft flesh of your thigh, Jungkook was crouched to your level with nothing more than a sincere smile as he helped you with your sunscreen.

Your mouth gaped like a fish out of water as you watched him from beside yourself. Unable to believe what was happening. You could feel your heart beating in your ears, and other places but you shook your head.

"Wh-what-" Jungkook looks up to you, moving his hand away. "My bad. I didn't mean to overstep, I just noticed that you'd spilt some of your sunscreen," He inches just a little closer so that you looked down at him from where you sat on your chair. "I'd hate for it to go to waste."

That mischievous tongue of his makes an appearance briefly as it swipes over his bottom lip before retreating; leaving behind glossy plump lips. It's not what he says, but how he says it.

Almost as though he wanted you to break.

You hated how he made you feel without saying anything out of the ordinary.

"You have to be shitting me," Yoongi curses to no one in particular as he watches Jungkook lean up towards you from where he was floating in the pool on the flamingo inflatable.

"You've gotta admit, the boy's determined." Jin adds while Hoseok shakes his head, "He just doesn't know when to give up."

--

Opening your hotel room door to see Jimin leaning against the wall waiting for you. He looked incredible in his black button-up with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. His hair swooped to perfection.

"About time." He kicks himself off the wall as you scoff, "Don't blame me, blame the dress." Your freshly manicured nail points to the red, velvet dress that left your chest exposed before it went under the halter neckline.

There was so much skin offered to anyone that looked at you. You looked absolutely stunning. The way the dress clung tightly to your curves was almost ungodly but made you seem even more angelic.

Twirling on your toes slowly to showcase the full rotation of your outfit and Jimin failed to suppress his gasp. The back- Your back was completely exposed safe for where the halter crossed behind your neck.

"You look hot, and I'm not just saying that." You grin, leading the way to the elevator and waiting for it to come up.

While you were watching the elevator screen, Jimin was watching you. Not lustfully or anything since he really did see the two of you becoming close friends in the future but his gaze was full of.. fear?

Jungkook was going to eat you alive tonight, and he was willing to put money on it.

The man has been able to show limited amounts of self-control since the trip began, and his little shirtless stunt at the pool earlier that day was proof.

The elevator dings and the doors open.

You step in, hearing your phone vibrating from within your maroon chain side bag. Digging through your various lipsticks, mini perfumes and hair pins you finally grab your buzzing device.

 Daehyun: When did you go to Vegas?? and how did you get there? 4:33 pm

 Daehyun: Baby, I'm sorry. I mean it. Stop Ignoring me. (now) 8:12 pm

You sigh, scrolling through your messages sadly. "Am I being too hard on him?" Jimin leans over to look at the messages, his face turning sour at Daehyun's messages. "I bet you he doesn't even know what he's apologizing for."

The elevator doors close, and Jimin presses the star symbol for the nightclub on the first floor where you would meet the others.

Shaking your head repeatedly, "No. That's impossible. He knows, Jimin. Trust me." He doesn't seem convinced in the slightest,

"Okay. Since you're so sure-" He snatched your phone from your grasp, his fingers moving at the speed of light and you panicked, reaching for the device but he held it high. "Jimin No-!"

"I said 'What are you apologizing for'. I won't send it if you don't want me to. But It seems like he's only apologizing because he knows he's in the wrong, but doesn't know what for."

The elevator dings, going down floor by floor, the silence slowly creeping up on you, "Send it." You say, and his thumb hits send.

The doors open.

You and Jimin step out into the club. Before you sprawled a vast expanse of vibrant colours. Neon lights adorned the walls, casting a kaleidoscope of hues that danced in rhythm with the music.

The dance floor, surrounded by elevated platforms and VIP booths, was the epicentre of the vibrant spectacle. Mirrored ceilings multiplied the dazzling display, creating a sense of endless sin.

"Do you know where they are?" You ask while Jimin leads the way into the crowd of hot bodies and blasting music, he glances down to the text from Tae, "Tae said they're in section 9." Maneuvering your way through the swarm of people until you meet up with the others.

Jimin walked up the steps first, the group's cheers blending in with the roars coursing throughout the rest of the club as he joined them with you closely behind, the cheers continuing for you with whistles once you reached the platform.

"Oh shit!" Sunny curses, rushing to your side to shower you with compliments. "I guess being 30 minutes late pays off, you look great." Tae welcomes you with a side hug and an invitation to sit beside him.

"You need to cool it." Jin pulls Jungkook in by the collar so that he could hear him over the music. Jungkook finally pulls his hungry gaze off of you and looks to his elder.

"You're making it way obvious, and obvious is not what you want. She has a boyfriend. There are hundreds of other girls here, find someone else." He lets him go and Jungkook shakes his head.

How Jin even found out that you had a boyfriend didn't phase him. The seven of them were as close as brothers, it was hard for him and Jimin to keep anything to themselves.

Hundreds of girls but they weren't you. He couldn't just switch it on and off. This wasn't as fun and playful as it once was before, he was starting to get addicted to the thought of you.

"You have any pre-rolls on you?" Jungkook leans over to Namjoon who was deep into a conversation with Sunny. Namjoon reaches inside the pocket of his blazer, "Never leave home without them."

"Great. I need a smoke." Jungkook huffs, standing, purposefully avoiding your gaze. God you looked so fucking fine in that dress, it made him crazy, sick to his stomach.

He's Jeon Jungkook for god's sake.

The concept of want is so unfamiliar to him. Any girl he wants could easily be in his bed the same day, but you-- he shakes his head bitterly-- you were giving him a hard time, all over what? some lame-ass boyfriend.

"Namjoon you comin' ?" He looks over his shoulder to see both him and Sunny standing, "Mind if I join?" She asks, "The more the merrier."

You watched as the three of them disappeared into the bustling crowd vanishing out of sight. "Where did they go?"

Tae leans forward looking at where the trio had just walked through. "Probably went to go ball up." Tae shrugs, "Which means it's time to really get this night started. First round on me."

It wasn't until three shots later when Jungkook had finally come back, this was the first time you really got a good look at him. He was wearing nothing but a black jacket that had the most delicate body chains striping across his abdomen, giving you a clear view of his sculpted abs and-

Your phone buzzes.

 You: Why are you apologizing? 8:13 pm

 Daehyun: Because you're upset. (now) 9:27 pm

God, Jimin might be right. He doesn't have a clue.

 You: Do you even know why I'm mad? 9:27 pm

 Daehyun: Is it because of the nudes I sent Soo-Min? I was drunk, I promise. It was a mistake. 9:28 pm

You gasp. You had no idea what he was talking about. You were referring to him standing you up when you told all your family that he would be coming. You never knew this had even happened.

 You: What the fuck are you talking about? 9:29 pm

 You: I cannot believe you right now. 9:29 pm

 You: Stop fucking texting me. 9:30 pm

You weren't even sad or disappointed. You were used to him letting you down constantly. "Looks like you need another shot." You look up from the screen in your lap, making eye contact with ringed fingers wrapped around a shot glass with your name on it.

You take the shot in your own grasp, looking Jungkook in the eyes as you down it. Your face wincing a little at the burn in the back of your throat but you were beginning to feel that exciting warmth in your chest.

The strobe lights turn red as Chris Brown's Take You Down begins to play through the loud speakers all around the club. "Wanna dance?" He offered you his hand, your brain was a little hazy and your cheeks were flushed but Jungkook was too hot to resist.

"Love to."

The two of you walk off to the dance floor with the rest of the crowd.

Taehyung looks to Jin who looks to Hoseok who looks to Yoongi.

Yoongi sighs, shaking his head slowly taking another shot. "It's out of my control. Once they step on that floor, their fate is sealed."

It's true, the moment Jungkook's hands were on your hips that swayed to the music you knew you were screwed. You had every right to be apprehensive about going on this stupid trip in the first place, but deep down you knew it was inevitable.

This very moment was destined from the start.

"You look fucking perfect tonight." He whispers in your ear from behind you, subconsciously pushing your hips back on him and Jungkook could swear he's never wanted someone as badly as he wanted you at this very moment.

"Says you," You spin in his hold, now face to face.

His grip on your hips tighten, body unable to maintain its façade for much longer. Your hair was up in a bun tonight, showing off the industrial piercing he never even knew you had.

There were so many things he wanted to know about you, and not just physically. He wanted to be able to sit with you over a cup of coffee and talk about everything and anything.

His tight hold on you prompted a breathless whine to escape your lips but he heard it. "Stop it." He says and your eyebrows scrunch, genuinely confused. "Stop what?"

"Stop tempting me. I'm trying to be respectful." Astonishment wipes over your features. "You're telling me to stop? It's been you all along, making me trip over my words, and being so shirtless and hot all the time, making me forget I have a boyfriend." He chuckles.

"So you admit it. You think about me too?"

You step back.

"Yes, Jungkook. I cannot stop thinking about you and that's my problem. I need to get you out of my head." Your mouth was saying one thing, but with the way he was looking at you, your heart wanted him between your legs.

The almost forgotten feeling of lust finally coursed through your veins. It'd been so long since you'd gotten any action, you needed this.

But you couldn't.

He steps towards you, even closer than before. You could feel his firm body crowding against your own. The way he towered over you made you feel dizzy. He leaned down, ensuring that you could feel his warm breath on the shell of your ear when he spoke "Tell me you don't want me and I'll walk away."

You don't want him. you lie to yourself.

Trying to put these thoughts into words, your mouth opens.

"I need you, Jungkook." Finally admitting it.

There was no going back now, his lips crashed against yours with nothing less than an animalistic desire. It was fast-paced and messy but you loved it.

The dam finally broke.

You kissed with more than your lips, his hands on your waist, squeezing tight as he rolled his hips into you with the rhythm of the music.

This was so so wrong, but it felt so right.

The way his tongue rolled over your bottom lip with such skill made your thighs clench, you could only imagine the things he could do with it--

"Y/n!" Sunny screams your name from behind you, not even processing what you and Jungkook had just been doing while Namjoon was busy enjoying the music behind her.

You turned around, a little breathless and bothered after being disrupted but you were immediately occupied with analyzing Sunny's appearance. For starters her hair was ruffled and looked like it'd been put through the wringer, her lipstick (what was left of it) was fading and a little smudged.

And last that you checked she was wearing lashes when the night began but they were nowhere to be found. "Sunny where did you go-- Oh my god- Did you and Namjoon-" Her non-stop nodding causes you to clasp your hand over your mouth.

"It's him! He remembers me!" The two of you have your moment, squealing before Jungkook whispers in your ear. "Meet me at the elevator in 5." Sunny actually does catch on this time.

"Oh my god!? Are you gonna-"

You think about it, "I don't know!! Should I?! Daehyun just voluntarily admitted to sending nudes to Soo-Min god knows when and-" Sunny groans. "Leave him, for the love of god y/n stand up!" She yells.

"I can't just leave him he's my boyfriend, and it wouldn't make me any better than him." Sunny's eyes roll. "It won't be cheating if you plan on breaking up with his ass tonight. Just hurry up and decide, Jungkook's waiting for you." She winks and it gives you butterflies.

He was waiting for you.

The moment you turned the corner of the hallway, you saw Jungkook waiting outside the elevator as he said he would be, finally pressing the button. "I was afraid you wouldn't come," he laughs internally to himself at the double entendre, knowing Jungkook's track record, this has never been an issue for him.

The two of you step inside the elevator, it would be a long ride up to the 21st floor, the two of you did your best to stay to your respective sides of the elevator until there was a crowd of people that entered as well, pushing you into him.

Completely oblivious to the way your ass was pressed flush against his crotch, he looks up to the ceiling, wondering what he'd done in his past life to deserve this kind of punishment.

A beautiful girl pressed up against him but he couldn't do anything. As the crowd moved, so did you he hisses and your body stills, finally aware of what you were doing.

On the 13th floor the elevator empties completely, leaving just the two of you and you try to move away from him but his grip holds you in place. "Didn't think you'd be running from me so soon." You'd never heard his voice like this. It was deeper, bass full of wants and desires,

He spins you around, he had you cornered.

Looking up to him with that doe gaze of yours. His index finger gently rests under your chin, your gaze was practically begging him to kiss you, but in case he was hesitating you nodded just a little, permitting him to open your lips with his.

This kiss was a lot slower and deeper than the one before. It was soft and sweet, but slowly turned into a full-blown make-out session by the time the elevator made it to the 21st floor.

He leads the way to his room at the end of the hall, beside Hoseok's room.

Jungkook worked on unlocking the door while you chewed on the tip of your acrylic. Were you really about to do this?

"I'm going in my room, and you don't have to follow, but I'm leaving the door unlocked." He says, disappearing behind the door. Looking over your shoulder, your room was 4 doors down.

You could still back out now, it wasn't too late.

All you would need to do is have a long talk with Daehyun.

You scoff, even his name irritated you. Your heart knew things weren't going to work out between the two of you once you got back home, regardless of whether you slept with Jungkook or not.

He's broken your trust far too many times, and besides, Sunny was right, he is an asshole.

You walk into Jungkook's room and make sure to lock the door behind you.

"That's my girl," He purrs as he steps towards you, taking your face in his hands before gracing you with a heated kiss, the kind of kiss that made you stumble as he walked you back to the door.

"Hope you put that phone on dnd." He whispers, kissing down your neck, skillfully managing to take your hair down at the same time. You looked like the epitome of sin, hair falling over your shoulders as if it fell from grace while your neck was littered with hickeys, your plump bottom lip tugged between those perfect teeth of yours.

Your dress was the first thing to go, he loved it on you, but it served its purpose, and it did it well. Soon his jacket was finally off revealing his muscular build that you'd seen in the fan cams but it couldn't compare to the real thing.

You kissed him back desperately as your legs were wrapped around his waist while he made his way to the bed, dropping you down to your back watching the way you bounced.

Your perfect tits are the first victim of his passionate affection. Leaving tender kisses on the soft flesh, "Jungkook-" you gasp feeling him wrap his lips around your nipples, tongue working hard to push you towards that edge that you'd been inching closer to since you got in here.

He groans as he feels your hands roam over his back, anticipating the feeling of your nails scratching his skin. Finally moving down from your breasts once they were covered with his kisses and hickeys.

You could feel yourself practically soaking through your under, not to mention the way it was sticking to you. "Looks like someone's worked up," he teases, slowly peeling you out of your ruined underwear.

"What's got you so hot and bothered, is it your boyfriend?" You sit up so fast almost getting a head rush and he laughs. "Jungkook." You say and he gives you a look of lust. "What? Say it baby, use your words. Tell me who makes you this wet. Is it me or him?"

You press your legs together, unable to believe that this was turning you on more. "He couldn't turn me on." He looks up to you with wide eyes. "Is that so?" Nodding your head slowly, letting Jungkook gently push you back down to the bed.

On his knees he takes a deep breath at your core, a guttural sound rumbling in his chest as he was face to face with your dripping core. "So you're saying it's me?" he asks, letting his tongue run a flat stripe against your soaked folds.

"YES! It's you Jungkook please, stop teasing, please I can't take it. I'm already so close." You beg, body thrashing around enough for him to pin your legs over his shoulder and to keep you still.

You were stroking his ego, telling you you were already so close and he's barely touched you. Your boyfriend must've been shit in bed, and he was determined to make it up to you. He was going to show you what you've been missing.

Finally eating you out to his heart's content, ignoring the way your feet continued to move frantically over his shoulders he lapped up at your core, flicking his tongue over your clit until your body spasmed uncontrollably. "I'm-" Unable to even finish the sentence before you were blinded by an earth-shattering orgasm.

It ripped through you like a storm and came squirting out of you just like one too. "You've got to fucking kidding me," Jungkook murmurs to himself and you froze. Was he mad?

He stands up, "Of course the hottest girl I've ever seen squirts on my tongue. Good fucking hell, Y/n. It's like you want me obsessed with you." Who was he kidding, he was already obsessed.

He picked you up so carelessly, bringing you to the balcony where it overlooked the Las Vegas strip. You could see the hotel's illuminated pool and all the car lights as they zoomed on the highway far in the distance.

"Hope you're not scared of heights."

Your stomach twisted at the thought of being so high up, but it was all forgotten once your leg was propped up and you felt your folds being prodded open by the fat head of Jungkook's cock.

"No- fuck! Wait." you cursed feeling him push in just the tip, the sweet burn of his size nearly causing you to fall but he held you steady against the railing, bulging biceps on either side of your body, caging you in safely.

Jungkook knew better, this should be the last place he should be doing something like this but with your pretty ass right in front of him it was such a beautiful sight, and the scenery was cool too.

"It's too much," you pant, arms bracing yourself on the fence that kept you from falling 200 feet below. "It's only the tip baby, you sure you can take the whole thing?" You pause in thought, you needed him, all of him. "I can take it. keep going." You say and he pushes in slowly, feeling his cock fill up every nook and cranny of your womb.

It felt like he was in your lungs, you were knocked breathless, and he didn't move. Your body went limp in his arms, exactly what he feared would happen. He quite literally split you open, but you were determined to take it.

You clawed at the railing desperately, looking for any kind of relief from what you were feeling. "Deep breaths baby, I'll go slow." You nod, eyes squeezed shut as his hips slowly roll back pulling out about halfway before rocking back in.

"Oo-oh. fuck. Jungkook, keep going." you moan, head falling onto your hands; feeling what was once pain morphs into an addicting, sweet pleasure, over time his pace picks up until he was fucking into you with no remorse.

Even if no one could see you from this high up, they sure as hell could hear you. The way you cried out his name like a prayer over and over while Jungkook's brain was short-circuiting with the sight of you creaming on his dick and the obscene sounds it created.

"Does your boyfriend fuck you like this, huh?" He angles his hips, resuming his brutal pace even though you've already come twice now. Your body jolts with each snap of his hips.

You shake your head, but that isn't enough for him, flipping you around so that you're facing him, he pushes himself back in, your eyes fluttering shut almost immediately.

"Use your words Y/n. You're my smart girl, look me in the eyes and tell me that your boyfriend could never fuck you like I do." Your eyes snap open, "He c-could never fuck-!" Jungkook slowed down his thrusts to something so much deeper, your eyes rolled and Jungkook nearly came just at the sight.

"Shit, I'm gonna come." He pants, and with a few more erratic thrusts you feel his warm cum fill you up. He slowly lets you stand but your legs fail you immediately. Scooping you up in his arms effortlessly he brings you to the bed, clearly not done with you.

That's how you found yourself on the brink of your third orgasm while Jungkook plowed into you from behind, obsessed with how his cum seeped out of you and around his cock.

Your arms had given out long ago hence why your cheek was smushed into the sheets of the bed while you whimpered like a whore. "God you should look at yourself," He laughs almost maniacally from behind you.

Feeling himself approach his climax, "Jungkook- please!" you cried out, the friction only adding to the stimulation, "m' gonna-" you try to get back up on your arms but you couldn't move.

"I wonder what your boyfriend would say if he saw you like this,'' A wicked smile spreads across his lips as he reaches for your phone that was forgotten somewhere on the bed, hitting record.

Pulling you up onto your arms, tugging your hair by a makeshift ponytail, the flash highlights the various bruises all over your body left by yours truly. The audio was picking up his soft groans and your pathetic whimpers, and if the room was quiet enough you could probably hear the welt squelch of your cunt sucking in his length with each push.

"Shit, shit, shit!" You cry out, coming once more and your body goes limp, Jungkook ends the recording and tosses the phone to the side while he chases his own high finishing soon after you.

He pulls out slowly, "Y/n, baby? Are you with me?" He taps your cheek gently, and your eyes barely open, "I think you fucked the soul out of me," He dares to flash you a nervous smile as if he hadn't just fucked you dumb.

"Come, let's get you cleaned up."

-

"That was one hell of a trip." You mumble to Sunny on the phone as you wheel your suitcase down the hall to the door of your apartment where there was a big bouquet of flowers.

"Oh my god," You say, crouching down, wincing a little as you did to read the card. "What?" Sunny asks and you explain what you were seeing.

"Do you think they're from Daehyun?" You scoff, "Fat chance."

You open the envelope to read the card aloud,

'To the hottest girl. We should get donuts sometime, I heard you like them cream-filled ;) Text me sometime xxx-xxx-xxx. -J.K'

Sunny squealed in your ear.

"I'll call you back." You say, dialling Jungkook's number.

"Hello?" He answers.

"You got me flowers?" You couldn't stop the smile from spreading across your face, and he could hear it. He closed his fridge and leaned on the counter, "You like 'em?"

Holding the vase in your hand you take a deep sniff, "I love them."

He shakes his head. "This is so sad. You're too easy to impress. Let me treat you better than that jerk, Y/n." Your mouth falls open-

"How- What?"

"Jimin mentioned the details to me but don't get mad at him; it doesn't change the fact that the guy is an asshole." You sigh.

"I know."

"So?" Jungkook starts, waiting for you to say something.

"I think you mentioned something about cream-filled donuts. When and where?"

He smiles.

[thekinslayed]

Nobody Tell Daemon!

summary | When the family heirloom is nowhere to be found, you found yourself in the middle of the chaos in the Hightower-Targaryen siblings' apartment.

pairing | modern!aemond x gf!reader x platonic!targtower siblings (aegon, helaena, daeron)

tags | crack fic, mentions of sex, aegon is a sweaty liar, new girl-inspired, slightly succession-inspired, the targs hate each other but live in the same building

wordcount | 4.9k

note | my first attempt at a crack fic 😭 this was inspired by new girl s4ep6 'background check', which is my fav ep in my fav show! thought i’d write something fun this time bc i'm going to miss my chaotic little greenies <3

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated! (divider)

The warm tingle of the morning sun on your bare back made you purr like a cat, limbs stretching over the length on the queen-sized bed. Beside you, the light sprinkle of Aemond’s silver chest hair twinkled under the sunlight, ripples of defined muscle accentuated by the shadows cast. Underneath, his pale flesh had taken a pink hue after some of the strenuous activities you had partaken in when you awakened. On most days, your boyfriend would’ve sprung out of bed the moment the clock struck six thirty, but not today. After all, it was his day off. 

And on his day off, Aemond took his time… in between your thighs.

Laying on your stomach, you settled your chin on your crossed arms to look at your lover. The giggle that bubbled from your lips as you stared into his peaceful face couldn’t be helped, prompting him to crack open his good eye to look at you in question, brow raised.

“That was some good stuff, wouldn’t you say?” you said, wiggling your eyebrows suggestively. He merely huffed a chuckle, slim cheeks dimpling.

“Fuckin’ amazing, babe,” Aemond replied with a satisfied smile, turning on his side to grab your waist. You squealed in delight as he maneuvered you onto your back. Attacked by kisses, and tickled by the growing stubble on his chin, it had been a while since mornings were this peaceful.

“Why can’t we ever have mornings like this?” you asked rhetorically, ending with a dreamy sigh as his wandering lips found their home in yours. He grunted in agreement, hips canting towards yours to make known the growing zeal in between his legs, ever eager to make the most of your morning.

The answer came in the sight that greeted you the moment you left his room.

Tangled in a crumpled heap of silver hair on the floor, Aemond’s brothers, Aegon and Daeron, were wrestling for the remote.

“Oh, come on, Aeg! I need to catch up on my show!”

“Fuck off, Cocomelon, MILF Manor’s on!”

With a heavy sigh felt in the Seven Heavens, Aemond turned to you with a deadpan face. “This is why.”

The other side of the apartment was in no better shape. A stuffy cloud of greyish smoke enveloped the open kitchen. In the middle of it, Helaena was making breakfast. Flipping a more than well-done pancake, and scrambling a bowl of eggshell-dotted eggs, their sister was unbothered by the ruckus, merely humming to herself. You exchanged a look with Aemond, who nodded at you with a wordless instruction to take over. 

“Morning, sweetie,” you greeted your dear friend, accepting the side hug she happily gave you. Peeking down at the ceramic pan, Aemond hid his grimace at the shape of the blobs of batter she was cooking up.

“Lookin’ good in here, Hel. Why don’t we lend you a hand?” he offered innocently, to which Helaena beamed up with glee. 

“Would you mind flipping that when it’s ready, Aem? I need to go feed the babies for a sec!” 

The moment Helaena turned to scurry off to tend to the numerous critters littered about in jars in her room, Aemond immediately tossed the blackened hotcake into the trash. It was somewhat impressive how his sister somehow managed to make it cling to a nonstick pan, but he dared not say anything. Meanwhile, you cracked some windows open to let some fresh air in, before rolling up the sleeves of Aemond’s old college hoodie to help out by cutting up some fruit. 

Soon enough, all of you managed to find your respective places on the island and finally start eating. It was nice, save for the boys’ banter that managed to have its own seat at the table.

“They’re hooking up with guys my age and their dads?!” Daeron exclaimed, a mixture of awe and slight confusion on his young face at his eldest brother’s choice of morning entertainment. 

“Yeah, bro, and you know what that’s called? Good. Fuckin’. TV. Not that lame superhero shit you’re always into,” Aegon retorted with a full mouth of food, specks of egg flying out of his mouth with every word. Even the ginormous mug engraved with the words ‘I <3 U WITH ALL MY B(.)(.)BS’ couldn’t hide the scowl of disgust on your boyfriend’s face as he sipped his coffee, the gaze on his good eye sharp on the two knobheads before him. 

You tuned out Aemond’s scolding as you were deep into your own conversation with Helaena, who had a chirping cricket balanced on her shoulder. You made sure to keep your steaming cup of matcha away in case the critter had any plans of jumping off. You loved Hel, but gods, did those things make your skin crawl.

The sudden ding! from Aemond’s pocket cut through the chatter of the table. With his attention shifted to his phone, you stole some of his bacon, watching on in curiosity as his brows furrowed in confusion. “Daemon’s having the whole building inspected?” he announced, making everyone turn to him in attention.

“Did he fuck someone in the building who gave him crabs?” Aegon quipped in a matter all too nonchalant that everyone had turned to him with an incredulous look.

“No. Mum said Dad’s dagger he left for Daemon in the will isn’t in the penthouse anymore. Asshole’s bringing in KLPD’s ‘best’ or whatever the fuck, some guy called Jason Lannister’s going to be up here doing the search. The Lion,” Aemond read off the text on his phone, before shutting it off with a scoff of disbelief. He muttered a few curses for his uncle under his breath before a flicker of realization struck his face, turning to Aegon. “Did someone in this building give you crabs?”

“N-no? Just heard it from uh, uh… the doorman!”

“Aeg, you know you’re a terrible liar, right?” you mused, eyeing the way his pale cheeks had almost immediately turned red at the sudden inquisition. Aegon was a sweaty, anxious liar who spent his teenage years nearly wetting his pants before he could pull out his fake ID at a liquor store. Any more prodding and his gray t-shirt would have been marked with sweat stains.

“Ha, you guys think they call him The Lion because he’s ferocious, and feeds on crime and bad guys as grub? Man, that’s cool,” Daeron remarked, shaking his head with an innocent satisfaction for making such an observation. You turned to Helaena to giggle in amusement, but she was staring off to the side, biting her lip while deep in thought. 

“The Lannisters are lions, Daeron. It’s their family sigil. You would know this if you didn’t spend all your time in middle school messing with your iPad with your snotty hands, you oaf,” Aemond retorted, making the youngest pout at the realization. You turned back to finishing your meal, paying Helaena no mind. It wasn’t uncommon to have her like this, often lost in her head that all of you knew to leave her alone until she was back to herself. 

Rising from his stool, Aegon made his way around the island to grab butter for his toast. “Slept with a Lannister once. Let me tell ya, boys, they are feisty!” the eldest bragged, punctuating with a feline growl that made Aemond roll his eye for the tenth time before noon. Butter dish in hand, Aegon padded over to the utensil drawer for a knife. “Why does the prick think we have it anyway? It’s not like we need anything from the rotten old ha— Oh, shit.” 

And there it was, between cheap IKEA spoons, packets of wooden chopsticks from takeout, and water-stained cutlery, sat the Targaryen family heirloom— the Valyrian steel catspaw dagger. It stood out from the wooden drawer like a sore thumb. Shiny, heavily embellished with a real stone of ruby that could pay off your student loans, and inscribed by what you were told were Valyrian glyphs; it was outright gaudy in your opinion. 

When Viserys Targaryen, a multi-media conglomerate and filthy-rich billionaire, passed from his long battle with cancer, he had stated in his will that each of his children was to inherit a portion of his riches. Their eldest half-sister, Rhaenyra, had been given almost half of their father’s wealth in money and property, as well as being the immediate successor to the family company, Dragonstone Corporation. For the rest of the siblings, the other half was split among the four of them, which was, frankly, chump change compared to what their sister got. The only consolation was that they were granted to keep any furniture in their dad’s penthouse. Not the flat itself though, that was for Daemon, as well as the family heirloom that no one else coveted but their uncle.

Now, did the Targaryens have enough money to settle themselves into a manor large enough that each of them could have rooms larger than their current living spaces? Abso-fucking-lutely. But Viserys had been sick for a long time, tethering at a hair’s breadth from death for years. At that time, he had expressed his dying wish of having his family close to him, despite their many, many differences and ill feelings. These hotheaded silver heads could hardly stand to be under the same roof with each other; as if Aemond’s missing eye wasn’t proof enough, but their father was more persistent to have his way. Hence, they had all been given keys to their own flats in one of Dragonstone Co.’s premier luxury buildings, the Red Keep. 

Rhaenyra and Harwin were on the second floor, with Jace and Luke in a bachelor’s pad two doors down. Alicent was on the fourth, taking a smaller place of her own after her husband’s passing with her trusted bodyguard and oddly close companion, Criston Cole, staying in the unit adjacent to hers. Aemond and the siblings were situated in a spacious 4-bedroom on the thirteenth floor, the farthest away from anyone.

Technically, they were all still under the same roof, but it helped when the only time one could encounter their estranged kin was when they had the misfortune of being down at the mailboxes together, which was rarely ever. They always had the freedom to move out, but the Red Keep was a highly sought-after property, centrally located in the heart of King’s Landing. It afforded them luxuries not found in other places, a more than perfect location if only it weren’t for the fact that it ran the risk of bumping into their estranged, unmistakably hungover uncle walking his dog Caraxes at the private dog park. 

Their grief on their loss was brief, rather relieved with being free of the ghost of a father’s hold on their lives, but Viserys’ blatant favoritism had the siblings muttering ill wishes in his afterlife. You were there with Aemond on the day the children were called up to take their pick of the furniture in the penthouse, wide-eyed at the millions worth of designer, custom furnishings adorning the space. They were all given their respective colored stickers that they tabbed on their picks, yet none of them seemed to be enthusiastic about the whole ordeal.  No talk of some family heirloom was discussed as far as you were aware, rather busied with tugging on Aemond’s sleeve to urge him to place his claim on the toile de Jouy fine china that would go exceptionally well with the countryside cottage you were saving up for when you got married.

“Aegon, how many times do I have to say you can’t sell Dad’s stuff on eBay? Not the important ones at least!”

“Hey, it’s not me! You’re the one who’s got a crush on Daemon, you sure you didn’t take it to piss him off?”

The sound of the instant finger-pointing and bickering within the boys was deafening. No one seemed to have any recollection of taking the dagger back to their place, nor did they express any want for it. It seemed that Viserys left one last act of messing with his kids’ lives, a ghostly imbecilic stunt, especially when Daemon was threatening to sue for inheritance theft. 

Beside you, an anxious Helaena was biting her lip as you both watched the three sons butt heads in finding the culprit. The urge to spit out the truth was palpable, emanating from her slouched, mohair-sweater-adorned body as your eyes widened in realization. One worried look from her and you understood. After all, she was your best friend, you knew her like the back of your hand. 

“Okay! It was me!”

The arguments ceased at her exclaim, three and a half pairs of eyes turning to stare at her instantaneously. No one opened their mouth to voice their frustration, not when it came to Helaena. Alicent’s only girl rubbed a hand over her face in angst, fidgeting on the island’s bar stool as they all awaited her explanation. “I found it in Dad’s study when I was looking for the taxidermy beetles he used to have. It was on the shelf… and nobody put a sticker on it so I didn’t know!”

“That’s because Daemon’s made it pretty clear it was his since the dawn of time, big sis,” Daeron replied, scratching the back of his neck as they all pondered on what to do. 

“Why’d you even want this old thing, Hel? It’s ugly as shit,” Aegon commented, flipping the dagger on the counter with a frown on his face. 

Another frustrated groan left her lips, face planting on her arms while you tried to soothe her, shooting a warning look at the three boys still standing around the table. “I thought it was kinda nice to have! Like, you know… for charcuterie and stuff!”

“Well, why can’t you guys just talk to Daemon about it? It was an honest mistake! He won’t send his own family to jail… right?” you suggested, flashing a lighthearted smile that went unreciprocated by the four silverheads around you. Frankly, your words failed to convince yourself too, because if there was one thing you learned in the years you’ve spent with the Targaryens, it was that nothing ever got fixed with a simple conversation. They were all quick to anger, jumping at the first chance to butt heads when it presented itself. This was going to be tricky.

A resounding buzz from the unit’s intercom cut through the worried tension within the group, your stress multiplying when the snobby voice of Jason Lannister reverberated from the tiny box.

“Good morning, this is Jason Lannister, a detective with the KLPD. I am here on request by Mr. Daemon Targaryen for an item he claims to have been stolen from your father’s penthouse. Your unit will be the first to be searched, I appreciate your cooperation.”

Seven Hells, of course, they were first. The Hightower side of the family definitely wasn’t Daemon’s favorite bunch, and there was no doubt that there was a huge possibility he could sniff them out in no time. Chaos ensued almost immediately, a mirrored panic prompting everyone in the house to look for ways to dispose of the damned knife. 

“Throw it in the trash!” Daeron suggested, opening the lid to the bin. Aegon, already perspiring down his forehead, shook his head vehemently.

“No, wait! Don’t let me see where you’ll hide it! The moment he comes in here, I’ll just yell trash!” he rambled, promptly covering his eyes with a hand and turning his back away. Gods, the pit stains on his shirt were already growing darker with sweat. Gross.

“Why don’t we just throw it out the window?” you pointed out, jabbing a thumb to the open window behind you. Helaena and Daeron both nod in agreement, voicing their thoughts on the idea.

“And stab someone in the brain on its way down? Not necessarily making it better for us,” Aemond grumbled, clearly the most stressed among the group. His good eye waved across the space frantically, thinking of ways of an alibi. There was no doubt the search would be thorough, and he wouldn’t put it past Daemon to order for their whole place to be turned upside down in the process. There was no way they could hide in their apartment, unless… 

The idea hit him like a brand-new light bulb, his features brightening as he contemplated. “What if,” he started, rubbing his chin in thought at such a bold plan. “What if we hide it at mum’s place?”

“Are you insane?! You’re seriously going to pin this on our own mother?” Daeron questioned, his eyes wide with bewilderment at his brother’s plan. It was a shitty plan, but they were running out of options.

“She’s at the lake house until Sunday, and they can’t search without a warrant if they don’t have her consent. We’ll just use the keys she gave us, keep it there, and when the whole thing blows over, we’ll secretly put it back in the penthouse,” Aemond explained, waving his hands around wildly. It was clear he didn’t agree with this plan either, but it was better than throwing the knife out and landing it on someone’s skull on accident. “If they find it there, we’ll ask Nyra for help. We’ll just have to trust whatever gross girl crush feelings she has left for Mum. She can deal with Daemon, can’t she?”

You all looked at each other, contemplating. Daemon hasn’t had a judge issue a warrant yet, so her unit won’t be searched while she’s still out of town with Criston and her brother, Gwayne. It was tricky… but it was plausible. Another buzz from the lobby urged you to decide faster, but as no one seemed to think of a better option it was determined. 

With a silent agreement from everyone, Aemond nodded, before taking the catspaw dagger and placing it in an old shoebox. He fished the keys his mother gave him, before disappearing out the front door. In the meantime, Daeron buzzed the detective into the building, while you and Helaena fixed up the damp, clammy mess that was Aegon. 

“I can’t handle this,” he whined, chest heaving. You were coaching him on what to say in case The Lion asked him anything, but his tongue was all in a twist from how anxious he was. Turning him around by the shoulders, a prominent sweat stain the size of Dorne covered the entire backside of his sleep shirt. Why the hell was his eye twitching so much?

“Oh my gods, you’re a mess! Here,” his sister urged, handing him the oversized, clunky sweater she had knit him for his birthday earlier this year. It was a bright yellow, with a forest green cartoon dragon embroidered on its chest, and fell just around mid-thigh. Helaena turned to you, exchanging a twin look of concern at the sight of him. Skin flushed, greasy, silver locks stuck to his forehead, clad in a bright sweater in the middle of summer. He kind of looked like the Michelin man in boxers.

“Relax, you’re going to be fine! We’re all going to be fine, right?” you reassured the room with a light tone of confidence, though the squeak in your voice all told them otherwise.

The longer Aemond took to return, things were starting to feel less fine. 

Sat on the couch tightly together, you all were stiff as cardboard as The Lion explained the customary steps of a search. Your eyes shifted to the door every minute, anxiously waiting for your boyfriend to return. None of you were suited to face a man like Jason Lannister, whose eyes studied all of you like a predator waiting to prowl. “This isn’t a formal search, since, of course, your uncle has been issued a warrant by a judge yet. But since all tenants of the home are here, consent can be authori—”

“Brogues!” Aegon suddenly shouted, prompting all eyes to turn to him. Jason tilted his head in confusion, and all three of you resisted the urge to bury your heads into your hands. “Uh, y-you’re wearing brogues,” he said, clearing his throat. A shaky finger pointed at the decorated, brown leather shoes adorning The Lion’s feet, followed by an attempt at a nonchalant smile that looked more like a grimace. You subtly pinched his thigh, silently urging him to get it together. 

“Hm? Oh, yes! Thank you for noticing them, Mr. Targaryen,” Lannister replied, a tinge of bafflement still decorating his tone. “Anyway, as I was saying…” He continued to explicate the procedure, pulling out a small notepad and a pen from his pocket before beginning his search. 

Before he could start, the front door opened to reveal Aemond, who was unaware of the presence of an officer of the law standing in the middle of the living room. His hand ran through the messed up strands of his hair, while his mouth also ran a mile a minute blindly. “Okay, I know that took so long but the twins were on the elevator and I had to take the sta–” Springing up from your seat, you cut your boyfriend’s words off by slamming your lips onto his to shut him up. You might have exaggerated the kiss to keep it believable, but it took Aemond a second to piece two and two together when you pulled away.

“Detective Lannister, this is my boyfriend, Aemond, who just came from, uh, the gym.” The Lion’s brows furrowed at your words, blue orbs flickering to the Adidas slides the silver-haired man was clearly not wearing to lift weights at the gym. Aemond cleared his throat, composing himself, before straightening his back to stand taller.

“Yes, I like to run… barefoot. Better for your feet!” he lied, throwing you a look that made you smile at him sheepishly for such a terrible excuse. Things were going south at a breakneck speed, and would only continue to go downhill when The Lion announced he would begin his search.

The detective soon pulled on a pair of latex gloves, taking nearly an hour to examine each nook and cranny of your home. Drawers were pulled open, rooms examined and closets bared, the dagger was nowhere to be found. Relief started to waft through the four-bedroom apartment, but your success was shortlived when the blonde Lannister soon announced that after his search he would all question you individually, starting with Aegon.

Shit.

The sound of the bedroom door closing almost had the eldest collapsing, body seriously overheating in a mix of dread and fear as Lannister stood before him.

“Now, Aegon. I know you have seen this dagger in your dad’s home before he passed. I want you to tell me everything you know that could help with finding it,” he said. Aegon racked his brain to think of a lie, any lie, but his tongue refused to utter any word that held no ounce of the truth of the heirloom’s actual whereabouts. He recalled the stuff you had taught him to say.

I haven’t seen it since I was a kid, detective.

I’m pretty sure Daemon already has the dagger.

I don’t know.

“I wear latex gloves on my feet once a week to moisturize them.”

The words left his mouth before he could stop them, but his brain refused to stop wiring out actual truths about himself in an attempt to sway the detective’s attention away from the topic at hand. “I had my first kiss at a movie theater when I was 15. We were watching Forrest Gump, and I was snoggin’ all three hours of that film. It was awesome,” he continued, letting out a small chuckle at the memory. The Lion’s brows must be stuck in its furrowed state now, with the absolute nonsense that greeted him the moment he stepped foot into their door.

“What are you talking about?’ the detective asked in absolute bewilderment.

“I’ve had a lot of sex. A lot. I’ve probably gotten a lot of girls pregnant, for all I know. Oh! You wanna see my son Jaehaerys? He just turned five!” Aegon had reached into his pocket to grab his phone, but Lannister had thrown up his hands in exasperation with a sigh. 

“Okay! I think I’m all done here. I will have to take a look at your mother’s place after this.”

“Y-you can’t do that, she isn’t home!” Aegon stammered, panicking at the prospect that their strategy was going to fail and their mother would be locked behind bars for their mistake. 

 “Oh no, I was informed just this morning that she was on her way back.”

With his words, Aegon just about fainted the moment The Lion swung the door open to leave his room.

You couldn’t have imagined things taking a turn for the worse, but it most certainly did tenfold. Alicent had barely set her Louis Vuitton weekender bag down before The Lion was already prowling through her home, with a displeased Daemon Targaryen arriving to keep a close watch. If Viserys’ brother was suspicious of his nephews and niece stealing his heirloom, he was especially convinced that their mother would have it. You all stood in her kitchen holding your breaths; an anxious, huddled mess silently praying to whatever being in the sky that nothing would be found. Even Nyra had made her way to her estranged friend’s unit, voicing her belief that Alicent would not have taken the catspaw dagger. 

Your prayers went unanswered when The Lion emerged from Alicent’s walk-in closet, carrying an old Ferragamo shoebox that contained the hefty, Valyrian steel weapon. Daemon’s chuckle was as wicked as a witch’s, clearly triumphant with finding something to penalize his brother’s widow.

“This is absurd! I did not take that thing from the penthouse, or anything at all!” was Alicent’s defense, but Daemon was having none of it.

“Oh save it, Alicent. You couldn’t wait to get your hands on my brother’s possessions after he’s left you so little, could you, red?” he sneered, pointing an accusing hand into the woman’s face. Criston Cole pushed Alicent behind his back in defense, puffing his chest menacingly to dare Daemon to try anything. Yells and insults echo throughout the apartment, with threats of jail time thrown about to make things worse.

“This is bad, this is bad,” Daeron muttered, biting his fingernails down to stubs as he watched on. You turned to Aemond, whose good eye was widened to the size of a dinner plate as he watched his plan turn to shit.

“Do something,” you urged him, pulling on his wrist. He was stuck in place, mouth gaping like a fish.

“I…” he stuttered.

“I can’t take it anymore, I’ll just come clean,” Helaena spoke up, stepping away to admit her fault. Before she could voice her guilt, the sound of a steel handcuffs being unhinged was a shrill noise, and with it, a sweaty Aegon broke out into a sob.

“No, Mummy!” 

In a blink, he crossed the room to cling to his mother, shielding him away before the detective could put her in cuffs. Alicent’s face broke out into a look of surprise, then to disgust at the damp hold her son had her in. 

“Mister Targaryen, I’m going to have to ask you to step aside,” Jason ordered. Aegon looked at his siblings, a shocked Aemond, an anxious Daeron, then to a guilty Helaena. With a sigh, the eldest stood straight, swallowing down his pride and mustering his courage. 

“It was me,” he lied, taking everyone in the room in shock at his admittance. “I took it because… I wanted something of Dad’s to remember him by. I mean, Nyra, you got everything else, I thought it didn’t matter if I took something smaller like this. I was just keeping it safe in Mum’s closet.”

You exchanged a look of surprise with the siblings, somehow feeling impressed at his display. The execution was flawless, and it even had their half-sister wearing a look of guilt at his words. Aegon dropped to the floor, stomach down onto the carpet with his hands behind his back, despite the look of perplexion around the room.

“Alright, officer. Take me downtown to the pound. I only hope my end will be kind.”

“I can’t believe Aeg’s sweaty ass got us out of trouble, even guilt-tripped Nyra to hell,” Daeron snickered, before taking a swig of his beer. The sun was only beginning to set, the remnants of the midsummer breeze carrying a tinge of humidity in the night air. You all lounged about the rooftop, passing around ice-cold beers while Aemond was manning the barbeque. 

After the whole ordeal, Rhaenyra managed to talk their uncle out of wanting to sue Aegon. With hushed whispers and an oddly intimate caress on Daemon’s cheek, their brother was free to go. His little speech made her feel bad for him, and frankly, everyone else was more than over dealing with his anxious, sweaty mess. The Lion soon left their mother’s apartment, Daemon had his dagger back, and Alicent showed her thanks over a bottle of wine with Rhaenyra along with some other activities their kids didn’t want to start imagining.

“For what it’s worth, I’m proud of myself for doing the impossible today. I think I make a pretty convincing liar,” Aegon said, wearing a proud look on his face. The second son scoffed at his words, approaching the table with a plate of grilled meats. He took his seat at the edge of the lounge bed you were lying on, stealing a swig of your beer.

“Congratulations. You have as much willpower as the two-year-old daughter you’ve forgotten about,” your boyfriend snorted, before being tackled off his ass and onto the ground by the eldest. You watched on in amusement, shaking your head at their antics.

You’ve learned many things in your time with the Targaryens, but one thing was always for sure, there was never a dull moment with any of them.

[xoxolaw]

+ DISCOVER YOUR SECRETS

in which seong-je happens to discover secrets about his school's student council president who happens to have a spotless personality.

Geum Seong-je x reader

secret 3 :- magic hand

pt.1 pt.2 pt.3 pt.4 final

The halls of Kanghak High always held whispers—gossip behind lockers, tension in glances, footsteps that came and went like secrets—but today, they were quiet.

Too quiet.

Y/N’s shoes clicked softly against the faded tiles of the old west wing—the part of the school time forgot. Windows were dust-filmed, lights flickered half-heartedly, and lockers stood dented like war relics from another era. Students avoided it. Rumors said it was haunted. Or worse—claimed by him.

She wasn’t superstitious.

Just… curious.

Today, her excuse was student council duties. Renovation assessments, apparently. But really, it was something else. Since that night in the cyber café, since the teasing smirk had cracked into something real—laughter, vulnerability—Seong-je had started to haunt her thoughts like a half-remembered melody.

Still, she hadn’t expected to hear humming.

Low. Tuneless. Human.

And then—laughter. Familiar. Warm in its defiance.

Her hand froze on the doorknob.

She should turn back. She didn’t.

The music room door creaked open with a sigh, and there he was—like a devil caught lounging in church.

Geum Seong-je.

Jacket slung carelessly over a chair, sleeves rolled to his elbows, smoke curling from a cigarette as he leaned back across a dusty desk like it belonged to him.

He didn’t even flinch.

“President,” he drawled, one brow raised in lazy amusement. “Thought you didn’t do abandoned places. Too much dust for your spotless reputation? Or maybe you are just following me around.”

“Funny,” she said flatly, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. “I came here to inspect the room, not inhale secondhand smoke.”

He grinned, unfazed. “And yet here you are. In my hideout. Alone. Almost feels like fate.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t look away. “Fate must be bored, then.”

He took a long drag, then stubbed out the cigarette with exaggerated grace. “What, no thank-you for putting it out? Tsk. So ungrateful.”

“Try not breaking school rules for once. Might surprise even you.”

As she moved past him toward the upright piano in the corner, he watched her with the idle interest of a cat who’d spotted something fun to mess with. She pulled off the heavy cloth covering the piano, her fingers already tracing the edge of the worn wood, lingering.

“You know how to play that thing?” he asked, voice quieter now, genuine.

She hesitated.

“A little,” she said. “I used to.”

She pressed a key. Out of tune, but not dead.

She pressed another. A chord formed—fragile, uncertain.

“You’re full of surprises,” he murmured, standing now, slowly stepping closer. “Didn’t figure you for a piano girl. Always thought you'd be more of a silent-meditation, sword-wielding general type.”

“That… sounds like a weird compliment.”

“It is,” he said with a crooked smile. “Weirdly hot.”

She turned to glare at him, but her lips betrayed her—curving into a reluctant smirk. “You’re incorrigible.”

“And you’re not denying it.”

She scooted over on the bench. “Come here.”

“What?”

“Sit. I’ll teach you something. Since you’re so easily impressed.”

He blinked. “Wow. Am I dreaming? Is this my redemption arc?”

“Don’t ruin it.”

Seong-je slid into the spot beside her, knees brushing. He didn’t bother hiding how close he sat—his shoulder practically against hers, breath warm against her cheek.

“Try not to set the piano on fire,” she muttered.

“Try not to fall in love,” he whispered.

She gave him a look so sharp it could've sliced through the keys. He laughed softly, unbothered.

“Okay,” she said, ignoring the way her heartbeat betrayed her, “start with this note. Then this one.”

He followed, clumsy at first. His fingers were rough, too forceful. He cursed when he hit a wrong key. Then laughed when he hit three more.

“You’re hopeless,” she said, shaking her head.

“You’re adorable when you’re annoyed,” he replied, tapping the wrong note again on purpose.

She swatted his hand lightly. “Focus.”

“I am focused. On your hands. They’re... elegant.” He leaned in. “You hide a lot, don’t you?”

Y/N’s breath hitched.

“I—what’s that supposed to mean?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached out slowly, almost reverently, and brushed a strand of hair away from her face—his fingers ghosting across her cheek. Right where, weeks ago, she'd cried in a dark alleyway.

“I’ve seen pieces of you that no one else gets to see,” he murmured. “You break rules when you’re angry. You swear like a gamer. And now you’re here, making music like it’s the only thing that ever made sense.”

She swallowed. “You romanticize too much.”

“You underestimate how interesting you are.”

Their eyes locked.

For a breathless second, nothing else existed—not the room, not the school, not the war of reputation and rebellion that normally defined them. Just the weight of shared silence. The kind that buzzed with every unsaid thing.

Then—Y/N stood abruptly.

“The drums,” she said, brisk. “Let’s see if they still work.”

Seong-je chuckled under his breath and followed.

She lifted the cover off the old drum set. Dust scattered like snow. She sneezed.

“Bless you, Your Majesty of Allergies.”

“Say that again and I’ll break your nose with a cymbal.”

“Hot.”

She handed him the sticks. “Go on then. Make noise. That’s what you’re good at, right?”

He grinned and banged out a wildly chaotic rhythm that somehow matched his personality. Loud, messy, no consistency—and yet, it made her laugh. Not just a polite smile. A real, startled laugh that spilled out before she could stop it.

His eyes lit up. “That’s a sound I want to hear more often.”

She shook her head, cheeks burning.

“Don’t read into it.”

“Too late.”

They tried every dusty instrument after that. She played a melancholy tune on a barely-functional violin, and Seong-je watched her like she was unraveling in front of him—soft and raw in a way he hadn’t expected.

“Why’d you stop?” he asked quietly when she lowered the bow.

Her fingers tightened on the neck of the violin. “Life got too loud.”

He nodded, slower this time. “Funny.”

“What is?”

“You’re the loudest silence I’ve ever met.”

She looked at him, confused.

“You don’t shout,” he said. “You don’t throw punches. But somehow, you’re the only one who ever made me feel like I wasn’t untouchable.”

Something fragile passed between them. Like porcelain, like the pause before a kiss.

“I used to come here to disappear,” he added. “But today… when you walked in…”

Y/N tilted her head. “Why didn’t you leave?”

He gave her a smile—smaller this time. Almost real.

“Guess I didn’t want to.”

The world outside kept moving. But inside that dusty music room, time hung suspended. They sat side by side again, this time closer, almost touching.

“Hey,” he said suddenly, voice low. “You ever think about how strange this is?”

“What is?”

“You and me. Right here. Like this.”

Her eyes met his. “Maybe.”

He leaned in, just enough. “Wanna make it stranger?”

Her breath caught.

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Because the silence said enough.

---

They stayed until the light outside turned to liquid gold and shadows stretched long across the floor. When they finally stepped into the corridor again, it felt like stepping back into a world that had forgotten them for a while.

Seong-je lingered by the door after Y/N stepped out, the fading sun casting gold across the dusty floor. The room had gone quiet again, but it wasn’t the same kind of silence he used to crave. It felt… emptier now.

He looked at the piano bench they’d shared, at the spot where her knee had brushed his, where her fingers had guided his clumsy ones across the keys. Her laughter, her soft sighs of irritation, even the awkward stillness when he’d touched her cheek—every moment was branded somewhere behind his ribs now.

Damn it.

He pressed his tongue to his cheek and shook his head, a crooked smile pulling at his lips. This was supposed to be his hideout. His escape. No rules, no eyes watching, no expectations. Just noise, smoke, and space to breathe.

But she had walked in—and somehow, without meaning to, she’d changed the air.

He exhaled slowly, flicking ash into the tray he’d left behind. Her presence had been like pressing a piano key that hadn’t been touched in years—dusty, slightly off-tune, but still humming with something alive underneath.

And the way she looked at him before she walked away…

Like she’d almost heard the same note.

He finally stepped into the hallway, catching up to her with that lazy swagger that always got him what he wanted—or at least made people think he didn’t care.

But he did.

Too much, maybe.

She turned slightly when he pulled at a strand of her hair, that surprised blink of hers etching itself into his memory like a favorite line of music.

“Next time you decide to explore hidden rooms… take me with you.”

“Why?” she asked, cautious as ever.

The grin that tugged at his mouth was reflex, but what sat behind it wasn’t a joke.

“Because I want to discover more sides of you.”

And this time, she didn’t argue. She didn’t roll her eyes or call him annoying. She just looked at him—really looked.

That was dangerous.

He could feel it in the way his pulse picked up. In the way he couldn’t quite wipe the smirk off his face, even as they walked side by side toward the late afternoon light. She didn’t tell him to go away. She didn’t outpace him.

She stayed.

And for a guy like him, that was a bigger deal than he’d ever admit.

As they turned the corner and the music room faded behind them, Seong-je glanced sideways. Y/N was staring ahead, unreadable as always—but he caught it.

The tiniest smile.

And just like that, the static between them didn’t feel dangerous anymore.

It felt electric.

---

AUTHOR'S NOTE + MASTERLIST

Hope you enjoyed this part as well <33

[birdiewritessometimes]

you are my favorite writer and I’m begging on my knees for more Theo fics because your last one ate so hard im in love with it🫶🏼🫶🏼 I don’t really have any ideas besides the reader who wears prescribed glasses (I don’t really see any glasses readers as someone who has to wear glasses), a hufflepuff or Ravenclaw and it being really soft and fluffy

Take all the time you need no rush! ㅤᵕ̈ ♡

Pack of Cigarettes

A/N: Thank you sososososososo much <3 This really made my day (month hah aim so bad) and I’m so so so so sorry you had to wait so long, school was busting my ass and them Christmas came and the holidays are just stressfull! And girl I feel you, I have glasses myself! I’m sorry this will be filled with clichés just as usual (I can’t help myself). Also I’m just saying but the astronomy tower is just their hang out, that’s just how it is. Also also I included a funny bonus scene at the end that didn’t really fit in the fic but that I loveeeed soooo enjoy that too hihihi

Summary: Theodore has formed a crush on one of the most closed off people but maybe dropping his cigarettes on purpose with help him to talk to her.

Pairing: Theodore Nott x Hufflepuff!reader

Themes/warnings: Sort of shy reader!, fluff, some tension, longing, kissing.

Word count: 4500 -ish

Please do not copy or translate my work!

The grounds were covered in a thick layer of snow. It was a clear day. Cold winds whipping the windows of the library where you were currently sitting, studying. It was a Saturday in the beginning of January. The term had just started and yet you had homework stacked up to your ears. The NEWT-classes were really kicking your butt. There were few students in the library at this hour, most were still enjoying their breakfast in the great hall. You were sitting by the window, occasionally looking out at the snow covered quidditch-pitch as you were finishing your week’s homework. The occasional cracks and snaps of the fire filling the otherwise silent library, casting an over all calmness over you as you ruffled through the pages of the various books you needed for your homework.

The sound of the door pulled you out of your bubble of concentration. Theodore Nott walked in with his friends. Your eyes raked over his figure as he walked with his friend, Mattheo Riddle, an air of easy confidence around the pair. Your eyes traced the outline of his large hoodie, the perfect fit of his jeans, back up to the perfectly messy mop of hair that sat on his head. You felt your heartbeat increase as Mattheo nudged his friend while looking at you with a smirk, Theodores eyes snapped to yours making you blush as you quickly glanced down into your book again. You glanced down at your clothes, mentally thanking yourself for choosing both cute and comfortable clothes today. Only cursing yourself for choosing your glasses rather than your lenses. You usually wore your contact lenses during the weeks, it being more convenient than your glasses that got dirty all the time, but during weekends you opted for your glasses since your lenses made your eyes dry.

Theodore and his friends sat down by a table just a couple away from yours, giving you a perfect view of the group of troublemakers. You shifted your concertation back at the transfiguration homework before you. You did however steal glances at Theodore from time to time. You had the most painful crush on the boy but never had the courage to talk to him. It was no secret that half of the female population of Hogwarts crushed on the troublemaking boys in Slytherin, so you tried to push your feelings away, only letting yourself admire him from afar.

As you were scribbling down the answers to the questions of the work sheet you heard a soft thud near you. Looking up you saw the retreating back of the tall Italian boy with fluffy hair. Looking down at the wooden floor you saw a pack of cigarettes. Frowning slightly, you bent down to pick them up. It was no secret that Theodore and his friends smoked so you assumed that they were his. Looking back over at him you saw how he was opening a book that you assumed he got when he walked past you. Gulping you realised that you probably should go over to him and give them back. Your heartbeat increased at the mere thought of it. Taking a deep breath, you gathered what little courage you had and stood up. The pack of cigarettes in your hands. You saw how Mattheo nudged Theodore when he noticed your approach. Theodores eyes snapped to yours making you blush. You had no idea why your cheeks felt the need to burn up whenever Theodore Nott was involved and right now you cursed yourself for your blush.

“Excuse me.” You said softly when you reached the table. The others, Lorenzo Berkshire and Blaise Zabini, were also looking at you now, a curious look in their eyes. “I think you dropped this.” You said, your voice quiet as you stretched out your hand with the pack of cigarettes to Theodore. He looked at you surprised but made no move to take them. It wasn’t until Mattheo elbowed him in the ribs that he responded.

“Right, sorry bella,” you assumed the nickname just slipped out, but it made you blush none the less, “thank you.” He said, flashing you a small smile before he reached for the pack. His fingers grazed yours as he took it from your much smaller hand. You felt your breath hitch at the contact but willed yourself to breath normally.

“You’re welcome.” You said quickly before you turned around and hurried back to your spot. Your heart was beating so rapidly you were sure that they could hear it if you stayed any longer.

The clock chimed as the pointers hit the number twelve you gathered the books you had borrowed to put them back in their right places before lunch. You noted that you had collected a rather big pile as you struggled to carry them all. Your eyes quickly darted involuntary in Theodore’s direction to see him and his friends gathering their things. With a breath you picked up the pile and started to head towards the large wooden bookshelves. As you were standing on the tips of your toes, trying to shimmy a book into its place by the very tips of your fingers, a large hand came from behind you and slid the book into its place. You let out a startled gasp as you turned around to see the very boy you were crushing on. Your eyes raked his face, now that he was closer. Tired eyes that seemed to have a glint of mischief in them. They were the most gorgeous steely blue. Your eyes travelled to his soft brown hair, thick and practically inviting you to run your fingers through it. His scent enveloped you like a hug of warmth, a touch of citrus and the smell of cigarettes lingered. It didn’t bother you though, like it did most people.

“Quite the stack of books you got there, bella.” His gravelly voice pulled you out of your shameless staring, his thick Italian accent more attractive now than earlier. The nickname made the familiar heat of a blush rise to your cheeks. You opened your mouth as to say something, but no sound came out. Embarrassed you closed your mouth quickly and looked away. You heard how he let out a chuckle at your embarrassed state.

“Come on, bella. Let me help you.” He stated as he casually grabbed the heavy pile of books in your arms, carrying it with ease. You willed your pulse to slow back down to normal as you slowly walked along the shelves, putting back the books. You took the ones who belonged on the lower shelves and Theodore took the ones that belonged to the higher ones. By the time you put away the last book you found yourself so far back in the library that you couldn’t see the seating area. You turned your body to look up at the boy after you had put away the very last book.

“Thank you, Theodore.” You spoke, your voice soft as you were relieved that you finally found your voice around him. His lips curled into a small smile as he stared at your face. Your stupid heart quickened again from the way he was looking at you. Heat, that it so often did around him, rose again to your cheeks as you broke eye contact.

“I like your glasses, they suit you.” He murmured making you look up at him, your eyes wide. You have never been complimented for your glasses before. Your hand shot up to correct your glasses, a nervous habit you developed as your eyes widened.

“Really?” You wanted to slap yourself for the hopeful tone in your voice, but Theodore just smiled and nodded. He stepped closer to you, invading your space and effectively caging you in between himself and the bookshelf behind you. Hot air surrounded you as he leaned in so that his lips were nearly grazing the shell of your ear, his warm breaths hitting your neck as he exhaled. You heart was nearly hammering out of your chest.

“I think you should wear them more often.” He mumbled in your ear before leaning back and turning to look you in your eyes. You were so close to his face now that your noses almost touched. You saw how his lips curled into a smirk. You let your mind wander to how it would feel to have his lips on yours. Would they be soft and gentle, or rushed and demanding? You found yourself realising that it didn’t matter much, you would happily take whatever he was willing to give you. Your eyes travelled back up to meet his steely blue ones, and you felt your breath hitch with the intensity of his look. A smirk still plastered on his face.

“I’ll see you later, bella.” He said through his smirk, the mischievous glint in his eyes as he stepped away from you, letting the cold air surround you once again. You were sure your face was beet red as you watched his retreating form. He looked back at you once more, sending you a wink before rounding a bookshelf. When you couldn’t see him anymore you let out a big breath you didn’t know you were holding. Feeling hot all over you quickly decided to grab a snack from the kitchens and resume your studying in the Hufflepuff common room. Far away from Theodore Nott and the effect he had on you.

The start of the week came sooner than you would’ve liked, but you had at least finished all your homework. You were feeling tired as you got ready for the day ahead. As you were preparing to put your lenses in your glasses caught your eye. Your heart quickened as you thought about the encounter that happened Saturday. Should you use your glasses today? He will know it’s because he said so. But so what? The thoughts swivelled in your head as you stood there looking at your glasses. In one giant breath you picked up your glasses and put them on. Hurrying out of your dorm before you could change your mind.

The day went by pretty normally. Zacharias Smith had actually complimented you about your glasses. It made you smile, although it didn’t make you feel any of the things Theodore had made you feel, it was still nice to get complimented. You were on your way to dinner when you bumped into something, or rather someone. Because someone caught you around the waist so you wouldn’t fall from the impact. Looking up you were met with the steely blue eyes of Theodore. He was smirking down at you, his large hand splayed against your ribcage. You felt a blush dust your cheeks at the proximity.

“Be careful bella.” He smirked and leaned down so his mouth was close to your ear yet again “I like the glasses.” He murmured before he let you go. A cold instantly spreading through you at his absence. He gave you a wink before stepping around you to continue on his way. The encounter made the butterflies in your stomach go wild, making it hard to eat. Your thoughts were constantly drifting towards your encounters with Theodore, making a blush spread on your cheeks and butterflies flutter in your stomach every time.

You would run into Theodore more often around the castle after the encounter before dinner, if it wasn’t in the corridors he would casually plop down in the seat next to yours during the classes you shared. The first time this happened you had almost jumped out of your own seat. He had startled you as he took the seat your best friend usually sat in.

“This seat free?” He had asked innocently and just at that moment your friend had walked in and gave you a knowing smile before sitting down next to Zacharias. You had only nodded at Theodore before you went back to get ready to take notes. During the classes you shared you noticed that Theodore rarely took notes, he usually just sat, leaned back into the chair, his legs spread more widely than any human could need, his knee usually gently grazed your own. Even if he didn’t take notes, he usually could answer the questions the teachers directed at him.

Now you were slowly warming up to him, even though your butterflies wouldn’t calm down around him. You would greet each other in the corridors, and you would say hi to his friends in the classes your shared. You noticed that you were slowly being more and more open to them and less nervous.

It was a weekend morning, and you were sitting at the Hufflepuff table in the great hall eating breakfast. Your friends were still asleep in their dorms. You were reading the Daily Prophet as you munched on some toast with marmalade when Theodore, Mattheo, Blaise and Lorenzo casually sat down around you. You looked up from the article you were reading in chock at the boys.

“Morning, bella.” Theodore smirked as he reached for some bread. The others murmured their various greetings as well before they helped themselves to some breakfast. You stared at them, unable to wrap your head around what was going on.

“What are you doing?” You asked them in surprise.

“Eating breakfast.” Mattheo shrugged from beside you making you snort.

“We thought you would like some company, bella.” Theodore said nonchalantly as he refilled your juice jug. A small smile broke out your face as you thanked him softly. He gave you a soft smile back before the five of you fell into easy conversation. You really started to feel more comfortable around them as they sat there, joking around, talking over each other and being general chaos.

A couple of days later you found yourself sitting in the library, the school-day had ended, and you decided to catch up on schoolwork as you waited for dinner. You were sitting at one of the tables in the very back of the library, next to one of the windows where you could easily see the glittering snow-covered grounds. You had decided to wear your contact lenses today, not feeling like cleaning your glasses all throughout the day. Your hair was down, neatly tucked behind your ears as you poured over the homework you had gotten from Professor Slughorn in potions. You were so deep in concentration that you almost shrieked when Theodore plopped down in the seat beside you. You had a hand over your chest, as to calm your racing heart.

“Theo, you scared me.” You mumbled, as you tucked a strand of hair that had fallen out of place back behind your ear. You turned to the side to look into his blue eyes. A smirk plastered on his face.

“Well, you would’ve heard me if you weren’t so focused on your…” his eyes travelled to your potions homework “homework, seriously y/n? We got that today?” He then questioned in mock offense.

“Well, I prefer to be on time, Theo.” You said pointedly. You had grown more confident around him and his friends since the time you shared breakfast together. Your crush on the boy beside you had not calmed one bit, however. Your feelings only grew stronger with the attention and the friendliness he had showed you. You were however unsure on his feelings towards you.

“Bella, it wouldn’t kill you to relax some time…” He trailed of as his eyes scanned your face; he was frowning slightly making your heart beat in worry. Did you have something on your face? Did he think you were ugly? Insecurities and anxious thoughts swivelled around in your head at his frown.

“What’s wrong?” You asked after gathering the courage. Anxiety rising in your throat.

“Where’s your glasses?” He asked. Your anxiety deflated as a balloon. Relief washed over you, calming your nerves, and a small laugh bubbled past your lips.

“Wh-what?” You asked between giggles.

“Why aren’t you wearing your glasses?” He asked again, eyebrows furrowed this time. He looked like a confused puppy the way he was tilting his head slightly to the side.

“Sometimes I’m too lazy?” You said amusedly, although it sounded more like a question.

“I like your glasses…” He mumbled under his breath. His comment made your heart flutter, but not as much as it did when he lifted his eyes to look at your face again. He was looking at you with an intensity you hadn’t experienced before. His eyes travelled across your face; it was almost like he was mapping out your features. There was still a frown on his face, but his eyes had softened. You felt your heartbeat increase again, the air around you now thick. You hadn’t noticed how close he was until it was too late. You could now see the darker greyish circle around the outer border of his iris. You could make out the individual lashes around his eyes. Your eyes travelled down and noticed a small scar on his cheek. A thin slightly pinker line no longer than a centimetre sitting there on his cheek. You had never seen it before. Before you could stop yourself, your fingers had reached out to trace the scar. You didn’t say anything, neither did Theodore, as you gently let your fingers graze his skin. He leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed, seemingly enjoying your touch.

“Do you know how amazing you are?” His voice was hoarse as he muttered the question, his eyes still shut, your fingers still moving to trace his face.

“What?” You let out, almost breathless. Theodore nodded, his eyes fluttering open to look you in your eyes.

“Yeah, you’re nice, smart and beautiful.” He said it so easily, almost like a shrug as he leaned more into your touch. Your heart hammered in your chest as a blush rose on your cheeks.

“You think I’m beautiful?” You asked timidly. He let out a chuckle, although it did little to ease the tension.

“Haven’t you noticed?” He then asked to which you shook your head.

“Bella, everything about you is beautiful, you’re beautiful in your uniform, in your casual clothes, with your glasses, without your glasses, when your hair is like this,” he let his hand rake through your hair, “when it’s up,” you felt your blush increase, “and don’t get me started on that, it almost brings me to my knees.” He said as his thumb gently traced your hot cheek. Your pulse was thundering in your veins at his confession. Your hand had halted its movements as he was speaking. His other hand engulfed it as it was hovering awkwardly by his face. He moved to his lips and pressed a kiss to your pulse point on your wrist. Your breath hitched at his contact.

“There’s a reason I always call you bella, and go out of my way to speak to you, you know,” he mumbled against the delicate skin on your wrist, “it’s because you’re so god damned beautiful,” he said before kissing your wrist again, “and nice,”  and again, “and smart, too smart for me,” and again.

“Theo.” It came out more like a breath rather than an actual word. It almost didn’t feel real but when his eyes snapped up to yours again you knew it was. Before you had the chance to react his large hands found your waist and you were dragged into his lap. His eyes were so intense that it felt like someone punched the air out of your lungs.

“I love it when you call me that.” He whispered, one of his hands moving up from your waist to your cheek. His other hand was gripping the soft flesh of your waist almost like a lifeline. You let out a breath that sounded like a gasp.

“Can I kiss you?” He asked and you nodded absentmindedly, your mind to busy making sure you were breathing and not fainting. His hand moved to grip the hair at the nape of your neck.

“I need to hear you say it.” He said, sounding almost strained. Your hands had moved up to hold onto his shoulders. His skin emitting warmth through his school dress shirt.

“Kiss me, Theo.” It didn’t sound like your voice; it sounded distant but none of that mattered when you felt his surprisingly soft lips on yours. He moved slowly, gently, almost like he was savouring the moment. His fingers gripped your waist even harder, like he was holding himself back. Your fingers moved from his strong shoulders to his soft hair. The strands tangled in your fingers as they moved to the nape of his neck, gently tugging on the hair there. Theodore let out a groan into your mouth as he pulled you even closer to his body. After some time, you pulled away for air. An intense blush spreading across your cheeks when your eyes met Theodore’s. He was smiling at you, a soft, genuine smile.

“Go on a date with me.” He said breathlessly. You let out a breathy giggle.

“Don’t you think we’re doing this backwards?” You asked, gesturing to the non-existent distance between your body. He shrugged confidently, his signature smirk stretching on his lips. His relaxed air seemed to seep into your body, making you relax completely in his grasp.

“Yeah, but my girl deserves a perfect first date.” He said, his voice confident and nonchalant at the same time making you let out a giggle.

“Your girl?” You asked, your brow raised in question, but he just merely shrugged.

“I didn’t hear you ask me to be your girl.” You teased with a laugh. He rolled his eyes jokingly before looking into your eyes with a soft, gentle look.

“Bella, will you be my girl?” He then asked, his voice so genuine and soft. You felt a smile spread on your face as you snaked your arms around his neck again.

“I would love to, Theo.” You said softly.

“Thank merlin I dropped my cigarettes that day, I would’ve never had the balls to speak to you otherwise.” Theodore let out in a sigh before he pulled you to him for another kiss.

“What does that mean?” You asked in between kisses.

“Don’t mind that now, bella.” He murmured before kissing you again, with much more intensity this time, but not before you let out happy giggles, making him smile against your lips.

Bonus scene:

You had been studying in the common room when you started to feel very stuffy, deciding that a walk through the castle would help with the antsy feeling. You had changed out of your school uniform, now sporting a pair of yoga pants and a large sweater. Your hair up in a ponytail and your glasses rested on your nose as you were strolling through the trophy room. When you walked around the corner that led out into the corridor you bumped into someone. With an “oof” you fell to the cold stone floor. A dull ache spread through your butt and hip as you rubbed it mumbling an “ouch” under your breath.

“Shit, fuck, sorry y/n.” A voice said above you as a large hand wrapped around your upper arm to help you up. When you looked up your eyes met the steely blue ones of Theodore as he steadied you with both his hands on your arms. The person who had spoken was his best friend, with whom you had bumped into. You tore your gaze from Theodore as you looked at Mattheo who was looking at you apologetically as he rubbed the back of his neck. You cracked a small smile at the ‘guilty school-boy’-look he had going on.

“It’s okay, don’t worry.” You said, the smile still playing on your lips. Your eyes gazed over the other two boys standing there, Lorenzo and Blaise, a small smile still on your lips until Theodore pulled your attention back to him with a gentle squeeze on your arm.

“Are you okay?” He asked gently, looking at you with puppy-dog eyes. His look made your breath hitch again before you managed a smile at him and nodded.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You said softly and just as Theodore was about to answer something else caught your attention. It was Lorenzo and Blaise… acting out your interaction with Theodore… rather dramatically.

“My love, are you okay?” Blaise let out with a poor attempt at an Italian accent, burning passion in his voice as he violently grabbed Lorenzo, turning the boy to him, his other hand clutching his chest. Lorenzo, ever the actor, dramatically put the back of his hand on his forehead, feigning exhaustion as he leaned back into Blaise.

“Oh yes, I’m so okay.” He somewhat gasped dramatically as Blaise put on a pained expression. You were in total shock, you could feel the blush violently rise on your cheeks, and you didn’t dare glance back at Theodore who stood somewhat behind you. Your eyes did however catch Mattheo’s. One look. One look was all it took for you and Mattheo to absolutely lose it. Mattheo was absolutely howling with laughter, clutching his stomach as he doubled over. You were laughing so hard tears streamed down your face as you hid it in part embarrassment behind your hands. You saw how Mattheo had to sit down on the floor, his legs not being able to keep him up as he laughed at the complete idiocy of his two friends. You soon joined him on the floor when you saw how Lorenzo and Blaise continued to act like a doting pair in love. Blaise had now moved onto fussing over Lorenzo’s sweater. You were sure you were now beet red in the face. But you had to admit that it was nice that it was due to another reason than just embarrassment.

When the two of you had calmed down a bit you dared to look back at Theodore who was positively trying to murder his friends with his eyes, a faint blush on his cheeks. You had to admit that he was cute with the blush. Your eyes met Mattheo’s again, and it took every ounce of self-control your body possessed to not start laughing again. Your eyes drifted back to Lorenzo and Blaise who were now taking the bow for their excellent performance, making you giggle again before looking up at Theodore.

“Come on Theodore, it was funny.” You said as you held your hand out for him to help you up. You didn’t know where this newfound confidence came from, but you didn’t question it as you were smiling broadly up at the boy before you. His large, warm hand wrapped around your own as he hoisted you up on your feet. Your back was turned to Lorenzo and Blaise, but you saw how Theodore sent them a glare that effectively meant “don’t fucking start”.

“I’m glad you enjoy the comedic abilities of my friends.” He muttered to you, his cheeks still the faintest shade of pink. You let out a giggle when you looked up at the tall boy before you.

[filmsbyun]

Just a Game? || Choi Beomgyu

Beomgyu wasn’t one to be caught off guard, wasn’t one to lose control of the game.

But you? You’d rewritten the rules entirely.

Choi Beomgyu x afab!reader

⊹₊⟡⋆ 11k

[MDNI] smut warning: explicit sexual content, kissing [lots of it lol], sexual tension, enemies/rivals to lovers type shit, slight body worship, kinda switch!beomgyu, kinda switch!reader, oral (fem receiving), fingering, multiple sex positions, unprotected sex (not huzzah!), pull out method [probably missed some]

RE-WRITTEN VERSION. This is a continuation of Beomgyu's part from my Seven Minutes In Heaven fic! So I suggest reading it for better understanding of some of the context of this fic. A BIIIIIIIIIIIG THANK YOU TO THE LOML @dawngyu for beta reading this fic and also hyping me up through over 40 comments <3 Reblogging/feedbacks will be much appreciated!

© filmsbyun ── please do not copy, translate, or repost my work without permission.

The moment you walked out of that closet, you disappeared like smoke.

Beomgyu spent the next ten minutes searching for you. He wove through the party, scanning every corner, every group of people, every possible place you would have slipped away to. But you were gone. Completely vanished into the crowd, leaving him restless, his pulse still erratic from what had just happened.

Beomgyu tried to play it off—he really did. He kept up his flawless cocky attitude with his friends and strangers alike. He laughed too loud, flirted shamelessly, tossed casual remarks like he hadn’t just been wrecked in a way he never saw coming.

But he was failing miserably.

Because every time he licked his lips, he swore he could still taste you.

And every time he closed his eyes, he could still feel the way your fingers had tangled in his hair, the way your lips had moved against his—languidly yet so achingly dominating, so different from anything he’d ever experienced before.

Then what did you do? You’d left him in there, standing like an idiot, and he hated—no, loathed—that you’d managed to slip away before he could say or do anything.

Despite his tremendous effort trying to act normal, anyone paying attention would’ve noticed how his gaze flickered to the door every few minutes. How his fingers tapped restlessly against his thigh. How the phantom feeling of your lips against his refused to leave him alone, haunting him like a ghost. His mind replayed it in loops like a broken cassette player, and he kept dissociating more than once throughout the rest of the night. All he could think of was the way you had pushed him, the way your mouth had claimed his, the way you had left him breathless and pathetically undone.

Beomgyu wasn’t one to be caught off guard, wasn’t one to lose control of the game.

But you? You’d rewritten the rules entirely.

It wasn’t until the next day at practice that he saw you again.

The scent of gunpowder greeted him the moment he stepped into the arena. Muffled voices murmured from the observation area, barely audible beneath the rhythmic crack of gunfire. Targets flipped back and forth, fresh paper replacing the perforated ones, scores lighting up on the monitors. Beomgyu couldn't give a damn about all that today.

Because right in the middle of it all, you stood with your flawless stance of a shooter, arm extended, trigger steady. Your aura alone was completely indecipherable, just like last night. He was sure if he got closer, your expression would be too.

Beomgyu exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw ticking with the effort to keep his composure. There was no universe where he was letting this go. Not after the way you had walked out of that closet like you hadn’t just scrambled his entire nervous system with a kiss that still burned behind his eyes.

He took his time to close the space between you. He knew you felt him and it filled him with a twisted kind of thrill. You were giving him exactly what he wanted; he wanted you to sense him approaching before he even spoke, even if you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of turning around.

"Didn’t know ghosts practiced here," he said, voice pitched just above the noise of the shooting range.

You didn’t so much as even pretend to acknowledge him beyond the next squeeze of your trigger. "Didn’t know sore losers did either."

His lips curled. There it was—that fire, that grit, that spark you always threw back at him like a glove to the face. He lived for this. For you. For the way you gave as good as you got. He craved that bite from you like a shameless man.

"So," he drawled as he took position in the station next to you, tone light like he wasn’t trying to crawl under your skin and twist, "was last night just an experiment? Or were you trying to teach me a lesson?"

You finally turned to face him, expression perfectly composed, except for the ghost of a smirk at the corner of your lips. “Does it matter?”

It mattered more than he could say without ruining the game. 

Oh, you enjoyed this. It drove him insane. He wanted to wipe that smirk off your lips—wanted to see just how far he had to push before you cracked.

Beomgyu clicked his tongue, shaking his head as if disappointed. “Let’s make a bet.”

He lifted his pistol, the barrel pointing straight at the target ahead. From his peripheral he could see the slight tilt of your head as if you couldn’t catch up to his implications. Seriously, you knew how to drive him insane, didn’t you? Was it on purpose to piss him off or not, Beomgyu unfortunately could never decipher you.

You turned back to face your own lane. “I don’t take bets I can’t win.”

“That’s funny,” he shot back, tilting his head, “neither do I.”

Your fingers flexed around your gun. The challenge was bait, and you’d both taken it before. He knew you wouldn't resist. Not when there was a challenge in front of you. Especially not when it was him offering it.

“Alright,” you said finally, shifting your grip. “What’s at stake?”

He stepped in, closer now, until he was just inside your periphery. "If I win," he said, his voice dipping low, almost coaxing, "you owe me a redo."

The slightest hitch of your breath and Beomgyu swore he caught it. He saw the way your lips parted slightly, the way your shoulders tensed for a split second before you masked it just as quickly, expression back to obscure.

“And if I win?” You shot back coolly.

Beomgyu leaned in, his breath warm against your skin, just enough to set your pulse alight. “Then I’ll do whatever you want.”

Your eyes locked onto his. You’ll let him have his fun. The corners of your mouth twitched before you nodded lazily. “Deal.”

Beomgyu's smirk deepened, pulling tight across his face, brimming with anticipation. His fingers curled around his pistol, knuckles flexing as he straightened to his full height. "Try to keep up, then."

The crack of his first shot split the air. It took you a heartbeat to answer. Sly bastard didn’t even bother to give a head start. Shot for shot, neither of you faltering. Beomgyu heard the murmurs of onlookers, the suffocating tension as the scoreboard lit up after each round. The room may as well have disappeared—it was just you and him, locked in a battle of ego and thirst for control.

“You’re good,” Beomgyu admitted, lining up his next shot. “But not that good.”

You barely blinked as you fired again, your bullet slicing through dead center. “You sure about that?”

His eyes flicked to the scoreboard. His jaw clenched. The scores were neck and neck and neither of you were willing to give ground. Heat prickled down his spine, each round sharpening the tension until it coiled in his chest like a loaded spring. He adjusted his grip, rolled his shoulders, tongue flicking over his bottom lip, and inhaled through flared nostrils. 

You were good. No—you were better than good. And worse? You were absolutely certain of it.

Final round.

Beomgyu inhaled slowly, steadying himself. His shot landed just shy of the perfect mark. He exhaled through his nose, rolling his wrists. One last chance for you to slip up.

Then you took your shot.

Bullseye.

The scoreboard flashed. Your score eclipsed his.

Beomgyu’s grin faltered for just a second before he let out a slow chuckle, shaking his head. He ran a hand through his long hair, pushed it back as he looked at you. "Well, damn."

You turned toward him, your smirk a mirror of the one he’d worn earlier, only more taunting. "Guess I won."

His gaze raked over your face, trying and failing to school the chaos flickering behind his eyes. There was heat there, and frustration, along with admiration that twisted low in his stomach. He swallowed it all with another shake of his head. "Guess you did."

You stepped in close, voice dropping just enough to make his stomach tighten. “Looks like you owe me now.”

With that you turned away, leaving him behind with the echoes of the match still ringing in his ears. He stayed there, gun slack in his grip, breath caught between a laugh and a curse, staring after you like he was utterly at your mercy.

He let out a breathless laugh, hands settling on his hips. His heart was still pounding. His pride was bruised. And his grin—God, his grin stretched wide now, teeth flashing as he watched you disappear behind the doors of the arena.

He was so, so screwed.

And he wanted nothing more than to chase you down and lose again.

The locker room was nearly silent, save for the occasional rustling of curtains and the distant mechanical hum of ventilation overhead. You were alone, until the door creaked open behind you slowly, the sound dragging like a fingernail against concrete.

“You really think you can just walk away after that?”

His voice licked a ripple down your spine. You didn’t turn to face him. Instead, you adjusted the strap of your bag, letting the silence stretch just a second longer before responding.

“You seemed fine last night,” you remarked, tone as cool as ever. Since you’ve already had the upper hand from winning the match, why shouldn’t you twist the knife a little deeper? “Figured you moved on.”

Beomgyu scoffed, the sound punctuated by the definitive click of the door closing behind him. “Not even close.”

Your lips curled slightly. “That’s a shame.”

Beomgyu stayed where he was. His gaze burned with a fire so intense that it engulfed the space between you before he even reached you. It didn’t matter if he was a few paces away—he was already in your orbit, drawing you in whether you wanted it or not.

“You really don’t care, do you?”

You hummed, pretending to consider. “Should I?”

Oh, you were enjoying this.

He could see it now—the nasty flicker of amusement in your eyes when you finally glanced over your shoulder. You weren’t avoiding him.  You were waiting to see what he’d do next.

Beomgyu let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. “You caught me off guard,” he admitted, voice quieter now. “I’ll give you that.”

Your head tilted, eyes glinting with quiet satisfaction as you turned to face him fully, your expression unreadable except for the faint uptick of one brow. “I do enjoy a challenge.”

His gaze darkened. He took another step, the last bit of distance between you almost closing. “Then you won’t mind when I return the favor.”

You had no time to react. With a single long stride Beomgyu caged you between him and the locker. The cool metal of the lockers pressed against your back, the scent of his cologne mixing with the faint trace of sweat from practice invaded your lungs like smoke from a fire you’d set yourself.

His hand came up, fingers splayed against the locker beside your head. He wasn’t even touching you but you felt his body heat radiating in yours easily through this silver of distance. His other hand rested on his hip, posture casual, but his eyes darkened and locked onto yours told a different story.

“You talk big,” he murmured, voice dipping just enough to send a slow, curling heat through your stomach. “Wonder if you’ll hold up when the tables turn.”

Your smirk didn’t waver. If anything, it deepened by the adrenaline now beginning to burn beneath your skin. “That depends,” you mused. “Are you actually going to do something this time, or are we playing the same game again?”

His jaw flexed, and for a moment he seemed to chew on the edge of his irritation, a wry expression tugging at the corner of his mouth as his tongue poked the inside of his cheek. It was almost as if he dared you to cross a line while making it clear he’d already redrawn it.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You merely shrugged in response, refusing to look away. Neither of you were yielding. The eye contact between you was a challenge all its own—steel against steel, neither one of you willing to be the first to look away. The tension was hot and volatile, ready to combust any moment.

Your smirk however threatened to falter when he lifted his fingers, his knuckle grazing the edge of your jaw. It wasn't even a proper skin to skin contact, but enough to make you crave for his touch.

“What you did.” His voice was barely above a whisper now, meant just for you. His gaze drifted, almost dazed, like he was following a phantom memory. “Did you enjoy it?”

Your pulse leapt, but your face remained impassive. “Enjoy what?”

Beomgyu clicked his tongue, tilting his head like he was debating his next move. He dragged his knuckle just a fraction lower, tracing the column of your neck, his gaze locked onto yours. There were goosebumps on your skin.

“You know what,” he said simply.

The memory of your last encounter flickered between you like a live wire.

You could taste the sweetness of his mouth whenever you closed your eyes. The sounds that escaped him when you touched him. His dumbfounded, dazed face when you pulled away just before he could regain control.

Your eyes dropped to his lips. He was biting the lower one again, smiling that smug, ruined smile. And when your gaze snapped back to his, it was already too late to pretend otherwise. You could easily take advantage of this distance and grab him by the collar. You could easily crash your lips against his again, taste him again, drink him in to quench your dry throat now.

But the faint sound of voices echoed from the hallway outside snapped you out of your trance.

Beomgyu exhaled sharply, as he stepped back at the last possible second, his frustration evident in the slow drag of his tongue across his lower lip. You wanted to do that for him, drag your tongue over them and over every inch inside his mouth until nothing of him would be left unexplored.

His gaze swept over you one last time, orbs dark with something illegible in them. You were sure your gaze matched his intensity too.Then, with a low chuckle, he turned and walked away, tossing his voice over his shoulder like a loaded promise.

“Guess we’ll have to continue this later.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving you there against the lockers, heart pounding like a fist against bone.

Damn him.

Because this time, he knew he’d gotten to you.

It had been a week. A full week since you’d left him standing in that dark closet. You hadn’t expected the moment to shake him so much. It was just a game, right? A well-placed tease. But something in the way Beomgyu had looked at you, wide-eyed and speechless, made you realize you’d done more than just fluster him.

You’d challenged him.

And Beomgyu? He wasn’t the type to back down from a challenge.

He played his part pretty well. Most of the time around people, he was the same as always; loud and testing, pushing your buttons whenever he could. During lunch hours he showed up at your table and stole your fries, still challenged you to one-on-one matches during practise, and still threw his arm around your shoulders in front of your friends as if you were just a friendly rival to him.

But you knew better.

It was in the way his eyes lingered on you a little too long. The way his hand accidentally left a touch on your skin before pulling away during every conversation. The way his voice dipped just a little lower when he said your name.

Choi Beomgyu was waiting.

And, maybe—just maybe—you found that endearing.

"Alright, guys!"

The warm voice of your team manager drew your attention. You, Beomgyu, and two other elite shooters from your club sat around the table of the meeting room.

He set down four sleek black envelopes in the center. "I have exciting news!" His eyes glimmered with enthusiasm as he slid the envelopes toward the group. "You four have been invited to a high-profile dinner event. It’s an exclusive gathering for the top shooters in the country! Big names, big opportunities."

Your fingers brushed the cool envelope as you picked it up, reading the elegant gold lettering embossed on the front. The bubble of excitement was beginning to form in your chest. It was indeed a big opportunity.

"It’s a formal thing, of course, so be on your best behavior. Not that I’m worried." He chuckled, shaking his head. "You’re all professionals. Just go, enjoy yourselves, and make a good impression."

Beomgyu hummed beside you, tapping the edge of his invitation against the table. "A fancy dinner, huh? You think they’ll have steak?"

The other two snorted, and even the manager laughed. Your gaze flickered toward Beomgyu. The light from the window caught in his hair. The soft glow making him look almost golden. Ror a moment, you wondered how could someone so insufferable also be so… maddeningly charming?

You shook the thought away before it could settle.

Beomgyu, on the other hand, turned to you with that knowing grin. While the rest got engaged in a conversation, he leaned toward you. "What do you say? Think you can handle a night of keeping your hands off me?" he lowered his voice just enough for you to only hear.

You sighed, slipping the envelope into your bag. "I don’t think that’s the real question here."

Beomgyu only laughed, standing up and stretching his arms above his head lazily. But when he turned to leave, he tossed one last glance at you over his shoulder. One that lingered just a second too long, before his eyes narrowed.

Game on.

The evening of the event was the epitome of sophistication. Golden chandeliers dangled from the vaulted ceiling, their light pouring down in syrupy amber hues that bathed the grand ballroom in a warm, resplendent glow. The murmur of polite conversation blended around seamlessly with the delicate notes of a live string quartet. A high-profile dinner for elite shooters, a gathering of class and discipline, where everyone carried themselves with courtesy.

You and Beomgyu were no exception.

From the moment you arrived, you slipped flawlessly into the roles expected of you. You exchanged nothing more than formal nods, casual acknowledgments and comments in passing. To the outside world, you were simply two competitors; colleagues bound by skill and reputation, neither particularly concerned with the other beyond professional courtesy.

There was no reason to assume there was anything beyond that. And yet, every glance, every sidelong look, every calculated brush of proximity was executed with the care of a sniper setting their sights.

At the dinner table, you sat across from each other; engaged in separate conversations with your tablemates. Not once did your gazes lock for too long; never more than a passing glance, never more than coincidence. But you didn’t miss it when his eyes stuck to you when you lifted your wine glass, the minute tug at the corner of his lips when your sharp tongue laced through a particularly bland comment made by someone beside you.

Then there were the fleeting touches. Fingers that brushed against each other as you reached for the same silver tray. A fleeting press of his foot beneath the table, one that made contact and then vanished as if it had never been there. When you finally rose from your seat to excuse yourself, murmuring something inconsequential about fresh air, Beomgyu leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming lightly against his glass, eyes never once leaving your disappearing body in the crowd.

Not once did either of you slip. No one suspected a thing.

The dinner transitioned into an afterparty. It was a more relaxed affair, where the guests mingled freely, laughter breaking through the previously restrained atmosphere. People gathered in small clusters, drinks in hand, the tension of formalities dissolving into lighthearted chatters among peer groups and acquaintances.

You saw Beomgyu before he saw you. He was by the bar, speaking with a few others, one hand in his pocket. But you could tell his attention was elsewhere.

He was searching for you.

A slow smile tugged at your lips as you made your move, slipping between guests, weaving through the crowd. You took your time doing so and didn’t so much as glance back. Just like before—just like that night in the closet—you vanished before he could catch you.

Only this time, Beomgyu wasn’t about to let it slide.

The moment he realized you were gone, his jaw twitched.  His drink was long forgotten on the counter. He was on his feet, already moving in between the guests.

Enough of this.

He wasn’t going to lose sight of you again. It had always been like this. It always felt like you were one step ahead of him. What sort of satisfaction did you get from playing with him like this? You were being so cruel, yet Beomgyu desperately craved this.

The truth was, you’d always driven him insane.

From the moment you stepped into the club a year ago, he hadn’t been able to look away. Not because of the way you looked, though that had certainly caught his eye—a composed figure standing tall among the newest recruits. No, it was the control. Back then, he had only looked, only watched. Maybe he hadn’t realized it at first—how his gaze always found you, how your name always lingered somewhere in the back of his mind but it had been there. It was really simply curiosity at best in the beginning.

And then, you weren’t just a presence. You became a contender.

You started rising through the ranks. One by one you surpassed the ones he thought wore the crown with a relentless determination that awed him, that thrilled him. You chased mastery like it owed you something. You always made sure to challenge your own limit, always making yourself your biggest opponent.

But what drove him insane was that you weren’t just good. You were the one who became untouchable.

And now, tonight, you were testing him again. Always pulling just out of reach like you were always one step ahead. Like the world moved at your pace, like you were always in control. Even now, as you slipped away into the crowd, it wasn’t in retreat.

Beomgyu had no intention of letting this become a pattern.

His pace quickened as he pushed through the guests, his eyes sweeping corners and alcoves and literally everywhere. He was going to make sure he matched your pace. He wanted to shatter your unbreakable image.

He wasn’t going to let you win.

You slipped away meticulously, the soft chime of the elevator signaling your quiet escape. You stepped out as the doors opened on the eighth floor. It was where the suites were reserved for the elites. The sound of your high-heeled boots clicking against the polished marble echoed in the empty corridor. The only other presence there was a lone floor butler who passed you whom you acknowledged with a polite nod before making your way to the restroom.

Inside the restroom, beneath the low glow of the wall scones, you looked at the woman staring back at you. You took a moment to really look at yourself. The evening had demanded your best, and you had delivered. Your eyeliner adorned eyes, the sleek lines of your outfit, and the careful touch of color on your lips; you looked good. Of course you did. 

People noticed. The lingering stares that kept returning, the thinly veiled advances from men who thought they stood a chance. You should’ve felt satisfaction but none of it mattered. None of them mattered. Because in the end, only one gaze had truly mattered to you tonight.

A quiet laugh escaped you, almost self-deprecating.

Beomgyu.

A tsk nearly followed the name in your mind. He was pretty, no doubt about it. His prettiness was at odds with the bastardized side of him which clearly pissed you off. Yet here you were, washing your hands as if that could cleanse the memory of the way his lips had tasted when you kissed him first.

You shook your hands free of water and reached for a paper towel, and as you did, you wondered—just how long could he play this game? How long could you?

You hadn’t meant to entertain him that night. When the bottle pointed, and the room went still with the thick anticipation that people dressed up as fun, you weren’t thinking about games. You hadn’t even considered closing that distance and letting the moment happen.

But he was so close that even in the dark, you could see him properly. You stared at him as if you were seeing him again for the first time.

In that split second—just one look at his face up close—something in you wavered, and you gave in.

Even now, the image returned too vividly. It stirred something warm and unwelcoming in your chest, creeping lower to your stomach. You exhaled sharply, as if the motion alone could dispel the feeling, almost scoffing at yourself. You wiped your hands clean and tossed the paper towel into the bin without looking.

This was a game. That’s all it was. That’s all it would ever be.

To him, and to you as well.

With that thought settling like a quiet resolve, you turned on your heel. You pushed the door open and stepped out, ready to return to the afterparty.

The moment you turned the corner, Beomgyu was there, leaning against the wall like he’d been expecting you. Like he knew exactly where you’d be.

Your steps faltered. Heart catapulted to your throat as you took a step back. The look in his eyes was different this time. There were no traces of the mischievous mask he wore when he played the back-and-forth game with you. No, it was like he was savoring something before taking his first bite.

You didn’t get a chance to speak.

One stride, that’s all it took. Beomgyu was in front of you, and in the next breath your back hit the wall with a thud softened only by the fabric at your shoulders. Your hands twitched, not in surprise but in instinct, caught in a dilemma between pushing him away and pulling him in.

The golden lighting caught the sharp lines of his suit, the deep black fabric sculpting his frame in a way that felt almost unfair. You wished it was how well he wore his suit that froze your senses but no it was the look in his eyes. They looked empty but brimmed with emotions at the same time.

He lifted a hand and let it settle against the wall near your head, fingers grazing the cold surface of the wall. His other hovered close to your hip, a mere touch away, purposely letting you feel the absence. He was doing everything to make you break first.

"Caught you," he murmured.

Your breath hitched.

You tilted your head, arms at your sides though your hands had curled into fists without you realizing. “Is this payback?” you managed, though your voice lacked the steady confidence you wished it had.

“Aww, I don’t know.” Beomgyu tilted his head, a slow smirk curling his lips. You couldn’t recognize this man in front of you. He didn’t look like the Beomgyu who’d piss you off over trivial matters. He looked like a man far more patient. “What do you think?”

The hallway felt too narrow. Every little sound seemed to amplify; the faint rustle of his jacket as he shifted, the soft thud of your heartbeat against your ribs, the near-silent pull of breath between his lips. You realized soon what he was doing. Beomgyu was playing the game using your tactics. He didn’t look like he was going to rush. He was going to make you beg.

Your pulse pounded. “You took your time,” you said, forcing your voice to sound nonchalant.

His gaze dipped to your mouth for the briefest second, but that was all it took to make your stomach flip. “Had to make sure you’d feel it.”

Feel what? The tension? The heat curling in the space between you? The way your chest tightened every time he breathed a little closer?

His fingers dragged along the wall beside you before they stopped just near your shoulder. He leaned in achingly slowly until his lips were just at the shell of your ear. His breath ghosted over close enough to draw a shiver from the base of your spine.

“You had your fun,” he whispered, “won’t you let me have some of it too?”

You swallowed, a shaky breath threatened to spill past your lips. 

The worst part? He hadn’t even touched you yet. Not really. And still, you felt scorched by the space he took up.

Beomgyu exhaled a soft chuckle and then, just as easily as he had cornered you, he stepped back. Stepping away like he was already done with you; like he’d gotten what he wanted. The absence of his warmth sent a sharp contrast through your senses, but the moment felt almost comical—like he thought he could just walk away after that. Oh. He was taking revenge.

Well, Beomgyu has always been a fast learner. 

Your lips parted in disbelief, a breathless laugh slipping past before you could stop it. Was that it?

Just as he turned, you spoke in a low, taunting voice. "Is that all you've got?"

That stopped him dead in his tracks.

You leaned back against the wall, arms folding across your chest in mock nonchalance. A lazy smirk tugged at your lips as you tilted your head. "Sorry to say, you're growing to be a bit predictable."

For a second, he didn't react. He stood with his back turned to you in complete stillness and silence. When he turned to face you again, there was no trace of that earlier grin. It seemed as his eyes glowed for the briefest second. His lips parted slightly, only to curl languidly into something far more dangerous than his usual smirk.

Predictable?

In a blink, his fingers curled into your hair, gripping at the back of your head as he yanked you forward. A startled gasp barely left your lips before they were swallowed by his own.

It was all heat and hunger, all months of games and tension and near misses snapping at once, and your mind went blank with the sheer intensity of it all.

The force of it sent you stumbling, your balance thrown completely off. His grip tightened, steadying you, but not gently—he was pulling you closer, demanding all of you. Your feet barely found their place before you realized you had to rise—had to step onto your toes just to meet him.

He held you there, both hands cupping your jaw, thumbs pressing into your skin like he needed to feel you under him. Like he couldn’t get close enough. The downright intensity of it sent a shiver down your spine, and before you could so much as breathe, he pushed you against the wall.

A sharp gasp escaped into his mouth from you and he greedily devoured that sound. He only pressed deeper, trapping you between the wall and the solid heat of him. The absolute urgency of it had your footing slipping again, your fingers finding his waist, gripping onto him as if he was the only thing keeping you standing. Maybe he was.

This wasn’t careful. This was reckless. Like he’d been holding back for far too long and finally let himself break.

It was beginning to feel like you weren’t just a game to him anymore.

But still, you couldn’t help but wonder if this was really him, or if this still was just another game. Either way, you didn’t care. You couldn’t bring your mind to weave together sane thoughts right now. Not when his kiss felt like fire.

“Look at you,” he murmured against your lips, voice rough and teasing.

A shiver ran through you, but you refused to let it show. It felt like he caught it anyway because he was already so impossibly close. He was holding you like he had no plans of letting go. You tried to bite back because you never let him have the last word but the moment your kiss-bruised lips parted, he stole the breath right from you.

His hands no longer cradled your jaw. They slipped lower, fingertips skimming down your neck, tracing the curve of your waist before pressing firmly against your hips. You fought against the broken whimper that threatened to leave you when you felt him pressing against you, drawing you in like he was savoring every reaction you gave him.

And that was the worst part because he knew. You could feel it in the way his lips curved against yours, the slow drag of his mouth against yours, the way his hands travelled back to the sensitive parts of your skins whenever your breath stuttered.

He pulled back only for a moment, and you took that chance to gasp in a much needed breath to stabilize your heart. He didn’t even have the decency to give you space, his lips trailed the line of your jaw then lower until they hovered just over the pulse hammering at your neck.

That’s when he smirked, his voice rich with satisfaction. "That felt pretty real to me."

His teeth grazed over the pulse, followed by a feathery brush of his tongue before he latched his lips there. You flinched at the sensation and grabbed his shoulder, palms pushing him away but he didn’t budge. He caught your wrists instead, fingers pressing just enough to remind you he wasn’t done yet.

But neither were you.

You tilted your head, just enough to shift him back, just enough to meet his eyes—those eyes, darker now, glinting with an intensity that seemed to pulse with heat. It was there, written plainly across his features that whatever this was—this pull, this provocation—you weren’t the only one caught in it.

Your mouth curved into a smirk, voice laced with a teasing edge. “I think I’ve hit a nerve.”

He let out a quiet chuckle. "You think so?"

The space between you vanished again in a second. One moment he was looking at you like he could devour you whole, and the next he proved it exactly right; his mouth was on yours again, harder this time, rougher, like he couldn’t bear another second of restraint. Your back hit the wall with the unrelenting pressure of his body closing the last of the distance, his knee shifting between your legs locking you in place. His hands—one cradling the back of your head with a possessive urgency, the other clutching your hip like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to pull you closer or pin you exactly where you were.

He was chasing your words back into your throat. Your defiance had only lit him up further, like whatever control he’d tried to hold onto had just been shattered and scattered beneath your feet. The drag of his mouth against yours was relentless, his teeth catching your lower lip just hard enough to make you squirm in his hold.

A low sound rumbled in his chest, feral and satisfied. His hand slid from your waist to your arm. "We should take this somewhere else, yeah?"

The words barely had time to settle before he was already moving, his grip firm as he guided you through the dimly lit lobby lined with doors reserved for only a select few. The golden numbers on each one glowed under the dim lighting, but your focus narrowed when he stopped in front of the one meant for you.

"Card?"

The single word sent a slow shiver down your spine, not because of what he asked, but because of how he asked it. Expectantly, like he already knew you’d hand it over.

You sighed, fingers dipping into your pocket. The second you pulled out the card, he took it from you, slipping it into the scanner with a swift motion that sent another rush of heat through you.

The scanner beeped. The green light showed as the door unlocked.

Before you could so much as step inside, he did it for you. One hand at your waist as he walked you backward into the darkened suite. His other hand caught the frame behind you, arm caging you in as the door shut behind with a muted thud.

Just as Beomgyu leaned in to claim the space again, you stopped him. You pushed him back, palm resting flat against his chest. 

Beomgyu halted instantly, dark eyes flicking down to where your hand rested against him. His heartbeat was erratic beneath your touch. The way his jaw tensed just slightly told you he hadn’t expected the pushback.

Your fingers splayed just a little wider, the silk of his dress shirt smooth beneath your palm. Slowly, you met his gaze, tilting your chin ever so slightly. Your eyes steady like his touch hadn’t just unraveled you moments ago; while his had a flicker of intrigue beneath the hunger, his lips parting slightly before curling at the corners.

Beomgyu’s hands fell back to his sides as he watched you step past him, your black boots clicking softly against the floor. You didn’t spare him another glance as you just shrugged off your light coat along the way, letting it slip from your fingers and pool onto the chair beside you.

His gaze burned into your back as you walked.

A black turtleneck, tucked into tailored formal pants that hugged your frame just right. Boots that gave you an air of cool detachment. You looked like you belonged in a painting.

And Beomgyu loved it.

You sat on the edge of the bed crossing your legs in an elegant motion, hands resting on your knee. You finally met his gaze again.

With a languid smirk, you said, “You seem tense.” You let him have his fun. It was about time you took back control.

Beomgyu exhaled a breathy chuckle, pushing back his hair with his hand. His fingers briefly rested at the nape of his neck. His head tilted, gaze narrowing as though trying to decipher you all over again, before the sound of a scoff broke the silence between you. “You love pissing me off, don’t you?”

Your smile didn’t waver. “I love winning.”

He blinked. Then realization flickered in his eyes, followed by a groan. It only deepened your smirk.

“The bet.”

“The bet,” you echoed, tilting your head.

You had beaten him fair and square in that game, outmaneuvering him at his own strategy, and he knew it. The terms were clear—whoever won had carte blanche. And you walked away with the game winning.

Beomgyu ran a hand through his hair again, exhaling a laugh before shifting his gaze back on you. There was a trace of something delighted in his gaze.

“Okay,” he murmured, stepping closer. “I’m a man of my word.”

Your fingers drummed lightly against your knee as you regarded him, gaze dark. 

“Satisfy me.”

He stopped mid-step, lips parting soundlessly at your demand. You watched him absorb it, watched every flicker of thought pass over his face. Huh, whatever this game was, you were beginning to truly enjoy it. You found yourself thriving off of the reactions he gave you to feast on. Then oh so devastatingly slowly, Beomgyu grinned.

What a good boy.

A low hum left his lips as he dropped to one knee before you, his hands trailing up your calf. His fingers found the hem of your pants, slipping just beneath, teasing against your warm skin. His eyes flicked up to yours, ravenous.

“Why, of course,” he smiled, like molten molasses. “I’m a gentleman.”

Your lips curled, mirroring his game. “How charming.”

Beomgyu held your gaze, fingers brushing along the boot. His hand slid higher, the pad of his thumb pressing lightly against the leather of your boot before curling just beneath it. You didn’t rush him. You merely watched, one leg still crossed over the other as he slowly—agonizingly slowly—reached for the zipper along your ankle. A hum left you as he pulled it down, the sound barely audible over the sharp click of the metal teeth separating. He slid the boot off your foot with care, as if savoring the motion.

His fingers trailed back up, this time under the hem of your pants, warm against your skin. And yet, you didn’t react—not the way he wanted. Beomgyu hated how much you got to him. The control was yours, and you held it with the confidence of someone who knew exactly how much power there was in patience. The way you sat there, perfectly composed, lips quirked in something between amusement and indulgence, it was like you already knew how much he wanted to ruin you, and you loved making him wait.

You tilted your head, eyebrows raising in mock concern. “Something wrong?”

His eyes snapped up to yours, and the laugh that spilled from him then sounded rawer. “Oh, you’re cruel.”

Beomgyu dipped his head forward with a slowness that felt almost sinful. The first kiss was barely there, a tender touch of warmth against the arch of your foot. A touch that shouldn’t have felt as reverent as it did.

It wasn’t just a touch. It was a declaration.

His fingers traced idle patterns along your calf, as if memorizing the shape of you, as if grounding himself before his lips found you again; this time at the inside of your ankle. His breath lingered against your skin before he pressed another kiss there; slower, deeper. Worshipful. He wanted you to feel every second of it the way he felt it.

You inhaled, just the faintest hitch of breath, and Beomgyu caught it. His senses were hyper aware of you; just you and only you. His lips curled against your skin, the ghost of a smirk before he trailed another kiss even higher. Your body shuddered at the feeling.

“You like this, don’t you?” he rasped. Dark eyes looked up at you through pretty lashes. 

His hands smoothed over your calf, fingers dragging slow and firm, pressing just enough to leave a lingering fire in their wake. His lips followed, ghosting over your skin with the kind of patience that wasn’t restraint but was indulgence.

Your fingers twitched against the sheets, the only betrayal of what simmered beneath your skin. Then, in a motion so swift he barely registered it, you uncrossed your legs, lifting the pointed toe of your remaining boot and tilted his chin up with it.

Beomgyu froze. His breath caught, eyes snapping up to meet yours.

Your foot pressed just enough to tilt his head back in a clean swift motion. Beomgyu’s lashes fluttered, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. His lips were parted, breath coming quick and shallow. A flush crept up his neck, his skin glowing under the dim light, a bead of sweat trailing down from his temple. He looked wrecked.

Despite that, that bastard had the audacity and gall to smirk. 

"Careful," he rasped, voice wrecked in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion. "I might start thinking you like having me on my knees."

You exhaled, soft and languid. You felt a swirl of pride having him like this infront you, watching the way his chest rose and fell like he was barely holding himself together.

"Who says I don’t?"

Beomgyu’s smirk twitched, faltering just slightly, but his eyes—his eyes maniacally darkened, pupils blown wide, heat simmering beneath the surface like a storm about to break. His fingers flexed against your calf before tightening in an unforgiving grip. Then before you could process the shift—his hand wrapped around your ankle, heat searing into your skin, and he yanked you forward.

A startled gasp left you as you slid closer to the edge of the bed, legs spreading as Beomgyu placed a hand on your thigh. His grip on you was controlling, but not overbearing.

You could stop him if you wanted to, but you didn’t.

Your breath came out a little heavier as you stared down at him, still on his knees before you, still holding your leg like he was deciding just how much he wanted to ruin you. It was getting excruciatingly hard to ignore the ache between your thighs.

“Say it again.”

“Say what again?”

Beomgyu’s grip tightened just slightly, just enough to make you aware of his strength. “That you like having me on my knees,” he rasped, eyes narrowing as if daring you to agree with him. Oh you were getting the thrill back. Adrenaline coursed through your veins and it itched you to piss him off even more.

“Why?” You let your voice drop, teasing. “Do you want to hear it that badly?”

Beomgyu huffed out a laugh, the sound short and strained, like it cost him. His hands slid higher, fingers brushing the backs of your knees, the warmth of his skin burning even through the fine fabric of your slacks. He was breathing harder now, and you could see the tremble in his restraint, the twitch of his jaw, and in the way his tongue darted over his lower lip.

“I must warn you,” he muttered, almost too low to hear. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

He looked so desperate and so, so pretty, kneeling before you. Your gaze wandered, drinking him in. The slope of his nose, the way his lips—plush and kiss-bruised—parted ever so slightly with each uneven breath. The faint sheen of sweat clinging to his skin, trailing down the curve of his throat, catching at his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.

Beomgyu was a pretty man.

You reached out, your hand brushing his forehead, sweeping the damp strands from his brow. His lashes trembled with the contact and as your fingers dipped further, threading through his hair, his whole body seemed to shift like he couldn’t help himself. He leaned into your touch, eyes slipping closed as if savoring the warmth of your palm.

Your nails scraped lightly across his scalp, drawing a low breath from deep in his chest, and that was the moment you felt the balance tip again. He was unraveling right there at your feet.

"Well," you whispered, leaning in a little. "I'm still not satisfied."

His eyes snapped open, and you caught the flash of surprise just before it melted into hunger. He had expected a drawn-out game, a slow torment; something that mirrored the way you always liked to push him to his limits, to take your time drawing out every reaction until he was barely holding himself together.

You gave him none of it. Instead slowly, you sank back into the mattress, legs uncrossing with elegance that bordered on cruel. Beomgyu didn’t breathe for a full second, as though the air had caught in his throat the moment he saw you recline before him like that with every intention written across your body.

You had given him permission. Beomgyu never wasted an opportunity.

Two deft fingers worked their way with the button of your pants, pulling down the article of clothing in one swift motion down your legs, the remaining boot getting tossed aside along with it. His hands slipped up to your hips, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed.

A quiet curse left his mouth at the sight of your dampened panties, translucent from the slick pooling in between your thighs. His eyes briefly flitted to your face—you were looking down at him with steel eyes yet they brimmed with anticipation behind them. It drove him insane how little reaction you showed despite the sight of your arousal in front him.

Beomgyu placed a soft kiss over your clothed clit. The sensation sent a shiver down your spine and you had to bite your lips from making any sound. He continued to pepper kisses all over you before finally hooking his fingers into the waistband and pulling your panties down. 

Your head spun when you felt his hot breath over your sopping core, shaky fingers finding residence into his hair again. The first lick over your clit was slow, torturous—as if he was deliberately waiting to see you fall apart. You hissed, tugging on his hair and it made him chuckle.

He gazed up at you through his lashes. “Patience, darling.”

Then without wasting another minute, he dived back into you, his tongue licking a long stripe along your folds, lapping up your arousal with a low, deep hum. “Fuck… you taste divine.” His voice muffled against your skin as his lips latched themselves around your clit and sucked harshly.

Your eyes rolled back almost instantly, breath stuttering, slipping further into the ecstatic sensation of his tongue gliding back and forth over your folds. One of his hands slid under your left thigh, putting it over his shoulder while he held the other open. The angle gave him all the access he wanted. He was good—way too good with his tongue as he continued to send you over the edge. 

Your grip in his hair tightened when Beomgyu brought two fingers, nimbly sliding against your folds, rubbing up and down while his teeth caught torturously on your clit. Your legs trembled with pleasure as he dipped his fingers inside you with humiliating ease. 

“Oh god…” you breathed out before harshly biting down on your bottom lip, your head tipped back as he pumped his digits in and out of your core, curling them at the right spot. The heel of your foot dug into his back as you fought to keep your sanity from losing. 

The room resonated with the sound of depraved squelches, the only sound of his plump lips sinfully eating you out, and it didn’t sit right with Beomgyu. Dazed eyes swirling with desire and lips glistening with your juices, he looked up at you—your chest heaving with every deep breath you took, your lips in between your teeth as you refused to make any sounds. 

He brushed his thumb along your bottom lip, forcing your mouth open. “Don’t do that,” he pleaded, his thumb caressing your lip. “Let me hear you… please.”

Your resolve shook at the way he sounded. You wanted to bite out a provoking remark about how he should earn it but before you could do anything, Beomgyu took your words away as he connected his lips onto yours.

He lifted himself from kneeling, hovering above you as he gently pushed you against the mattress. His tongue pushed past your lips, your restraints—it was hot and messy, your juices mixing with your saliva as your walls fluttered around his fingers. The odd sensation of being able to taste yourself made you groan against his mouth. 

The familiar sensation of heat coiling in your lower stomach began to embrace you, however, before it could fully take over your senses, Beomgyu removed his fingers from you. The glaring emptiness almost made you choke out a moan, eyes peering at him with disbelief. But whatever annoyance took over you melted away in an instance as Beomgyu wrapped his lips around his fingers, licking and sucking off your arousal from them. You swallowed, throat humiliatingly dry at the sight. 

And he knew, because the way his lips curled up into the most devilish smirk as he continued to lick his fingers clean, you know he knew.

You eyed the bulge in his pants before using one foot to apply just the right amount of pressure on it. You watched in pure awe as Beomgyu’s cocky demeanor faltered. A strangled moan fell from his lips as his body twitched and shivered from that simple touch from you. His hands found your ankle, stopping you and eyes locked onto yours in a look that screamed nothing short of begging.

“Take it off,” you commanded lowly, sitting up. Beomgyu complied wordlessly, hands fumbling with the buckle of his belt. His garments joined the rest on the floor one by one. His hands stilled from unbuttoning his shirt when you climb onto his lap, straddling him. His breath hitching as you took your turtleneck off, hair falling breathtakingly around your face as you were presented with nothing but your black bra in front of him. 

Shirt left halfway unbuttoned, forgotten, his hands found themselves on the curve of your waist. His touch sent sparks of heat through you as you cupped his erection through his boxers. His head fell into the crook of your shoulder with a moan. You guided him out gently, his cock springing back against his belly, precum pooling at the tip.

For a beat, you didn't move, eyes going slightly wide at his size. He was big, bigger than you thought he would be, bigger than anything you’ve taken before and your senses clouded with lust at the realization. 

You were broken from your trance when Beomgyu wrapped his hand on yours, guiding you to his shaft. The heated weight of him in your palm shot another spasm straight to your core. You pumped him gently, feeling your senses dizzying by the pants and groans spilling from him. You let out a shuddering breath, trailing your fingers up to his weeping slit, collecting the oozing pre cum there and smearing it across his tip.

Beomgyu panted against your neck, lips trailing open mouthed kisses on your skin, nipping and sucking on the supple flesh. You take that opportunity to take him by the base of his cock, rubbing the tip against your sopping slit, his arousal mixing with your own. The sudden warmth of your core snapped Beomgyu’s head up, eyes locking with yours.

“Do you really want this?” he asked, voice low, but desperate.

His question made you pause, his tip sliding against your core and resting on your abdomen instead. You looked at him, eyebrows furrowing and you felt your chest tighten because why was he looking at you like that? Like he genuinely wanted this as much as you did? You couldn’t dare yourself to hope. Wasn't this only a game?

“Isn’t it too late to ask that?” you couldn’t look at him anymore, gaze faltering under his intense stare. 

There was a pause. The only sound filled between you was your mixed breathing and erratic heartbeats. Then, Beomgyu moved his hands to your hips as he pulled you closer, his tip brushed against your sensitive cunt, causing you to whimper softly. Your hands found refuge on his shoulders, your heart thumping loudly against your ribcage and in your ears. 

“If it’s okay, then,” his lips brushed against the shell of your ear, “I've wanted you for too long to be satisfied with just once. I need you.”

The depth of his words didn't have the time to settle in your senses when his tip slided inside you, stretching you deliciously. His lips devoured your strangled moan, his hand slipping in the back of your head holding you close to him. You gasped into his mouth at the way he brushed up against every sensitive nerves, slowly bottoming out to the very base. 

“You okay?” he pulled away just a fraction, his hand massaging the soft flesh of your hips, a gesture of encouragement that made your chest swell with warmth. He let you adjust to his girth, muttering praises into your ear and it only made your head spin more. You hated the way he was making you feel. 

You attached your lips to his in a feverish kiss as you lifted yourself up to his tip, then swivelled your hip downward on his length. Beomgyu’s eyes rolled back as his nails dug deeper into your hips, choked gasps and grunts escaping him. 

This position let you take him as deeply as possible. Your senses clouded with pleasure at how his cock pressed into your deepest parts, the drag of his tip making you want to slouch over and succumb to the blinding pleasure. It didn't take you long to set a steady rhythm, your synchronous moans mingled in the small space between your bodies, overlapping with the lewd sound of skin slapping.

"You're doing so good," he murmured against your neck, moaning when your walls clenched around him at the praise. "So, so good, oh my god."

Your breath came out in hot puffs, your thighs aching from riding him, as your movements began to become sloppy. Beomgyu pressed one chaste kiss to your lips and brushed your hair out from in front of your face, then your world spun as you were flipped with impressive speed onto your back, your head hitting the soft pillow with a yelp.

He hovered above you, his thrusts hitting deeper inside you in the new position. Strings of broken whimpers left you with each of his thrusts. All it took was one look at his expression for you to choke on your breath.

He was peering down at you with glazed eyes—eyes full of softness that spilled something like adoration. You swallowed hard, refusing to let yourself believe. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you begged, voice coming out barely as a whisper. 

Beomgyu slowed down his pace, the sensation making you squirm under him, his breath hitched, his brows drawing together like your words had physically struck him. But he didn’t look away. Didn’t laugh it off or mask it with some teasing remark. He exhaled shakily, and let his fingers trail up, the touch was so light and full of devotion, until they cradled your face.

“How else do you want me to look at you?” he murmured, voice raw, almost pleading. “Because I don’t know how to look at you any other way.”

You barely got the first syllable out—“Please”—before the word withered on your tongue. Beomgyu leaned down, tenderly pressed his lips to your forehead. That was it. The last string holding you together snapped.

Maybe you had it wrong all along—maybe Beomgyu’s infuriating arrogance, the way he always pushed and provoked, wasn’t indifference at all. Maybe it was a pull, just as relentless as the one that had kept you shackled to him for so long. And now, here you were, drawn together like Icarus was to the sun, aching to take, to burn, to make this moment last before it slipped through your fingers.

Your breath trembled, your fingers curled into his back, and this time—you didn’t hold your sounds. You sank further, letting the warmth of him consume you whole.

“Beomgyu.”

It was the first time you moaned his name that night. It slipped past your lips as if torn free from the core of you, soft and breathless, laced with a wrecked kind of desperation that carved into him like flame. The sound of his name in your voice shaped by want, by surrender, by the kind of hunger neither of you had spoken aloud until now seared through him devastatingly.

That was all it took. Beomgyu faltered, his hands reacted before he could think, fingers flexing hard enough against your skin to leave reminders behind, clutching at you like he was trying to hold on to something slipping through his grasp. But there was no grip strong enough to keep him grounded now—not when you moaned his name like that; not when you were looking at him like he was the only thing in your world worth falling apart for. You had him. Completely.

A curse left his lips, ragged and desperate, and he surged forward—kissing you like he was chasing the sound, like he needed to hear it again, needed to feel it vibrate against his skin. His hand slipped under your bra and kneaded your soft breast, no patience left, his control unraveling at the seams. His hips spearing into you with newfound energy.

And when you moaned his name a second time—oh, he was gone.

“You’re driving me fucking insane,” he gasped. His fingers push your palm flat against the bed next to you, and then gently intertwine with yours, a jarring contrast to the way his pelvis slammed into you so fervently. 

“You feel so–mngh, good,” you slurred, the haze of ecstasy starting to cloud your consciousness. His thrusts went harder, deeper, at your praises, hitting your g-spot over and over again. The familiar rush of warmth pooling into your abdomen caused you to wrap your legs around his waist, bringing him even closer to you. “I’m close–please,” you screw your eyes shut. “I’m so close.”

His Adam's apple bobbed thickly at the saccharine sound of your pleas. “You’re so beautiful like this–fuck, come for me.”

He thrusted once, twice, and with a final thrust, your walls spasmed around his cock, your back arched into him, his name falling from your lips as a whimper. Beomgyu buried his face into your neck as he sloppily thrusted in your leaking cunt, chasing his own climax. He swiftly pulled out and gave his cock a few pumps before hot ropes of thick, white semen coated your lower stomach and thighs. 

Your bodies heaved in unison. The room was quiet now. The silence wasn’t awkward or empty, but the kind that settled between two people who had nothing left to prove—nothing left to fight.

Beomgyu was the first to move, slipping into the bathroom and returning with a damp towel. He helped you sit up, his touch careful, gentle, as he cleaned you up with a tenderness that felt almost foreign.

You watched him closely. He was too gentle—far too gentle, in fact—and the sharpness in his eyes had dulled into a softer haze.

“You’re being nice,” you deadpanned. “It’s freaking me out.”

You expected a snarky retort, a teasing jab, anything to break the shift in atmosphere. But instead, he just laughed. The sound was warm. And somehow, that laugh only made the fire in your chest burn hotter.

You got dressed in silence. You pulled your coat back on, smoothing out the creases in the fabric, and when you glanced up, Beomgyu was watching you. There was that same look in his eyes from earlier. 

He reached for you before he could stop himself, fingers brushing over your hair, fixing the stray strands with an almost careful kind of touch. His brows furrowed like he was concentrating. The gesture was tender, yes, but it was also searching. Prolonged. It felt as if his hand didn’t quite know how to let go.

Your eyes narrowed. "What are you doing?"

His hand stilled against your temple. There was hesitation in the line of his mouth, a flicker of indecision you weren't meant to see. He raked the other through his hair, messing it up more than fixing it, a nervous gesture that you’ve come to recognise which betrayed the calm mask he tried to hold. He exhaled a quiet laugh, dropping his hand to his side.

“If I’m being honest," he murmured, voice lower than before, "it was a disturbingly short amount of time between meeting you and wanting to say ‘I love you’.”

Your brows lifted, taken aback not because you were surprised, but because of how unpracticed it sounded. This wasn’t some well-timed confession, something he’d calculated to fluster you. It was an admission that had slipped past his guard before he could stop it.

Beomgyu wasn’t waiting for an answer. He wasn’t even looking at you anymore, just kept running a hand through his hair like he couldn’t believe he’d actually said that out loud.

But you had an answer.

You stepped closer, the space between you vanishing in an instant, and Beomgyu froze when you reached for him. With a touch far lighter than he deserved, you straightened the collar of his shirt, smoothing over the fabric the way he had done to your hair.

"We can work on that," you said softly, glancing away. 

Beomgyu gaped at you. For a heartbeat, he looked as though you had spoken a foreign language, and he was trying to translate the meaning behind every syllable. He barely restrained the smile that followed. You saw the way he bit down on it, the way the corners of his mouth twitched despite himself.

And then he echoed your words, breath warm and disbelieving. “We can work on that.”

He repeated it like he needed to hear it again to believe it. He tested the words on his tongue a few times. Seeing him do that almost made you scoff a fond laugh, but you held yourself back from doing it by biting the inside of your cheek.

His gaze flickered down to your hand resting at your side. His fingers brushed against yours, he hesitated for half a second, as if giving you the chance to pull away, but you didn’t. So he threaded his fingers through yours, his hand folding into yours.

Your heart stuttered.

It was such a simple thing. The way he held your hand—his thumb tracing a small arc across your knuckles, it was really simple, but it didn’t feel so at that moment. His touch felt different. His touch felt like he was worshipping you.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his fingers tightened around yours. “I think I’d like that.”

And this time, when you turned toward the door, you didn’t walk out alone.

You didn’t slip away. You didn’t vanish with a parting glance and leave him behind in the silence.

This time, you held his hand.

THE END.

Taglist; @dawngyu @saejinniestar @xylatox @hoefororeo @caratcakemoa @90steele

[fallen-honor]

THINGS I SAW IN BOSTON TODAY

1. Dude t posing in a maid dress in the subway

2. Dude in a kimono and heels

3. BLM protest outside the library

4. Cosplayers

5. People doing tiktok dances in the middle of Newbury st

6. Soap labeled p.p.mint

7. My brother just holding a pigeon

8. Dude on crack walking like jack sparrow waving around a green magician wand

9. Old ass woman with her dogs out climbing a tree

10. A park ranger almost getting bucked off her horse

11. Dude yelling at me YO I BE SMOKING WEED CAUSE BOSTON IS WINDY

12. Dude dressed like the ice king from adventure time booking it through South station

[oopsiedaisydeer]

third time’s the charm ...in which matt's big fat crush on mouse is increasingly apparent

word count - 800ish

Matt didn’t need to be at the hospital. Not really.

The smoke from this morning’s call had been mild—irritating, not dangerous. His lungs were fine. His team was fine. It wasn’t an emergency.

But still, somehow, he found himself walking through the ER doors like he had a reason.

He told himself it was just convenience. Proximity. Maybe curiosity. Definitely not the way her face had flashed through his head when he’d coughed in the truck. Definitely not because he remembered the last time she’d treated him—standing a little too close, muttering about how reckless he was while checking for bruises.

He stood at triage pretending to scroll through something on his phone until the nurse buzzed him in.

Room 3. Same as last time.

Of course.

He pushed aside the curtain casually, like this was all completely normal. Matt felt his face getting hot, and really wished he’d changed into a better shirt.

Mouse didn’t look up. “Whatever it is, Matt, I’m not impressed.”

God. That voice.

Every time she spoke to him like that—cool, smooth, unimpressed—it made something in his chest spark. It was her thing. No-nonsense, minimal eye contact, clinical with just the right edge of exasperation. It was almost funny how much he liked it.

He grinned, scratching at his stubble. He should've shaved.

“That’s fair. But I’m hurt.”

Still no look. She was scribbling something on a chart.

“You didn’t even say hi.”

Finally, Mouse looked up—and it hit him, sharp and sudden, the way it always did. She looked tired today. Hair tied back loose, face bare, a little crease between her eyebrows. But still beautiful. Unreasonably beautiful. Distractingly so.

His brain dropped out of his skull for a second. Mouse blinked at him. He had no idea what she’d just said.

“Sorry, what?”

“I said: what happened this time?”

Right. Right. Smoke. Lungs. Be normal.

“Smoke inhalation,” he said. “Or maybe a cold. Hard to say.”

“You smell like fabric softener,” Mouse said quietly.

“What?” he asked, thrown by the observation.

“You’re not on shift, are you?” She paused her writing, tilting her head. Genuine concern flickered behind her eyes.

“No—no, I am, I just… I got changed,” he said, stuttering slightly, trying to smile like it was no big deal.

“Then why are you here?”

Matt smiled, trying not to look guilty. “Would you believe me if I said I missed the vending machine?”

She stared at him, blinking. God, he felt seventeen.

“I’m fine,” he added. “Just… figured I’d get checked. In case.”

Mouse didn’t say anything. Just slipped on gloves and moved toward him.

“Take off your shirt,” she said.

“Whoa. Buy me dinner first?”

“Matt.”

“Sorry. I cope with sarcasm.”

“You cope with everything using sarcasm.”

That wasn’t untrue. He pulled off his jacket, hesitating before lifting the hem of his shirt. She was close now, listening through her stethoscope, the backs of her fingers brushing his ribs, and his entire body locked up like it didn’t know how to exist anymore.

He tried to focus on a crack in the ceiling. He tried not to notice how warm her skin felt through the gloves, how steady her hands were, how she smelled vaguely like coffee and something floral.

Jesus, Matt. Get it together.

She stepped back a moment later. “Lungs are clear.”

He exhaled slowly. “Guess I’m more dramatic than I thought.”

“You guess?”

He watched her peel off the gloves, watched the way she tossed them neatly in the bin. He was staring again. He kept doing that.

Say something. Anything.

“Are you always this gentle, or is it just me?” he managed, tone just cocky enough for her to shoot him a look like he should know better.

“I’m literally never gentle with you.”

He grinned. “Well, that’s just your opinion.”

She walked over to grab something from the drawer. He let his eyes drift to her hands, her posture, the way she moved like she didn’t waste time. He liked watching her when she wasn’t looking at him. She was easier to take in that way—quiet, precise, her mind always two steps ahead.

It made him want to do something stupid. Like ask her what kind of food she liked. Or if she ever slept. Or if she’d ever, just once, thought about him outside of this room.

Instead, he asked, “Do you want this?”

He held out the vending machine snack he’d picked up on the way in. Chips. Not romantic. But maybe something.

Mouse blinked. “You brought that in with you?”

He shrugged. “I thought you might be hungry.”

A pause. And then—softly, not quite looking at him—“Thanks.”

She took it. He watched her open it and eat a chip like it didn’t mean anything.

But it did. At least to him.

Maybe he was fine. Maybe his lungs were fine. But as he left the room—casually, coolly, shooting her a dumb smile over his shoulder—his chest still felt tight.

Not from smoke. Something else entirely.

dividers by @bernardsbendystraws ꨄ

a/n: um so i accidentally wrote two blurbs so i might post em both tonight if u guys like this one:)

thanks for reading!! likes, comments and reblogs are much appreciated!!

[freakmcnastyy]

Can't give up on you

Geum Seongjae x f!reader

Warnings: Smut, Angst, Obsession, Stalking (mild implied), Toxic Romance Themes, happy end.

Note: Heyy this is the last part. I’m not sure if I ended it the way it deserves to be ended. Lately, my head’s been a mess and I haven’t really been able to give it my all 😭 But I still hope it reaches youu!! Thanks for readinggg

-> Pt.1 / Pt.2 / Pt.3 / Pt.4

⸻

Every day you spent with him was… peaceful.

Yes—peaceful.

You could feel how he grew more possessive and controlling with each passing day,

and still—you loved it.

You weren’t used to someone holding you this tightly.

It became an addiction.

He took care of you.

Made sure you were eating.

Made sure you were sleeping enough.

But most importantly—he wondered how you were doing.

And that was rare for you.

His moods were unpredictable, always swinging back and forth.

Sometimes, he’d wake you up in the middle of the night.

Just to talk.

Or just to stare into your eyes without saying a single word.

Or… just to make love.

Sometimes, he hated you.

“This is all fucked up because of you,” he’d say, cold.

But the next morning, he’d hide under your chin and whisper,

“Don’t leave me, kitten.”

Every morning, you woke up to a different version of Seongjae.

And still, you loved every single one of him.

Because even when he dragged you into hell,

he was the one who pulled you out—with his own hands.

He gave you pain,

but he gave you peace too.

You lived through mornings with his hands pressing over your heart,

and nights with kisses placed quietly on your neck.

And somehow,

in all that chaos,

you found comfort.

You found happiness in that twisted balance.

There was a strange kind of safety in being his.

You believed—somehow—

that this love made you whole.

And you thought it would last.

With him.

With his rules.

With all his sharp edges.

Forever.

Until that day.

⸻

The pharmacy was lit far too brightly. That cold white light buzzed overhead like it was cracking open your skull. You glanced at the prescription in your hand one more time. Your fingers were trembling slightly.

Your fingers were trembling slightly. When you handed it over, the pharmacist’s eyes lingered on you for a second too long. Narrowed eyes, a face trying to figure you out. But she didn’t say anything. Just did her job. Tossed the boxes into the bag, one by one.

Even hearing the names of the meds made your stomach twist.

“Don’t overdo the dosage,” she said. Her voice was flat, but it cut right through you.

You gave a slight nod. Took the bag and headed for the door. The air hit your face the second you stepped outside — a little cool, but not fresh. Not freeing.

You started walking.

At the end of the sidewalk, a car was waiting. Jet black. Tinted windows. Even the plates looked designed not to catch attention. A thin layer of dust coated the hood, but it still looked deadly appealing. You knew it instantly.

The driver’s window rolled down halfway. A hand slipped out. You knew that hand. Long fingers, bony knuckles. A hand you could recognize down to the nails — the same one that touched you without hesitation almost every night.

He motioned for you to come over with two fingers. You smiled. You loved that he always waited for you.

You opened the door. The scent hit you instantly — his scent. That expensive, soapy cologne. A bit of smoke, a trace of metal. When you slid into the seat, he glanced at you sideways.

Then turned back to the road. Like he was weighing something.

“Today was the last time,” he said.

At first, you didn’t understand what he meant.

Last time? What last time?

“L…Last time?” you whispered, voice thick. Your smile had already faded.

He still didn’t look at you. His jaw was clenched like he was biting the words back.

“Your college entrance exams are coming up. If anything goes wrong, if your record gets stained… no school will take you,” he said.

That was it?

Your heart started pounding like mad. It felt like it might break through your chest.

“But… we’ll still see each other, right?”

The question was clear. You didn’t want the answer. But you asked it anyway. Your lips didn’t want to — your mind forced them to.

Seongjae slowly turned his head toward you. His eyes… weren’t the same. Like he was carrying something broken inside him, a wound he didn’t want you to see.

“I don’t want to hurt you anymore,” he said. His voice was soft, but there was weight behind it. “I’m not a good person and you know it.”

That sentence chilled you to the bone. Your throat tightened. Your eyes started to burn. Your cheeks trembled without warning. You tried to hold the tears back — but they came anyway.

He reached out. Gently wiped your cheek with his thumb.

It wasn’t like how someone pets their dog. It wasn’t cold. It was warm.

That touch… felt like a lifetime.

He leaned in. Kissed your cheek softly. So, so gently.

“I’m not leaving you, okay?” he whispered. “I’m still here. Just… watching from afar.”

His words echoed in your head.

And your heart shattered right there.

The car moved on in silence. You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

He stopped in front of your house. Looked at you one last time before you reached for the door handle.

But inside… it felt like another version of Seongjae sat there. One quieter. Colder.

“See you…” you said in a hushed voice.

He gave a slight nod. “Take care of yourself.”

You stepped out of the car.

The moment your foot hit the sidewalk, reality smacked you in the face. The wind stung your skin.

And then…

The car drove away.

And you…

were left standing there. Alone.

⸻

Days passed without mercy.

That first day, his scent was still on you. That metallic-smoke blend clung to your clothes from the time you spent in his car. The collar of your shirt still held it.

Whenever your eyes welled up, you buried your face in it.

You knew Seongjae hadn’t just “left.”

Someone was always watching.

When you turned your head on the street for no reason…

Or waited at the bus stop, and felt a pair of eyes piercing through the crowd…

You didn’t see him. But you felt him.

Sometimes, you looked out your window and saw that black car parked on the corner for a few seconds. But it never stayed. It always disappeared. Like it was never there.

And the nights…

The nights were hell.

Because in the dark, sounds grow louder.

Silence deepens.

And your mind slips out of control.

You knew you shouldn’t think about him.

Because he was dangerous.

His moods shifted like storms. He could kill without blinking. He could beat someone to a pulp.

He was the kind of man who found comfort in others’ pain — a twisted, broken soul.

But… it didn’t matter.

Emotions don’t follow rules.

Hearts don’t care about boundaries.

And you…

You missed that broken boy like crazy.

You missed his touch, his kiss, his voice, his eyes, his hands…

You missed every damn part of him.

⸻

You couldn’t sleep that night— fourteen in a row. You kept tossing and turning. The house was silent, dark. The window was open, letting in the soft flutter of wind that played with the curtain. Your hair stuck to the pillow, your eyes shut tight, but your brain wouldn’t stop screaming. Eventually, you gave up. You sat up in bed, about to get out—

Then the door was knocked.

No—“knocked” wasn’t the word. It was being pounded. Fists. Angry, urgent, relentless. Like it wanted to rip you out from the inside. Something had to have happened. Your chest tightened. You jumped to your feet.

Barefoot—you didn’t notice. You didn’t turn the lights on. You just walked straight to the door, paused, held your breath. Your heart was crashing against your ribs like a caged animal. Your hand, trembling, reached for the handle.

And the moment you opened it—

Your lips were set on fire.

No words. No warning.

No “I’m back,” or “I missed you.”

He didn’t give you the time to say anything. He dragged you to him like a magnet and crashed his mouth against yours—not softly. It was hungry. Hard. Out of control.

Your back hit the door first, then your body got pinned to the wall. His tongue forced your lips apart like someone in a rush—then invaded your mouth, taking whatever space was his to claim. One hand tangled into your hair, yanking hard enough to burn your scalp.

“I missed touching you,” he said, breath ragged. “I missed your body. Your skin. Your voice. Your fucking scent. I missed every part of you.”

You were stunned. No, beyond stunned. Frozen. Your heartbeat skipped entire measures. It felt like all the strength was draining from your knees. His touch brought your body back to life.

“Seongjae,” you whispered.

He smiled. Broken. Off-balance. Mad. But there was loneliness buried in that madness. Every emotion he’d swallowed down for weeks was spilling out now, poured into each kiss as he pressed you into the wall like he couldn’t get close enough.

One of his hands slid down to your waist, slipped beneath your thin shirt, and touched your bare skin. His fingertips were cold, but the way they moved was scorching. Like he was trying to remember you—relearn every spot he already knew. His lips traced your neck, and your knees almost gave out.

“I’ve been here for two weeks,” he said. “Two weeks. Just watching. When you leave the house. When you stand by the window. When you fucking breathe… I just watched. But I can’t take it anymore.”

You were shaking. You looked up and met his eyes. The rage was gone. Replaced by something darker—desire.

He pulled you into a tight embrace. Too tight. You could feel the rhythm of his heart against your chest. For a few seconds, you just breathed into each other.

Then he kissed you again. Slower this time. Deeper. Painful.

“I tried to forget you,” he murmured. “Did everything I could. Touched myself so many fucking times, but it was never even close to what you give me.”

Your breath caught in your throat. You wanted to look away—but couldn’t. He was so close now—every inhale pressed skin to skin.

Your hands found his shirt on their own. Fingers slid under the fabric, brushing against his abs. He let out a breath. Hot and shaky. His chest rose and fell in sync with yours.

“If you’re gonna leave me again,” you said, voice small, “then stop right now.”

Seongjae didn’t answer. He just held you tighter. Buried his face in the crook of your neck. Stayed there for a few seconds, breathing.

“I’m not leaving,” he said finally, voice low and hoarse. “Not tonight. Tonight… I need to pour everything inside me into you.”

Then he picked you up. Your heart damn near burst out of your ribs as he carried you to the bed. He laid you down slowly. Your clothes, one by one, slipped off in silence. The nakedness didn’t feel like exposure. It felt like surrender.

His touch changed—sometimes gentle, sometimes rough. His lips wandered from your collarbone to the edge of your chest, then lower, to your stomach. Every kiss made you melt more.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he whispered. “I’ll lose control.”

“This is you in control?” you said with a breathless laugh, eyes glassy.

He spread your legs. His hands slid from your knees to your thighs. His fingers moved with both tenderness and hunger. They reached your panties—he didn’t hesitate. Just pulled them off and tossed them aside. No pause, no asking. Then his mouth went straight to you.

“I missed your taste…”

You gasped. Your head lifted to look at him. God—he was good at this. He dragged his tongue across you so slowly, so wet, your legs started trembling. He teased you first—then pressed his mouth in, harder.

He was so skilled. Every stroke made your hips grind against the bed. You tried to hold your breath, but a moan escaped. That only spurred him on—he got even hungrier.

His tongue moved deeper. Wetter. Your whole body was shaking. You were close—so close—

And then he pulled back.

You whimpered. Your eyes burned with frustration. He looked right at that pain, and as much as he loved you—he loved seeing you needy like that. But truth was, he was just as wrecked as you were.

He sat up on the bed. The tent in his boxers was obvious. He didn’t waste a second—peeled them off. He was already leaking, so sensitive he twitched just from the air.

He hovered above you. Gripped your thighs tight. Spread them wider for himself. And without warning, he slammed into your soaking cunt.

No warm-up. No gentle easing in. Just pure, desperate need.

“Fuck—you’re so tight, I might cum right away.”

He leaned down, kissed you again—rough and possessive. His mouth devoured yours as he moved inside you, your moans lost in his tongue. You could taste yourself on him. Your tongues tangled, messy and wild. Your hands grabbed the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

“S-Seongjae—” your voice broke as he kept fucking into you, hard.

“Sshh… Almost there. I’ll give you what you want, okay?” He slammed into you again. You moaned louder this time. The room was filled with the wet slap of skin, heavy breaths, and half-muffled groans.

He saw your eyes flutter, your body twitch—he knew you were close. This time, he didn’t stop. He just thrust harder. Each one hitting that sweet, sensitive spot inside you. You were almost screaming. Tears of pleasure slid from your eyes.

Finally, your whole body convulsed underneath him. You came hard, clinging to his shoulders, digging your nails in. He hissed from the pain—and then let go. He spilled everything inside you.

He didn’t pull out. Just stayed there. Lifted his head. Looked into your eyes. So long and deep you felt like you were drowning.

⸻

The scent of both your bodies clung to the blanket. His warmth had soaked into your skin. You laid on his chest, still catching your breath. It wasn’t the first time—but it felt like the first time all over again.

Seongjae had one arm tucked under his head, the other playing lazily with your hair. Not stroking—just messing it up. Like he was toying with you. He wasn’t smiling, but the smug curl at the edge of his lips was still there.

“You really don’t make smart decisions,” you mumbled, meaning how he decided to stay away for your safety.

“Actually, I did. Once,” he replied, still stroking your hair.

“Oh? When?”

“The moment I found you on that street and decided to pull you out of it.” His voice was tired, but you could hear the truth in it.

You snuggled closer. Felt the way his heart picked up under your cheek. His fingers were still tracing your back, gently.

“First and last good one, huh?” you teased. He chuckled. Then his voice dropped—

“Kitten…” he said softly.

“If I ever leave for good… don’t follow me, alright? But until that day—and even after it… I won’t let anyone else have you. No one. You hear me?”

You lifted your head, leaned in. Your hand came up to his cheek—stroking, soft. He found it sweet.

Until you grabbed his chin hard.

“That day is never coming. I don’t care if the world ends. You’re not leaving. Even if you’re dying—you’re not leaving me.”

He laughed. A real one. Loud. “Kitten turned into a goddamn cheetah?”

You shot him a look. Sharp, but playful. Then you smiled. “Doesn’t matter what I am. Both still bite.”

He nodded. “Long as it’s you biting… I’d go rabid for you.”

[vhyunjinverse]

SWEET LITTLE THING!✰

f!reader x ryomen sukuna | not proof read | reblog pls !<3

summary : just a look into the everyday life of Sukuna’s sweet little thing. Unfortunately today, Someone’s kidnapped Sukuna’s cute little idiot, and he’s not so happy about it.

warnings : bimbo!reader, plug/gangster!sukuna, age gap (reader is 22 sukuna is 26), bit of a crack fic, suggestive ending, Toji sneak

I am forever riding on Sukuna putting up with Bimbo reader and it being the cutest little thing while he does the most dangerous shit known to man. ✰

Sukuna wasn’t one to fool around with school girls. Did he sit there and gawk with his younger brother at them? Not often. Does he sit there and listen to Yuji rant about how badly he wanted to fuck them? Sometimes. Was he in on Yuji’s little ploy to fuck every girl he tricks into studying with him? Maybe he’d help out a bit, being the older brother he is. Now, did he drive these girls home? Yes. But did he fuck all of them? No, you on the other hand, that was a different story.

“Yujiiii…” you had whined, trailing behind him with a small pout. Your heels clicked across the concrete, your feet hurting from the long walk. “Can we stop please? My toes can’t breathe!” You both were out, not far from Sukua’s apartment that you shared together. Yuji visited often when he wasn’t staying in his dorm for the weekend. Sukuna went out to do his little business that keeps you both in the nice apartment while you and Yuji went to the store. He already regretted it the moment you put on that cute little pair of platform heels.

“I’m going into the store okay? You stay out here, i won’t be long I promise!” Yuji had told you. You whine but nod. “Okayy..don’t take long! Get me some chips please!” You were adorable to say the least. Not the smartest, but cute as hell. That’s what Sukuna liked about you. Speaking of, your phone rang. The cute little picture of Sukuna you took with his mouth full of your nipple as his contact photo. “Hi Kuna!” You smile into the phone. His hard expression softens seeing your face. He loved when you did your makeup, and secretly when you tried to do his (even though he fusses about it afterwards, that’s doesn’t stop him from taking pictures with you afterwards). “Hey mama.” You could see he was smoking. Leaning back in what seemed to be a couch. “You an’ Yuji alright?” You nod. “Mhm! He went into the store so i’m waiting for him outside.”

“Why the hell didn’t you go in with him? Didn’t i tell you it’s dangerous for you to be out on your own?” He could recall the first time he left you in the car while he went to handle business, coming back to some man hitting on you through the car window. He beat the man up..of course, but he still decided from that moment he’d keep his eyes on you at all times. And at this moment it was Yuji. “I’m sorry Kuna..” you frown, biting at your lip. He sighs and rubs his forehead, the blunt in his mouth going for the ashtray. “Show me the store mama.”

You smile and nod, flipping the camera. “Baby,” He had said lowly, clearly irritated. “Hm?” You flip it back around to show your face. “That’s a sex store.”

“Oh..do you think they have chips? I asked Yuji to bring me some.” You hum for a bit, looking down at your boyfriend who hid his smile despite how upset he was in that moment. “Doubt it. Look, mgonna call you back so I can call Yuji. Stay where you are, understand me?” You pucker your lips at the screen as if to kiss him, nodding, “Yes sir!”

That didn’t last long however. You hated being alone, let alone just standing there in heels. Your feet hurt and you were bored. You started to look at the outside signs of the store, which would be the last thing you see before everything went dark.

Sukuna knew he had to be patient with you. He didn’t mind because he loved you. But when he told you something he expected you to take it seriously. After yelling at Yuji so bad the whole store could hear how much Sukuna wanted to kick his ass, and telling him to get both your asses back home, he expected you to be where he told you to be. But once Yuji stepped outside you were no where to be seen. And nothing pissed Sukuna off more than you not answering when he called afterwards. Straight to voicemail, really? Oh he was heated.

“Hey pretty little thing..” you hear once you regain consciousness. Your body felt cold, you regretted wearing such a cute dress, but it was Sukuna’s favorite no matter what the weather would be. “Kuna..?” you groan, shutting your eyes tightly at the first sign of bright light. “Wrong name sweetheart.” You jolt, suddenly feeling scared. You could move, making out the soft cushion of what seemed to be a couch.

“Oh..Sukuna’s gonna be so mad at me..” You sniffle softly, looking up at the large man that wasn’t your lover. He gave you a small smirk before squinting his eyes. “What..you want to call em’?” He was enjoying this. You nodded, “yes please!” He hums and reaches for the phone on the table. “You know..i picked you up cause you looked familiar. Reminded me of this cam girl i used to watch while back.”

“Oh i don’t do that anymore! Kuna didn’t want to do it with me and didn’t want me having sex with other guys..” the man pauses before handing you the phone. “Thirsty?” He starts walking away, “Oh- Yes something to drink will be nice!” You watch as the man walks away and begin calling the number Sukuna made you memorize in case of emergency. The line rang twice before he picked up, “Who the fuck is it?”

“It’s me!” You squeal. Rocking back and fourth on the couch you listen to the silence on the other line before he sucked in a breath. “Where the fuck are you?” You knew he probably had that sickening frown you hated. “I’m not sure.. I just woke up here.” The man comes back, handing you what looked like water before motioning you to pass him the phone, “Oh- um, the man wants to speak now.”

“You tellin me you had such a treasure and didn’t share? Fuck kind’a man are ya huh?” you look down at the cup, biting your lip as Sukuna screamed at the man from the other line. You learned his name was Toji. Setting the cup down you stand, “Can I talk to him now? I wanna go home.” You hold out your hand for the phone. Toji, looks at you before scoffing. “She’s a stupid little thing, doesn’t even know what’s goin on. How ‘bout this- i want this much cash for the bimbo.”

It didn’t take long for Sukuna to come and find you. You sat on the couch while Toji chuckled to himself about the situation. You knew what would happen, he was unaware of course. You felt bad, knowing how Sukuna got when it came to you. Poor guy. When your lover did arrive he knocked on the door. Toji opened it with a wide grin, but it quickly wore off once Sukuna punched him dead in his nose..he fell to the floor quietly.

“Can I go home now?” You look at Sukuna who scoffed at you, holding out his hand. “Did you drink anything? He touch you? Open your mouth let me see.”

“I’m fine! I remembered not to drink from creepy men.”

Afterwards, he took you to your shared apartment, walking you past Yuji on the couch who had his head down. Sukuna sure scolded him, you knew. “Cmon we’re gonna take a shower.” He grunts as you tried to take the heels off as you walked towards your room. “Can we have sex afterwards?”

“I’ll see.”

read more here

[inkpetrichor]

Nasty Dog! | Kuroo Tetsurou x f!reader

4.- Part four

masterlist here<3

cw. MDNI. fem! reader. delinquent! reader. use of yn. smoking. cursing. angst. jealousy. mentions of bullying. mentions of fights/bruising. arguing. hate-kissing. suggestive. smutty. lemme know if i missed anything<3 wc. 5.8k an. i love y'all <3 i'm so sorry about last week's chapter TTvTT i swear we'll have a break from the angst soon. i loved your comments sm tho i appreciate you so much(♡)

When your alarm went off the day after the beach, you didn't even look at the screen. Just slammed your hand down on it, rolled over, and buried yourself deeper into the blankets.

The air felt too cold, or maybe it was just your skin, stretched too tight from keeping yourself together.

Your dad knocked once before cracking open the door.

"You goin' to school?" he asked, voice rough from sleep, like gravel under boots.

You didn't answer. Just curled in tighter on yourself, face hidden in the dark cocoon of your bedding.

He paused. Then just closed the door and walked away, heavy steps fading into the distance. 

He didn't ask again. It wasn't the first time you'd had a rough day and decided to sleep it off before going back to school. That tough girl image of yours took its mental stability to keep, so whenever you were feeling a little out of your game, you always chose to avoid school altogether. Too dangerous to show up to a hostile place without a hostile mask to hide behind.

But this time, that hostile, untouchable girl who smirked at chaos and could spit teeth like words was gone. You couldn't find her. Couldn't even imagine putting her mask back on.

You always kept in touch with Emi, though, even on your worst days. You'd be lying if you said you weren't a little protective of her. And without you around for the scary dog privileges, she'd have to either stick to Kiba and the rest or expose herself to bullies and mean bitches who wanted to retaliate against you but didn't have the balls to pick a real fight.

The worst one of them was Hebinuma Mizuki from class 3. A sensitive topic for Emi you had to fix more than once in the past.

So you texted Emi with all the strength you had left.

: Not going to school today. Stay out of trouble for me babes.

Emi <3: eh??? wdym???

Emi <3: i need 2 kno about yesterday! ( • ̀ω•́ )✧ did u tell him u like him or what???

Reading that hurt. You put the phone away before it buzzed again.

Emi <3: did he fuck ur legs out and that's why u won't come 2 school? (≖⩊≖)

Emi <3: wait, r u actually sick? want me to go care for you babes? (ㅅ' ^ ') (ㅅ' ^ ')

You stared at the messages for too long before replying.

: I'm okay Emi. See you on Monday. Stick by the guys.

Emi <3: did Kuroo do smth 2 u? ( ˶°ㅁ°) !!

Emi <3: if u don't answer i'll make the guys beat him up (ง •̀_•́)ง

: I'm fine, Jesus. Just fuck off.

Emi <3: fuck u </3

: Sorry babes. See ya Monday.

Emi <3: </3

You dropped the phone on the bed. The silence that followed was loud, thick. You wandered to the kitchen like a ghost and tried to avoid looking at the couch.

You failed.

That damn couch. A place of memories—too good, too vivid. A blur of messy hair, clever eyes, and long limbs draped in teenage carelessness.

Your stomach turned. You grabbed the ashtray and a fresh pack, and took it all to your room.

The smoke felt hollow that Friday.

And when Sunday came along, you hadn't said a word to anyone since that last text. You hadn't even put on real clothes.

And then, the doorbell rang.

Your dad answered it, and his gravel voice softened just a touch. 

"Shiromaru," he greeted.

You didn't need to see her face to know Emi blushed.

"Good morning, sir."

"You alright? That girl still bothering you at school?" he asked.

"No, sir. Not since Y/N beat the crap out of her."

He looked toward the hallway, where you were standing in the shadows.

"Good," he said. "Look after your friends, kiddo."

You nodded faintly, and then he was gone, headed off to a fight—or whatever it was he did in his spare time.

(Probably debt collecting, although you knew better than to ask.)

After saying goodbye with eyes that lingered just a little too long, Emi entered the house, her expression changing from cheerful to stern in two seconds flat.

She stepped into the hallway, all electricity and fight in her pink jacket and messy space buns.

"I brought you cheap beer and rented the first season of Death Note," she said, lifting a konbini bag. "Also, I need to yell at you for ghosting me. I get that you have these days but a text or a call wouldn't hurt, you bitch."

As soon as she saw your face, something in her switched. The light dimmed.

"Got any cigarettes?"

You just nodded and she breezed past you, right into your room like she belonged there.

(She kinda did.)

"Good. I'm staying over."

"What about school?" you asked, voice scratchy.

"My uniform's in my bag. I don't think your dad cares. Oh also," she glanced over her shoulder with a wicked little grin, "he gets hotter every time I see him, What's up with that?"

You wished you could snort, play along, curse her off—but you didn't have the strength in you. You simply walked up behind her and rested your forehead against her back.

Emi stilled.

"Hey..." she said softly. "Does this one have anything to do with the volleyball captain?"

You didn't answer. You couldn't.

Your throat burned.

Then you shook your head. Once. Then again. 

And then the sob broke out of you like a dam cracking wide open.

Emi turned and caught you in her arms.

"Babes..." she whispered, pulling you tighter. You clawed at her jacket, hands shaking, knees buckling. She fell with you onto the floor, cradling your head against her collarbone like you were something fragile.

"I fucked it up," you gasped between sobs. "Of course I fucked everything up, I—"

"What happened? You're okay. Tell me what happened."

"I... I rejected him."

You couldn't see the way her eyes widened. She stopped for a second, then continued running her hand down your back as you cried.

"I—he was so—he looked so fucking sincere, Emi. I could've just—just kissed him, said yes, anything—but I got scared. I got so fucking scared and I spat on his feelings like a piece of shit."

You couldn't breathe. Couldn't stop. And Emi, for once, was quiet.

Then—softly, "You are a piece of shit sometimes."

You laughed through your tears, a horrible wet sound.

"But you're my piece of shit," she continued. "And you can still fix this."

You shook your head.

"I don't know if he'll want to see me again. I don't even know if I deserve it."

"You don't have to know right now," she said. "Right now you just get to cry. I'll carry your pride for a while, I bet it's too fucking heavy."

Your whole body heaved. You wept like a child, for the first time in maybe forever. For the part of yourself that thought love was too dangerous. For the part of yourself that wished it wasn't.

Emi held you for what felt like hours. She didn't complain when her legs went numb from the awkward position. She didn't care that her pretty clothes were soaked in tears and spit and snot. She held you tighter whenever a particularly violent sob tore through you, and caressed your back gently when the storm seemed to calm.

You didn't notice the door creak open.

Your dad stood frozen in the doorway, broad shoulders stiff, one hand still gripping the doorframe like it was holding him upright, and there was a crease between his brows like he couldn't quite process what he was seeing.

He blinked at the two of you, his gaze snagging on your trembling form. The fists he'd taught you to throw were balled against Emi's jacket now. You were crying so hard you couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, your whole body convulsing in helpless sobs.

You weren't yelling. You weren't fighting. You weren't lashing out like you always did when something hurt.

You were... breaking.

And he didn't know what the hell to do with that.

His mouth opened, then closed. He took one step forward, like instinct kicked in—fix it, patch it up, say something—but the moment his boot hit the floorboard, he froze again. Panic flickered across his face, subtle but raw. His hands flexed at his sides like he wanted to do something, anything—but nothing about this moment was in his wheelhouse.

He looked between you and Emi, and Emi—bless her—met his eyes with calm certainty and gave a single, firm shake of her head.

And something in him seemed to deflate. His jaw clenched. He gave a slight nod, like a huge wolf backing out of a place that suddenly wasn't his territory anymore.

Then, quietly, he shut the door and walked away.

And you? You couldn't stop thinking about Kuroo. His voice an echo in your head.

"You think this hasn't already fucked me up? You think I haven't already let you get under my skin?"

He'd opened himself wide for you—heart in hand—and you'd slammed the door in his face and pretended it didn't matter.

You hadn't even kissed him goodbye. Not even a half-assed hug or a brush of your fingers. You just left him standing there in the dark, sand clinging to his shoes and love still lingering on his tongue.

You wanted to tear the memory out of your head with your bare hands. Wanted to reach back in time, scream yes, scream wait, scream I didn't mean it like that.

Throw yourself into his arms. Bury your fingers in his hair. Press your mouth to his and say everything you didn't let yourself say.

That's how it should've gone.

If you weren't so fuckin—

"Stupid..." Your voice cracked. "I'm so stupid."

Your breath hitched again, and a fresh wave of tears spilled over your cheeks. You bit your lip so hard it might've drawn blood, but you couldn't stop the ugly, shaky sob that followed.

Emi sighed, long and soft. But not annoyed.

"No, you're not," she said gently. "And that somehow makes it worse."

You hated that she was right.

Because you weren't dumb. You knew what he meant when he looked at you like that. You'd realized when his feelings started to change. You knew how much it cost him to put himself out there. To ask for something real.

And you still shut him down, because you thought it would keep things simple. Because you were scared. Because it was easier to pretend it didn't mean as much as it did.

It meant everything. And you'd thrown it away.

"I messed it up," you croaked, rubbing at your face uselessly. "I fucked up everything."

"Yeah," Emi said, not unkindly. "But you're not done yet." She shifted, legs twisted awkwardly beneath her. "Just... Can we switch positions? My ass fell asleep."

Again, it made you laugh through the tears—a short, wet snort that turned into another sob halfway through.

You nodded and finally pulled away, wiping at your cheeks with the back of your sleeve.

Emi settled against the edge of your bed, stretching her legs out with a dramatic groan and patting the spot beside her.

"C'mon. We're both a mess. Let's be a mess together."

She cracked open a can of Asahi Super Dry—half-warm, with a 50% off sticker slapped on the side like a badge of shame—and took a long, bitter swig.

Then she looked at you.

Really looked at you. Like you were a wounded dog on the side of the road. Like it broke her heart just to see you breathe.

And for once, you didn't look away.

You felt like roadkill. You deserved to.

"Okay..." she started. "Now... Why did you reject him? I thought we'd established you liked him back so... Why?"

"I just... panicked. I thought it would be easier if I kept it simple, if I didn't let it get serious." Your voice cracked on that word. "He looked... crushed. And I knew I was hurting him. I knew it and I still did it."

"You didn't mean it..." Emi said quietly.

"That doesn't fucking matter..." you sighed. "He meant it. And I threw it back in his face because I'm too fucking scared to want something good."

You sat up, hugging your knees to your chest. Your voice dropped to a rasp. "I've been wanted before. Not like that. Not like him. God, Why does he even want me in the first place?"

"Because you are way more lovable than you give yourself credit for."

You rolled your eyes at her, and her jaw tightened. Used at you flinching at affection, but still frustrated you couldn't see yourself through her eyes.

She just sat beside you, her knee touching yours, grounding you.

"'I want us to mean something.' That's what he said. And the worst part?" you whispered. "I wanted to say yes. I wanted it. I wanted to kiss him so bad it hurt. I still do. But I looked at him and I thought... 'He's going to get sick of me. He's going to see the mess I am and he's going to leave. So I'll do it first.' "

You rubbed your palms against your face, smearing the tears across your skin like warpaint. "I didn't protect myself. I just proved I don't deserve him."

"You're allowed to be scared, babes," Emi said softly.

"No, not like that. I hurt him, Emi." Your throat tightened again. "And he didn't even fight me on it. He just... believed me. Like he didn't expect anything more from me. Like he knew I'd run."

It made you feel sick. Not from pity, but from the sheer, unbearable truth of it.

You had been everything he wasn't—cold, dismissive, cruel. And he had looked at you like you were still worth wanting. Even as you threw him away.

You heard the front door creak open again.

Boots. Heavy ones. Then came a knock—two short taps, and the door eased open an inch, enough to let in the hallway light.

Your dad stepped in halfway. Held something in his hand. The plastic crinkled.

He stood there in the doorway like a man about to walk into a minefield. His face was blank, but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes flicked from you to Emi, then to the floor, then back to you. He held out the plastic convenience store bag stiffly, like it weighed more than it did.

He cleared his throat. Opened his mouth.

You knew that look. That little twitch of his jaw, the faint furrow between his brows. He was about to try and say something.

Something sincere.

And it was going to be hard for him.

So you cut him off.

"Thanks," you said softly, standing up and walking his way. "Appreciate it."

He blinked. The words died in his throat. You met his eyes—just for a second—and gave him the faintest nod. Not dismissive. Just understanding. 

I know, Dad. It's okay.

He hesitated. For a second, it looked like he might say something anyway. But then his shoulders dropped, just a touch, and he handed over the bag.

Inside were two taiyaki ice creams. 

Chocolate. Your favorite.

Emi's too, probably just a lucky guess.

He didn't say a word as he turned around, boots thudding gently down the hallway.

The door clicked shut behind him.

You stared down at the bag for a moment, throat tightening again.

Emi shifted next to you. "You okay?"

You nodded slowly. "Yeah."

Your voice cracked anyway.

Kuroo didn't expect you to show up to class. Not really.

Still, when he walked in and saw your seat empty, something in his chest twisted. A part of him had hoped—stupidly—that you'd stroll in late, toss your bag down like nothing had happened, maybe shoot him a look, say something cocky and half-dangerous, like you were daring him to still love you.

And God, he would've. 

In a second.

But instead, there was just the empty desk—the same one you'd sprawled across last week, chewing gum and tapping his pen while he tried to write, just to dodge his eyes and pretend you weren't smiling when he finally looked up.

Now you were gone.

And he was doing the one thing he swore he wouldn't: waiting for you to come back.

But you never did.

It was like you'd flipped a switch.

Back to your old self.

Bloody-knuckled. Skipping classes. Laughing too loudly with the other delinquents in the courtyard like nothing had ever happened.

But he saw it—every time your eyes met across the courtyard, or during passing period when you pretended not to flinch.

That mask.

The one you wore so damn well.

And the crack in it. 

He could always tell when it did. That half-second flicker in your gaze, like your heart stuttered. Like maybe you were sorry. Like maybe you wanted to say something. Like maybe you still felt it, too.

He hated it.

Because he still did.

Still loved you, like a fool with no survival instinct.

And just when it started to dull—when he could almost convince himself it didn't ache every time he heard your laugh or every time Yaku asked if you were coming to class, when he could almost push you out of his thoughts—

Hebinuma Mizuki showed up.

Perfect timing.

Too perfect.

Silky black hair. Sweet voice. Honeyed everything. Everyone loved her. Teachers beamed. Classmates melted.

Still, something about her scratched under his skin.

He'd heard the rumors—and remembered that one time he asked.

"Bitch had it coming."

And somehow, that stuck with him more than any answer would've.

Because if there was one thing he knew by now was that nobody got under your skin without earning it.

She'd been circling ever since you'd vanished. Suddenly, she was all about school spirit, popping up outside the gym during practice. Offering water bottles with a sugary smile and leaning too close when she talked to him, giggling like she couldn't help herself.

It was annoying. He knew what she was doing.

But he let her do it anyway.

Yaku noticed first.

"You sure Y/N's okay?" he asked, tossing him a towel during water break. "I haven't seen her in class since Thursday."

"I don't know," Kuroo muttered, drying his neck. "Why don't you ask her? You two get along."

Yaku raised a brow. "You get along even better."

Kuroo didn't respond.

"I think it's because of Hebinuma hanging around you so much," Yaku added, not looking at him as he stretched out his legs. "Maybe that's why she won't talk to you anymore. Y/N hates her guts. Always has."

Kuroo cracked a humorless smile. "Interesting theory."

But he knew better.

It wasn't Hebinuma.

It was the beach. It was the silence. It was him avoiding you out of pride and pain. It was you avoiding him right back because you were too much of a coward to face him head-on after he'd laid himself bare for you and got nothing but sand in his teeth for it.

He knew you hated Hebinuma. Of course he did.

Still didn't stop him from letting her hover. Didn't stop him from letting her touch his arm when she talked. Or fake laugh at his dryest jokes. Especially when he could feel you watching.

Especially when he wanted you to watch.

It happened right after practice, one lazy Friday.

Hebinuma had "accidentally" waited until practice was over, until the sun was casting long shadows across the front of the gym. She bounced toward him with that same cutesy walk, giggling about how she'd love to support the team, maybe become their new manager—

And then, Kuroo felt it.

Like static electricity on the back of his neck.

He turned.

You were standing a few meters away, bag slung over one shoulder, hair a mess like you'd just fought someone and won. A faint bruise blooming along your jaw, and your eyes—

Murderous.

It was the look of someone who'd come to apologize. Someone who'd worked up the nerve, finally. And walked right into a punch to the gut.

You looked at Hebinuma like she was trash on the sidewalk.

Then you looked at him.

Like he was worse.

He arched a brow. A challenge, maybe.

You just sighed. Disappointed. Furious. Tired.

Then turned without a word, slipping a cigarette from your blazer pocket, exhaling smoke into the sky like you needed somewhere to put the quiet fury.

Hebinuma kept talking, oblivious or pretending to be, tugging at his sleeve as she rattled on about her "manager application" and how Coach Nekomata was being soooo picky.

Yaku wandered over, towel draped around his neck. Watched the scene like a car crash. Then muttered behind him, just loud enough:

"Are you trying to piss her off?"

"Maybe," he answered.

And it kept happening.

Hebinuma showing up during lunch with bentos "for the team," but handing his first. Laughing too loud at things he didn't say, brushing imaginary lint off his uniform.

Always conveniently when you were close enough to see it.

Kuroo never stopped her.

Didn't really encourage it either.

But he let it happen.

Because he knew what it looked like. Because of the way your jaw would tense when you saw it, because of the way you'd flick your cigarette a little harder or shoulder past him in the hallway with an empty glare ahead.

Because it felt like punishment. For both of you.

Because he didn't know how else to make you feel it.

And maybe, deep down, he wanted to see how long it would take before you snapped.

Because that tension—him pretending he didn't care, you pretending you didn't hurt—it couldn't hold forever.

And Kuroo, for all his logic and control, knew one thing for sure:

The longer you stretch a spring, the harder it snaps.

"How dare he?!" You paced like a caged animal, fury coming off you in waves.

Emi leaned back against the wall, dragging deep on her cigarette, eyes narrowed. "Yeah, he lost points from me too, hanging around that bitch."

"How fucking dare he?!" you snapped again, spinning toward her, jabbing the air with your finger. "You know what? I'm glad it's her. If it was any other girl, maybe I'd be sad. But this?" You scoffed. "This just pisses me off. And I can deal with angry way better than I deal with sad."

"We know that." Emi took another drag, exhaling smoke through her nose. "Wait... So you're not scared they'll actually date? Everyone thinks they're already a thing. Maybe they are."

You shook your head, taking one last hit of your cigarette before grinding it out under your boot like it owed you something.

"Nah. Tetsurou is smart. Way too smart. He probably sees right through her..." You hesitated, then started pacing again. "But the fact that he does see through her and still lets her do her little act? Still lets her put her hands all over him? That pisses me off even more."

"So? What're you gonna do?"

You stopped. Crossed your arms. "...I don't know."

Emi rolled her eyes, tossed her cigarette to the ground, and grabbed your shoulders.

"You talk to him! March up and say, 'I was scared. I was a coward. Please forgive me. I love you.' Then you date him. Boom!" She spun away, arms wide like she was directing a play. "Jesus, I'm glad you're not all sad and mopey anymore, but these fights you've been picking lately? They're scrambling your brain."

"I hate being in love, dude. That shit's gross. Makes me all sappy and soft."

"It also makes you cuter~"

You grunted. She just laughed, slinging her arms around your neck and rubbing her cheek against yours like an annoying cat.

"I'm joking~ You've always been soft and cute." Then she shoved you away with a grin. "Now go. Do the one part of a relationship you've been avoiding like a complete dumbass: communication."

You sighed, dragging a hand down your face before heading toward the gym.

It was Monday now, and almost two weeks of this stupid dance was enough. Enough missing him. Enough pride swallowing. Enough pretending.

You waited for the final bell. Waited for that slow burn of guilt and longing in your chest to get hot enough to move you—but not so hot it turned into something reckless.

You were ready to talk. To say something. Anything. Mostly sorry.

You were.

Until you saw who he was talking to.

Hebinuma fucking Mizuki again.

Your skin crawled the second her voice floated toward you. Your blood turned to boiling tar.

You didn't hesitate.

"Tetsurou," you called out, voice sharp like a whipcrack—more warning than greeting.

Both of them turned. You walked straight up, eyes locked on her like a loaded gun. Hebinuma flinched.

"Don't pet every stray puppy you see," you snapped. "That one's got mange."

Kuroo blinked like he had to double-check what you just said. Hebinuma did too—twice—then plastered on a tight, fake smile.

"Oh, L/N-san. No need to be so hostile..." she cooed. But her jaw was tight. One eye twitched. Sweet as arsenic.

"Hebinuma," you said flatly, folding your arms. "That one's off-limits."

She blinked—slow and fake, like a dumb deer. Then you saw it—the flicker. That glint in her eye.

"I didn't know you two were..." she started.

"We're not." Kuroo cut in—too fast.

Your jaw locked tight.

Hebinuma smiled, sharp now. "Be careful, Kuroo-san. Her and her friend—"

"What's that about my friend?" you snapped, stepping forward.

She flinched, but kept going.

"I'm just saying..." She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear with mock innocence. "Being seen around girls like her could tarnish his reputation."

The fury in your chest flared red-hot.

"Worry about your own business," you growled, "and get the fuck out."

Her voice shook a little, but again, she continued. She seemed braver than usual—like she thought Kuroo might protect her. 

(She was wrong.)

"Ah, L/N-san... Why are you always so mean? We used to be good friends in junior high~"

Your voice sliced through her fake sweetness.

"I was never your friend, you nasty bitch. Don't tie my name to yours. And take a few steps back before I catch mange, too."

Her smile cracked. Red bloomed across her cheeks—anger or humiliation, maybe both.

She opened her mouth, but you were already moving in her space. Eyes narrow.

Nose inches from hers and heat rolling off you like a flame about to catch.

"Scram," you said, low and deadly. "Just seeing your face pisses me off. Or do you want a little reminder of first year?"

Her pupils shrank. 

There it was—fear. 

But instead of answering, she looked at Kuroo like he'd save her, like he might step in.

He wasn't even looking. One hand was pinching the bridge of his nose like you were giving him a headache.

(You were.)

She shook her head with a huff and stomped off, perfume lingering like rot under flowers.

You turned to Kuroo with a smirk tugging at your lips.

He didn't return it.

Still rubbing his temples, he looked at you like you'd just insulted his mother in front of a teacher.

"I was looking for you," you said casually, ignoring the thundercloud over his head.

You jabbed a thumb toward where Hebinuma had vanished. "Since when do you hang out with bishoujos? That's not like you."

"What are you doing here?"

Your smirk faded. And you nodded slowly toward him. "I get it, you're pissed."

"Yeah! I'm a little pissed," he snapped. "She could've been Nekoma's manager."

You frowned. That's not exactly what you were thinking he was pissed at. 

"You guys don't need a manager. You're cool. You've always handled it."

"What would you know?"

"Whoa. Attitude." You raised both your hands like you were surrendering. "Sorry I scared your little fan. You wouldn't want her around anyway if you—"

"My what? Wait. Are you jealous?" His eyes widened, faking surprise. "Is that why you barked at her and scared her off?"

"Not entirely," you shrugged, smug.

"You're not even denying it."

"I don't share, Tetsurou."

"You can't monopolize me."

"I can try~"

"I don't get it," he muttered. "We make out, we sleep together, we do everything couples do—but when I actually ask you out, you reject me. Then you show up and threaten a girl who breathes near me. What the hell am I supposed to make of that?"

He moved closer without thinking. You didn’t move back. Not even an inch.

You crossed your arms, glaring off to the side. "Honestly? She's just a bitch. That's ninety percent of it. But yeah, her batting those fake-ass lashes at you and putting her hands all over you? That did set me off a little." 

Your fingers twitched as you glanced toward where Hebinuma had left, jaw clenched. "I'm getting pissed again. I might go back and—"

Kuroo's hands gripped your shoulders, firm and sudden, shaking you just enough to snap your eyes back to his.

"Stop. Stop doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Trying to punch your way through every emotion."

"I don't do that."

"You do."

"I don't—"

"Fuck's sake!" He groaned, dropping his head like you were physically draining his soul. "Why do you even hate her so much? What did she do?"

"She's using you," you snapped, not really answering the question. "She knows I'm into you, and she's gonna use you to piss me off."

"Well, joke's on her, then. You're not that into me anyway. You rejected me, remember?"

"She's using you," you repeated.

"And you're not?"

You froze.

You could've apologized right there. That was the whole reason you came.

But the image of Hebinuma touching him—her claws on his arm, her voice in his ear—was still stuck behind your eyelids.

"Okay, well, she's using you in a gross Machiavellian way. I'm using you in a cute Ayn Rand way."

"You hate Ayn Rand," he snapped.

"Exactly," you muttered.

He stared. "You know what? It doesn't matter. You're giving me a migraine. Just... leave me alone."

He turned on his heel, the movement sharp.

Your jaw locked. You threw a silent apology to Emi and stepped forward, forcing the words out.

"She's a bully. Hebinuma."

He didn't turn. But he paused.

"She used to bully Emi in junior high. Still spreads rumors about her. Just 'cause she's a gyaru. Just 'cause she's jealous. I know she looks sweet, but she's poison."

Your voice had dropped—lower, honest. It hurt to say, to tell on Emi. But it was the only way to reach him.

You exhaled sharply. "Ask Kenma. She tried to make his life hell in his first year too—for a while. I bet he could smell her a mile away and that made her uneasy. Good luck he didn't give a fuck... Ask him if you don't believe me."

Another pause. He stopped. Shoulders tense. Then turned—just enough to glance at you over his shoulder, jaw ticking.

"I also thought there was something off about her. She's fake."

You scoffed. "Then why would you even consider letting her hang around you like that? Are you trying to piss me off?"

He rolled his eyes, but there was no real heat behind it.

"Not everything is about you, Y/N."

"If it's about you, I want it to be."

That stunned him. Just for a moment.

"Let's do it," you said. "The dating thing. The... feelings n' shit."

He turned the rest of the way. His brows drew together sharply. His mouth parted, then clamped shut again—like he couldn’t decide if he should laugh or scream. Like he couldn't believe your audacity.

"That's your confession?"

You stepped closer before your brain could stop your feet, pulse punching behind your ribs. "Take it or leave it."

His eyes flicked over your face like he couldn’t decide where to settle—your mouth, your eyes, your mouth again.

"Okay. I refuse then." His voice was low—dangerously low. “You show up, bark at some girl like I belong to you—and then what? Drop half a confession like it’s supposed to fix everything?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The air between you buzzed, charged and heavy. His chest rose and fell, uneven. The heat building between you turned suffocating.

His gaze dragged back to your lips. Just for a second.

But it was enough.

"If you think that’s how you make it up to me for breaking my heart, think again. I want an apology. A real one. Then a cute confession. Like in the movies. With a letter and chocolate and shit."

"Am I a clown to you?" you hissed, lip curling.

"Oh, shut up."

You grabbed his tie at the same time he surged forward, and the kiss landed like a spark in dry grass.

Instant. All-consuming.

You gasped into it, hands fisting his shirt like you'd been drowning and just found air again. He groaned, hand sliding to the back of your neck, holding you there, mouth hungry against yours.

Tongues clashed. Teeth grazed. You didn’t even know what the hell you were doing—just that you had to. That his mouth was fire and yours was gasoline.

You kissed like enemies. Like neither of you wanted to give in first, breathing each other in like poison you couldn’t help drinking.

His breath hitched when you tugged at his tie and bit down on his bottom lip—not enough to hurt, just enough to piss him off. He shoved you back a step, crowding you against the brick wall behind the gym. His lips chased yours again, hungrier, messier. His hands slid under your shirt, palms hot, fingers splaying across your spine like he needed to hold something solid or he’d fall apart.

He pulled back just enough to growl, "I’m still mad at you."

"I know," you whispered. "I'm mad at me too."

Your hands tangled in his hair, dragging him back down. You were breathless. Shaking. But you didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

He kissed you like a grudge—like he didn’t know whether to devour you or destroy you. All frustration and bruised ego and unspoken need.

The kiss slowed—only slightly. Still desperate, still angry, but now there was something else slipping between the cracks. Something vulnerable.

He broke away again, panting. His forehead pressed against yours. His hands were still on your waist like he couldn’t bear to let go, even if he knew he should.

"I want more than this," he said, voice raw and breaking.

You shut your eyes.

"I’m trying," you said, barely audible. "I came here to try."

Your lips were swollen. So were his. Your whole body thrummed, screaming at you to pull him back, to fix it the only way you knew how.

But he didn’t kiss you again.

He stepped back—like it hurt to do it—and dragged in a breath.

Then he looked at you. Long and hard. Like he was reminding himself of the reason he was so mad at you.

"I’m not your outlet," he said hoarsely. "You don’t get to use me every time you’re bored or jealous or scared to feel something real. Come to me when you're ready to actually talk feelings…"

His voice cracked. Just barely.

"Figure your shit out. I'm tired, Y/N."

And just like that, he turned.

You didn’t stop him.

Your breath left you in a slow, broken exhale. Your mask slipped. Shoulders sagged.

"Right."

Next chapter↪

tags. @themoreeviltwin @taylordenae @rhea-sylvea @iluvikeu @tgnvhp @adangerousbalance @orphicarchive @tammytaamm @iluvmusicxoxo @rvm1ne @kuzoq @espressocandies @ashley95943734 @jayathelostdragon @kyokoyya

[ozzgin]

Girl I love Daitou but I'm ngl I need more of Yazuya😭 if you can, can you write headcanons about him please? I'd appreciate it thank you <3

Yandere!Yakuza x Reader Headcanons

Ultimate dating guide and palate cleanser featuring the gangster boys (Kazuya and Daitou). For those that have been left hanging for proper romance.

Content: gender neutral reader, mildly NSFW

Tags: @swagbucksjester @lucienbarkbark @moonieper @nu-vino @vee-love @tamaki-simp @pinkazelma

[Yakuza Masterlist]

Kazuya

Kazuya was raised in a brothel, surrounded by women, so he is much more knowledgeable than the average man when it comes to feminine matters. Similar to someone who grew up having sisters, you can talk to him about anything and everything and not only will he be empathetic towards your problems, but he might offer tips and tricks you didn’t even know about. Not too shocking when he’s already heard multiple variations of whatever is bothering you.

The downside to his upbringing is that intercourse has always felt terribly transactional to him. He has a hard time associating it with intimate relationships. He will flirt a lot with you, but despite all the sexual innuendos, he won’t actually do anything until later in the relationship. He struggles with the irrational worry that sex will somehow taint the quality of your bond, making it feel cheap. Dating you has helped him realize that such things can be done out of love as well.

He is extremely affectionate and well mannered when dealing with you. Which may sometimes cause you to forget there’s a reason him and Daitou are good friends. While he isn’t as ill-tempered as his younger self, it doesn’t take much to anger him still. It’s a rare occurrence for you to witness it, but when he has it out for someone, he nearly matches Daitou in ruthlessness. He's very prideful and protective and will not hesitate to crush whoever challenges him or messes with you.

If you have a group of (girl)friends, you can confidently bring him with you with the only risk being that he’ll steal your spotlight. He can charismatically slide his way into any kind of conversation and you can hardly believe that this is the same man cracking gross jokes over his latest murder to his fellow criminal buddies. You might consider him a social chameleon, having no trouble adapting to any environment.

Smokes like a chimney and you have to slap the cigarette out of his hand sometimes because he’ll just light one up anywhere (including your bedroom).

Now this one is for the ones that are into it: God forbid you accidentally call him Daddy because he’ll ride that high until the end of time. He loves the idea and will tease about it with every opportunity. “Terrible weather today. Should Daddy drive you to work instead?”, or “Is that any way to talk to Daddy?” for when you’re out in public.

Daitou

One neat detail about being with Daitou is that you get to see a lot of things you took for granted in a new light. Whatever you assumed was a common experience for everyone, like having a picnic or going to the amusement park, is utterly foreign to him. He was raised by the Yakuza and barely interacted with anyone before meeting Kazuya; civilian past times were never presented to him. So you get to witness his shocked and delighted expression as he tries all these things with you.

Thankfully you don’t have to worry about teaching him the…intimate aspects of a relationship. Kazuya has that covered. And Daitou seems to be a rather fast learner, because he’s incredibly gentle and careful with you. Part of it is due to his own fear of messing it up. He’s only ever been good at breaking and killing people. Despite that, he loves you so much. He has to be the best boyfriend for your sake. Surely these hands of his can do more than just damage.

He might actually be a little too eager to learn the ropes. More than once you’ve walked in on him reading a graphic manga and nearly choked, mumbling an apology for interrupting his…activity. He’ll look at you with a confused expression, completely unbothered and wondering why you’re so embarrassed. He was flipping through the pages for ideas, given he’s never had any kind of experience himself. Ah. That explains the random kinky gestures he’s started doing without shame or doubt. You’ll have to do some tweaking in the near future.

This may come as a surprise, but Daitou is exceptionally good at household chores like cleaning and cooking. Registering with the Yakuza involves a mandatory apprenticeship of several years where you do menial tasks for your higher ups. Additionally, the time he served in jail has left him with a lot of discipline and organization. Somewhere between adorable and comical is how you’d describe the sight of him kneeling on the floor and carefully folding the kitchen towels while waiting for the stew to simmer.

Daitou isn’t exactly what you’d traditionally call jealous. His only frame of reference is Boss, thus he will treat you with the same kind of loyalty and dedication. You wouldn’t expect a mere nobody to walk up to the Head of the Family, so anyone approaching you will, similarly, be violently kept away until their intentions are clear. You are his most prized possession, after all. He’d do anything for you.

[deliciousangelfestival]

Love Was Never Part Of The Plan - 3

Summary: You are a jewel thief who’s semi-retired, but you agree to take one last job. However, there’s a catch: you have to steal the jewels from an auction where your former lover is now the head of security.

Character: Security!Bucky x Thief!Female Reader

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi 🙏🏻

Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3 , Part 4 , -

By the way, I published my book Arrogant Ex-Husband and Dad, I Can't Let You Go by Alina C. Bing on Kindle.

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Please leave a comment and reblog. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

“How…”

You were stunned. Absolutely floored.

Your breath hitched when Bucky stepped closer, calm, measured, deadly. His hand moved behind your back, slow and deliberate. Your heartbeat stuttered. Then you felt his fingers curl up, stop just at the nape of your neck—right where your hair was twisted into a sleek bun.

He felt it.

A smug smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as his fingers brushed the hidden compartment. His voice dropped, low and mocking.

“Cute hiding spot,” he murmured. “But sweetheart, you really thought I wouldn’t check the bun?”

Then—click.

You flinched, only now realizing he’d already slipped a pair of handcuffs onto your wrist, snapping the other end onto his.

“It’s time to tame you, my little devil,” Bucky whispered with a glint in his eye. “No more running.”

The way he said little devil… it sent a flush to your cheeks, which you hated, because dammit, not now. Not when you’re literally cuffed to the man you were trying to outsmart.

💎💎💎💎

In that moment, you sat on a cold metal chair in the small interrogation room beneath the gallery, arms crossed, ankle bouncing—not out of fear, but impatience. You weren’t scared. You’d been in tighter spots before. This wasn’t your first game of cat and mouse.

But guilt? That was new. Not because of the diamond. Not because of Interpol breathing down your neck.

Because Bucky had found out.

Because the one person you didn’t want to lie to anymore now knew exactly who you were. And that cut deeper than any set of cuffs ever could.

Joe, one of the senior security guards, watched you from behind the two-way mirror in another room with Bucky.

“Uh… shouldn’t we be calling the police? She’s one of Interpol’s most wanted. Keeping her here might look… shady.”

Bucky stood with his arms crossed, jaw tight, his body still humming with adrenaline.

“That would drag the gallery through a scandal. One break-in is enough. The diamond’s safe. That’s what matters.”

“Right…” Joe eyed him, then you, then back to Bucky. “Or maybe you just want to stare at your Peggy Sue a little longer before she’s gone?”

Bucky shot him a glare sharp enough to slice.

Joe held up his hands. “Hey, I’m just saying… But seriously—how’d you figure it out?”

They both went quiet when they heard you whistle from the speaker.

A soft whistle echoed through the basement. Just a casual tune on your lips—carefree, defiant.

“That,” Bucky said, eyes locked on you.

“That?” Joe was still confused.

Bucky didn’t explain. He didn’t need to. He just stared through the glass, jaw tight, eyes shadowed. But the silence said enough.

Yes. It was you.

It had been you all along.

The whistle had given you away. A simple, offhand tune—barely five seconds long—light and careless.

Thanks to today’s technology, they could hear the voice. It was brief, but Bucky remembered it—tormenting him and reminding him of his failures.

That exact sound had played on a grainy surveillance tape from the night the Queen Amélie rubies vanished. The cameras hadn’t caught a face, barely a silhouette. Just shadows.

He’d replayed it a hundred times. Not because it was evidence—but because it haunted him. Because it mocked him. Because the person behind it had vanished like smoke and left him with a gallery full of questions and a reputation cracked at the edges.

Then, days ago, you walked into his life again, whistling, like no time had passed. And there it was. That sound. That goddamn melody.

His gut twisted. He had wanted to be wrong. God, he had hoped he was wrong.

But his radar for trouble had never failed him before.

He wanted to prove himself wrong—that’s why he asked you out for coffee. In that moment, he just wanted to know where you’d been.

But as you spoke, all he heard were lies, one after another.

He had looked for you, pulled every connection he had, tried to trace your work… but no archaeological site, no records, nothing.

It was like your entire story had been fabricated from thin air.

But what gave you away again?

Your eyes. You have the look he used to have—a look with a mission. And you’ve got it. It wasn’t the look of someone excited to meet and share experiences.

The way they searched the table for his phone.

So, he baited you. Laid it right there. And just like he expected, you placed yours next to his—too close.

His device lit up with the silent ping of a data bridge.

Ooh, my little devil, he thought, it was you all along.

After that, he rewrote the entire security plan. Faked it. Let it leak. Made sure the decoy plans would lure you in.

Then he waited. He knew you’d go for the storage exit—predictable, classic you.

Right into his trap.

“She doesn’t look scared,” Joe muttered, arms crossed as he peered through the two-way mirror. “She doesn’t look guilty either.”

“That’s what you’re dealing with when it comes to kleptomaniacs,” came a voice from behind.

The security team turned to see a woman walk in—mid-thirties, sharp suit, dark lipstick, eyes that missed nothing. “Especially world-class ones,” she said, removing her sunglasses.

“Amy?” Bucky was surprised to see her here.

Amy shot a warm smile and walked closer to him. “Interpol sent me. Well—technically, I sent myself.” She moved to the glass and studied you calmly seated in the small basement interrogation room. “I’ll take it from here.”

Before anyone could respond, the door swung open again.

“Ah, ah, ah... you can’t interrogate her without me,” said a man in a dark tailored suit and round glasses, leather briefcase in one hand. He looked expensive—and smug.

Bucky’s brows knit together. “And you are?”

“David Rochefort,” the man said smoothly, extending a business card with a fake name that even sounded fake. “Legal counsel. She’s my client.”

Joe blinked. “How the hell did she manage to call you?”

Edward smiled, adjusting his glasses. “Good lawyers don’t wait for a call. Especially not when she’s involved.”

Bucky said nothing, but the muscle in his jaw twitched. The tension was subtle but undeniable—he didn’t like this guy. Especially since this lawyer spoke about you with an unexpected warmth.

Inside the room, you stood as Edward entered. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders like it was a long-awaited reunion.

“Why are you so late?” you whispered, voice low against his ear.

“I had to make my appearance believable. Can’t have you thinking I’m a getaway driver,” he murmured with a quick wink.

Across the glass, Bucky’s eyes narrowed before he looked away.

Amy caught the glance. She raised an eyebrow and glanced at Joe, who subtly mouthed something to her—“She’s the one. His ex.” That piece of information seemed to sharpen Amy’s temper.

Moments later, Amy and her partner entered the room. She tossed a file onto the table with a firm thud. “Let’s cut the act, shall we?” she said, leaning forward. “You broke into a highly secured international auction. You knew the camera angles, the power grid layout, the guard rotations. You timed everything perfectly. That’s not luck, sweetheart—that’s inside knowledge.”

You smiled politely. “Or a very good guess.”

Amy’s eyes darkened. “You think this is a game?”

“Only if I’m winning.” You smirked.

Edward placed a calming hand between you and the table. “My client isn’t obliged to respond to your tone or theatrics.”

“She’s toying with us,” Amy hissed.

You leaned toward Edward, eyes fixed on Amy. “Why do I feel like she wants to bite my head off?”

“Not just you,” Edward muttered.

Amy slammed her hand on the table, but the sound didn’t faze you. Not even a blink. Your confidence was bulletproof.

Edward calmly adjusted his cuffs, then leaned in, his tone even. “Let’s not get dramatic. My client didn’t steal anything. She temporarily borrowed an item—and now, the gallery has it back. No harm, no foul, right?”

Amy shot him a withering glare. “Is that really the argument you're going with?”

Edward gave her a tight-lipped smile. “I’m going with facts. You have the diamond. You have no solid evidence. And last I checked, attempted charm isn’t a criminal offense.”

The interrogation dragged on. They questioned your alibis, dug into your background, and analyzed every detail. But there was nothing solid. You were too careful. Too polished. Interpol left the room with clenched jaws and empty hands.

When Edward and you stepped into the harsh fluorescent hallway, the air felt too sharp.

Bucky stood there, leaning against the wall like he’d been waiting for hours. His expression was unreadable as he looked at you.

“Give me your hand,” he said quietly.

You raised your wrist—the handcuffs still clinking softly.

He stepped forward, unlocking them with a soft click. “Don’t steal again.”

You held his gaze, lips curving into something wicked. “No promises.”

A flicker sparked in his eyes—like a match struck to dry kindling. He didn’t reach for you, didn’t say another word. But the electricity between you lingered, humming in the air like a live wire.

“So this is the side of you I never knew,” Bucky said quietly, eyes locked on yours.

You paused, the smallest twitch pulling at your lips. “It’s always been there,” you said, voice softer now, with the faintest edge of something raw. “I just hid it too well from you.”

He didn’t reply right away. The air between you felt like it might catch fire if one of you moved too fast.

You shifted your weight, heart doing something traitorous in your chest. “I never lied about how I felt about you,” you added, eyes searching his face. “Just… about who I am.”

Your voice barely wavered—but it cost you.

Bucky’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t look away. And for a second, you wished he’d yell. Or curse. Or laugh. Anything but this silent, smoldering restraint.

You stepped back, catching your breath like you’d been holding it the whole time. “Anyway,” you said with a wry smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes, “now you’ve seen it.”

Turning away, you walked toward Edward, your steps slow, weighted with something you couldn’t quite shake. Bucky’s eyes stayed fixed on your back, lingering longer than they should.

Edward opened the exit door with a flourish. “You’re free.”

But free from what? The cuffs were off, yet the guilt wrapped around your chest tighter than ever. Free only to face the ache of what was left unsaid—and the impossible space growing between you two.

💎💎💎💎

You and Edward slipped out of the gallery, the night air thick with the scent of rain and something electric between you both. You headed straight for your hideout, a dimly lit loft cluttered with scattered blueprints and stolen treasures.

“Fuck,” Edward muttered, tossing his jacket onto a chair. “We just lost seven million.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Was the client mad?”

Edward pulled out his phone, swiping to reveal an encrypted chat. “Yeah. The client who hired us—he dropped a million as a deposit, so he’s definitely pissed. I sent him the update: the diamond heist failed. His reply? Just one word. ‘Loser.’”

You exhaled, sinking onto the worn-out couch. “Well… we kinda deserved it.”

For a long moment, you just stared at the ceiling, your mind racing. Four years. Four years of silence, four years of running—until Bucky busted you and found out who you really were. That revelation still burned under your skin. A mixture of defeat, defiance, and something sharper—regret? No. Something else. A flicker of something complicated.

Before you could dig deeper, Edward’s voice cut through the silence.

“I found out why that Interpol cop hates you so much.”

You sat up, curiosity sharp. “Why?”

He smirked, pulling up another chat on his phone. “Turns out, Amy’s been on some arranged-date thing with Bucky.”

Your heart jolted. “WHAT?!” You sprang up from the couch and leaned over his shoulder, eyes scanning the screen.

The message thread showed a casual introduction:

Co-worker 1: “You should meet Amy. She’s sharp, good with cases.”

Bucky: “Fine.”

You frowned, a sudden heat kindling in your chest. “Wait… I don’t think Bucky’s interested. See? He just replied with ‘Fine’ and that’s it. No emojis. No follow-up.”

"And look at his message history—he barely mentions her. So the date didn’t go well!" you added, or maybe just trying to convince yourself.

Edward rolled his eyes, clearly amused. “Alright, Miss Delulu.”

You sighed dramatically, crossing your arms. “Aww shit. Why am I feeling this? Why do people like us always fail at romance?”

Edward shrugged with a grin. “Our teacher was a disaster at this stuff too. But hey—he did manage to steal the real Mona Lisa.” He paused, then shook his head. “Honestly, just give up. Besides, you two are on different sides. He’s the good guy. You’re… not.”

Your jaw tightened at the truth. The thought of Bucky and Amy together twisted your gut in ways you didn’t want to admit. You didn’t want to see them like that—like a pair.

Edward nudged you gently. “Stop thinking about it. Let him go.”

You stayed silent, staring off into the distance.

“Shit. I’m gonna need a hot shower,” Edward muttered, rubbing the back of his neck as he headed toward the bathroom.

💎💎💎💎💎

Bucky lay on his bed, shirtless, wearing only his boxers. His eyes traced the cracks on the ceiling as memories of the day replayed relentlessly. The woman he’d fallen for—the one who’d haunted his thoughts—was the thief behind the ruby jewelry once owned by Queen Amélie of France.

A bitter taste filled his mouth. He hated it. Hated seeing you, so calm and untouchable, with that smug lawyer by your side. That smugness, the way he touched you—it stabbed deeper than any blade.

So, four years ago, while you both shared the same bed, you were secretly planning to steal the ruby, with him sleeping right beside you, completely unaware that you were using him to get the security details.

Suddenly, the window slid open with a soft creak. Bucky sat up, muscles tense. There you were—sneaking in like a shadow, casual but impossibly bold.

“Hi,” you said awkwardly, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t say anything at first, just stared.

You stepped further inside, tossing a small box onto his bed. It landed with a soft thud. Bucky opened it, eyes narrowing as he saw the ruby necklace gleam in the dim light—the stolen jewel.

“What do you want after this?” His voice was low, rough. “You think this fixes everything?”

Bucky stood, tall and bare-chested, the faint moonlight tracing every line of his sculpted body. You swallowed hard, cheeks warming under his gaze—he’d clearly been working out more lately.

“You can’t just come back and fix things like this. I’m not your plaything,” he said, stepping closer until you could feel the heat radiating from him.

You looked down for a second. “I… I know.”

He crossed his arms, eyes sharp. “Then why are you here? You could have just returned this to the gallery.”

You hesitated, then took a step back toward the window, the cool night air brushing your skin.

“I’m here because I want to declare something.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed, curiosity flickering behind his guarded stare.

You smiled—soft, genuine—because you saw the concern in his eyes, the way he still cared.

“I want to tell you... I’m going to steal your heart.”

His eyes widened, disbelief and something else flashing between them.

Before he could say a word, you leapt from the window frame, landing lightly on the pavement below.

Bucky sprinted to the window, heart pounding as he watched you speed away in a sleek convertible with no roof. The same lawyer sat confidently behind the wheel. His guess was right — that lawyer is your partner in crime too.

He stood frozen for a heartbeat, her words replaying in his mind—“I’m going to steal your heart.” A slow, almost reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, his usual guarded expression cracking just enough to let something raw and real slip through.

She’s a thief—always has been. But maybe this time, she’s trying to steal something that matters.

"Damn it,” he whispered, voice low and rough, “why does she have to be this good at breaking me?”

💎💎💎💎

Inside the speeding car, the wind whipped through your hair, but you barely noticed. Edward, a picture of calm amusement behind the wheel, glanced at you. "So... you just professed your love to him, huh? What are you going to do next, send him a dozen roses?"

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. The adrenaline from the heist and the escape was fading, replaced by a mortifying wave of embarrassment, shyness, and a dizzying mix of emotions. "I don't know!" you wailed, your voice muffled. "I just... I don't know!"

Author’s note: What will she do to get Bucky back? As an author, I also don't know. Lol 🤣

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My book Arrogant Ex-Husband and Dad, I Can't Let You Go by Alina C. Bing are on Kindle. Check it out!

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[hivemuthur]

Nothing's New - Ch.3.

viktorxfemale!reader explicit!

AU modern era, lovers to enemies to lovers, getting back together, a lot of angst, smut sort of present moving from this chapter forward

Ch.1. | Ch.2. | Ch.4. | Ch.5. | Ch.6.

word count: 5,5K

tag: #nothings new

summary: Alright folks, some abrupt decisions are made in this chapter and I am foreshadowing Viktor's self-discovery (I will place a warning in the next chapter, as here it's still not that relevant). I will post some smut in a minute so you all don't get too sad :v

Cross-posted on AO3

—

You’ve spent the entire weekend stewing in your thoughts. Replaying the events over and over, from beginning to end, picking up pieces you might have missed before. It’s been a week since your last interaction with Viktor, and today is the final day for you to collect your things from his apartment.

You’ve been lying in bed, wondering if what happened last week was real or just an odd case of pareidolia—attaching meaning where there was none. Viktor’s anger, his cracking voice, the way he slumped back into the chair after you hurled fragments of conversation at each other. And yet, those fragments were more than anything that had happened between you in the past year.

People do such strange things after breakups. They throw themselves anywhere but into the breakup itself. They drink, get addicted to something, take up an extreme sport—or extreme hookups, which could also count as a sport—start smoking, dive into a new relationship, or become completely hopeless or cruel versions of themselves. And those versions do stupid, strange things.

Like giving your ex the keys to your apartment to pick up their stuff. Or being the said ex and going to your ex’s apartment to pick up your stuff. Utterly deranged. Utterly strange. Cruel on one side, hopeless on the other.

You have waited the entire weekend, sitting on pins. You haven’t seen Paul once, ignoring his texts and phone calls. Then, inevitably, Sunday noon has crept in, and you realise, that you have to go.

The journey is a drag in itself, but once you are in front of his apartment, you pause. You hold your breath as you slide the key into the lock. Getting here was torment. You thought the cursed triple-date restaurant ordeal was horrific, but you knew nothing. This is horrific. This is true terror. The terror of what’s on the other side of the door gnaws at you the whole way here, and now it gnaws harder, your hand frozen on the key, frozen in the lock.

When you hear it click, you release the trapped breath and close your eyes, stepping in. It’s dark. The day is muggy, with rain on and off, as the weather broke earlier in the week. The first licks of autumn hang in the air, and suddenly, you remember how freezing Viktor’s apartment is during the colder months. Your apartment. The apartment you lived in together. Whatever.

You take a timid stroll through the hallway—some pictures have disappeared from the walls. The ones of you and him. It’s expected, no reason to sulk. Moving on.

There it is: the lounge. The space where you’ve spent so much time reading, yapping, playing records, having sex on the couch, on the windowsill. Sleeping in front of the TV. So much time spent there alone, waiting, falling asleep with a book on your face, or staring expectantly at your phone. So many times you were abandoned here.

Viktor’s desk by the window is still covered in books, papers, and notes. He’s taken his computer away for the weekend, leaving behind a sharp square-shaped void outlined in dust where it had been. You draw a sad face in the dust with your finger, then hesitate, wondering if you should wipe it away so Viktor doesn’t notice.

You sit in his chair and spin yourself around, your feet dragging on the floor. No pictures to stare him in the face while he works, no particularly personal notes. No signs of Julia yet. No assprints in the layer of dust on his desk. Check.

You turn to the box he’s left for you in the middle of the room. Your name is scrawled angrily on it, as if Viktor forced himself not to write something like "CUNT" instead. It’s sealed, ready for you to grab and flee. But you want to see what remnants of you he’s collected, the things he so firmly believes need to be returned.

You rush to the kitchen and grab the first knife you see. Back to the box. A strange feeling churns inside you—something close to excitement, but also to dread.

With trembling hands, you slice the tape, reopening the wound. The box is stuffed with paper on top, meticulously packed. You pull the layers out and start digging.

Your books and clothes, mostly. You take them out one by one. Your T-shirt with "ALL MY BOOTS ARE FUCKED UP" written across it in huge letters. You used to sleep in it. You hadn’t realised it was left behind. It smells exactly of nothing—just a piece of cloth that’s been hanging in a closet for months. And yet, it smells faintly of Viktor, though maybe it’s just your imagination.

Books, each of them ones you love. Especially your first edition of The Lord of the Rings. Not the first edition, just the first one you ever got. A couple of notebooks with notes for work and personal scribbling. Your pin that says, “Bono in short legs shock.” Nothing in particular.

A few records are stuffed to the side. You wince at how he’s squeezed them in there and wonder if they’ve already melted and warped in the heat that was killing you not so long ago. And then, your heart sinks. Between the books and the clothes and an odd perfume bottle, lies a small box.

A gift you’d brought him: the tiniest chunk of meteorite you’d bought at the weirdest book convention you’d ever been to. It had been mixed with a natural minerals expo, an esoterica expo, and a reptile expo. Truly terrible. Until you spotted a man selling pieces of stars from his private collection. And you thought to yourself that if anyone on this planet deserved to receive a star for no occasion, it was Viktor.

He was speechless when you gave it to him. “Amazing,” he’d whispered, his eyes glinting as he weighed it in his hand. For something so small, it had felt so heavy. His heart had felt heavy too, with affection and devotion. He kissed you, kept kissing you until you were out of breath. It was wonderful.

And now it sits in your hand, discarded and abandoned. And it feels heavier than ever.

Forcing the tears back where they came from, you take a shaky breath and scramble up from your knees, clutching the box in your hand. You go to return the knife to where you’d taken it from in the kitchen, determined not to leave any sign of your snooping—except for the sad face drawn in the dust.

When you turn from the counter, it hits you violently in the face.

A Post-it note on the fridge. Viktor’s handwriting. Very old-fashioned. Very Viktor. More intimate than text messages. He’d left those for you once, before your intimacy had died. But this one isn’t for you.

“Miláčku, if you could grab my notebook on your way to work, I will be eternally grateful. V.”

In an instant, you forget your intention to leave no trace. You snap it from the fridge door, twisting it violently in your fingers. Something roars in your chest, and you can feel yourself spiralling. The need to go somewhere safe is overwhelming. So you go to the bedroom.

And there you are, confronted with another square-shaped void. The outline of where the bed used to be screams at you with the darker shade of wooden floor compared to the rest of the room. The empty space—what you remembered as small and cramped—now feels massive and vast.

You crumble onto the floor, squeezing the box with Viktor’s star in one hand and the wretched note in the other. There is no force that could stop your tears. Your lungs burn as you release a pathetic wail of a sob, granting yourself one of the ugliest cries you’ve had in months. The sun sets at some point.

Your chest and shoulders shake in spasms as your tears fall onto the piece of yellow paper, distorting the handwriting into blurred stains. This is the worst you have felt since the beginning. This is the bottom, surely. Crying in your ex’s apartment, on the spot where your bed used to be, clutching a word in your fist as if you refused to give it away to another woman. You refuse to give Viktor away to another woman. You refuse to give yourself to another man.

When you’ve run out of tears, you just stare at the note. For about ten minutes. No, for around twelve hours. You have no idea how much time has passed. You sit there curled up where the bed used to be, unable to move, unable to cry. The remnants of whatever composure you had when you stepped in are all gone.

You don’t even flinch when the door unlocks, and you hear footsteps and a sigh from the hallway. You are completely content to die here in your ignominy.

“Why are you still here?” Viktor’s voice echoes through the corridor, making him sound like an annoyed ghost. Hearing no response, he sighs again, louder this time, to emphasise how distressing your presence is to him. A caricature of a sigh, almost as if mocking someone else’s.

“I asked, why are you still—” He pauses when he sees you. “Are you alright?” The way his voice is laced with genuine concern makes you sick. It is the truest thing he has said to you in such a long time. One of the very few true things he has said in a year.

“What is this?” you ask, your voice utterly sad and so small. You open your shaking fists, and Viktor crouches awkwardly to make sense of what you are showing him. Once he sees the box and the wet, yellow paper, he understands.

“This,” he says calmly, “is something I no longer want. And this is a note to my girlfriend, Julia.”

His tone is devoid of emotion—quiet, calm, calculated. Inside, he is a storm. He left those two things intentionally, to stab you back. He had no idea the stabbing would work so well.

He planted them to stop feeling so fucking sodden. The rush of adrenaline at the thought of you finding those items was a momentary relief because he wasn’t able to tell you how stumbling upon your things jabbed at his heart. He wasn’t able to tell you that he actually played your records and read your books. Or that, when he found your T-shirt hanging in the wardrobe, hidden under his sweater—the one you stole all the time in winter—he died, just a little. How he hadn’t realised until he put the sweater on and discovered there was another skin underneath the wool. And that it still smelled of you after all this time. He wouldn’t tell you that he’d rather eat drywall than smell it again.

“Why is it saying what it’s saying?” you ask, your voice a sharp, trembling whisper, disbelief written all over your face. It’s so undignified to ask this. But dignity is a luxury you have to shed to get through this.

“Because I forgot my notebook for work the other day,” Viktor replies, his tone dispassionate, his eyes studying you like a scientist observing a failed experiment. This has truly backfired. Or rather, it has worked too well. In his wildest dreams, Viktor wouldn’t have dared to think he would find you curled up on the floor, your face swollen and defeated, exposing yourself to another blow.

“Do I have to wipe your face with it, so you answer my question?” you hiss, though the answer isn’t unexpected. The tiny dent made the last time you saw each other was, in the end, only a dent.

You wouldn’t even call it a crack—something you could peel off and peek inside. So, of course, you have to keep hitting.

His jaw tightens, but his voice remains cool, measured. “It is a pet name. A word you use for someone you are in love with.” He is hitting back. Your anger makes him angry. The fact that you are so angry and broken means that nothing has ended, nothing has resolved. And it boils the fear within him, and he attacks when he is afraid. Normally, it wouldn’t be a phrase to play with. But now, he is afraid.

The paper in your hand crunches loudly as you snap your fist shut. “It belongs to me,” you say in a dark tone, your voice brimming with equal parts defiance and anguish.

Viktor scoffs. “That’s rich. Nothing in here belongs to you, save for the trash you refuse to take out.” He stands up to accentuate his disgust. “Are you honestly being jealous right now?”

“No!” You shake your head and pick yourself up to level with him. “But this is just… cruel,” you shoot back, your voice rising, cracking under the weight of his dismissal.

“You will forgive me,” Viktor says with a bitter smile, “but I don’t follow. Which part of me doing the exact same thing that you are doing—moving on—is cruel?” He hasn’t moved on. He is standing stuck in one place. Julia is a distraction, and he knows it. And he knows it’s wrong to use someone like that, but he is only human. And there is no comfort in the idea of being eternally broken.

“You know exactly what I am talking about! Did you leave it here intentionally? Did you do this to hurt me?” Low. You are so low right now, the sound of you hitting this new bottom is echoing across your skull.

“You are so fucking full of yourself,” he spits, his voice dripping venom. “This is my house. It was on my fridge. As far as I remember, there was nothing in my fridge that you might possibly need to take with you.” Except for this exact note that I left there for you to see. That I left there to hurt you, and you are absolutely right about me because you know me better than I know myself.

“Why did you make me come here?” you demand, your voice trembling with rage and heartbreak.

“Do I look like a delivery man to you?” Another cold scoff. Fast, so fast, he’s afraid you are going to see.

“Viktor. This—this is not going to work the way you think it will. You can’t just get rid of me. I will be in your life. I—”

“No!” he roars, the crack in his composure finally showing. “I want you gone. You—you fucking abandoned me! You ran, as if I were some abusive bastard. You do not get the right to demand anything from me!”

You are actually being screamed at by Viktor. Your brain short-circuits, and you blink a couple of times.

“What about Jayce and Mel?” you counter, clutching at straws, desperate to find a thread that could keep you tethered to him. Why, though? Were you really going to be friends again?

“I don’t give a fuck about Mel. And if I can live without you, I can live without Jayce,” he snaps, his voice teetering between fury and despair.

“Viktor, you cannot be serious right now. Jayce is—”

“I would rip off my leg to rid myself of you,” he cuts you off, his voice raw and unfiltered, his accent thickening under the weight of his emotions. “The good one. There is nowhere I wouldn’t go to rid myself of you. I regret—”

“I could slap you for that,” you interrupt, your voice low and trembling with fury.

“I wish you would,” he shoots back, stepping closer, his face a mask of tortured defiance. “I wish you would do fucking anything other than run. I wish you had waited for me that evening and talked to me. I wish you didn’t wipe your face with a note. I wish you’d picked up the phone instead of turning it off. You ruined me. You stole so many months of my life. And you dare to be surprised that I have found someone.”

“You abandoned me first,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, but the words hit him like a blow.

“Don’t,” he warns, his voice tight, his eyes closing as if to shield himself from the truth. He knows. He knows. But for once, when he needed you to be strong, you were weak, and he couldn’t forgive that. Just once, when he crumbled under the pressure of stress, under the pressure of investors gnawing at him and Jayce, he just wanted you to stay put. To just be the person he came back to, day after day, until it passed. And when you crumbled, he hated you because you made him hate himself for being weak as well.

“You abandoned me first,” you repeat, louder this time, the words escaping your lips like a confession. “I loved you so much.” There are so many bottoms yet to be discovered by you, you realise. Stacked in layers, only for you to be painfully peeled off, like the paper skin on shoulders burned in the sun.

“Stop,” he says again, his voice faltering, the dent cracking as you keep hitting. As you keep scratching and clawing your nails at it.

“I tried to stay, but I couldn’t,” you continue, tears spilling over your cheeks, your voice alien even to you.

“Stop this,” he pleads, stepping closer. His hand reaches out, hesitating in mid-air before brushing against your face. His touch is tentative, trembling. His thumb sweeps the tear running down your cheek. His face, morphing in anguish, rage, something you can’t read—hesitation, resignation—all of those things watercolour across his eyes, his eyebrows, his lopsided mouth, transforming from one into another second after second.

“It ripped me apart,” you whisper, and his hand drops, his head bowing under the leaden weight of it all.

You feel the fear of the moment escalating or fading—both wrong—as now this is the most real thing that has transpired between you in almost a year. Your breath hitches when Viktor steps closer. And then.

He rubs his face against yours, his breath trapped in his throat as his composure fades. You freeze. The feeling of his skin on yours—so familiar. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple jumping, and finally, his golden eyes meet yours. And then. And then.

And then.

The featherlight brush of his lips—not yet a kiss. A strangled movement, hesitant and unsure. Your face cupped in his hands, the pull of gravity still stronger than the pull of his arms. And you stay, fixed in your place, breathing in his scent.

The last time you kissed was a long time ago, save for the absent pecks you gave each other when coming and going. And before that, you kissed many times. But never like this. Never so uncertain, so afraid.

He holds the back of your head as if you were water. It isn’t just one kiss. It’s plenty of lingering, sad kisses—no tongue, just his soft lips gently pressing against yours, making tiny smacking sounds each time he retreats to start again.

The outside of him is calm, but his heart flutters in his chest, and you can feel it under your hands, fisting his sweater. You kiss him back with equal, fleeting tenderness. Your hands travel to his neck, to his cheeks, ghosting over the beauty marks on his face. In the deafening silence of this space, all you can hear is his shuddery breath.

So this is how it used to feel. You remember. The one tremendous feeling that was missing, that you had forgotten about. Belonging. It crawls back into the periphery of your nerves—the sensation of being taken and kept, falling from his mouth to yours. But this time, you take him back; you keep him back.

He closes his eyes and kisses you deeper, pulls you closer. The familiarity of it erases all his careful plans to kick you out of his life. It clouds his judgment as he does the unthinkable. His fingernails scrape faintly against your cheeks, and you open your mouth fully for him, allowing him to swallow you. Your tongues touch, and Viktor groans. Because it feels different than with other people, and he can’t deny it.

His cane clatters against the wood as he leans on you, pushing you toward the windowsill. His fingers now dig into your ribs, knocking the air out of your lungs. You hop up, open your legs, and he is between them immediately. Leaning on you, squeezing the back of your neck, his hands all over you, under your clothes, and you gasp for air, rutting your hips against him to feel more of him—all of him.

Your hands fumble with his shirt and sweater so you can touch the flat plane of his stomach. His belly button glues itself back to his spine as you slide your palms underneath. Your breaths grow heavy as his hands fist your hair and press you further into his face until you can’t breathe. He gropes you so hungrily it almost hurts; all the clothes you are wearing hurt your skin, and only Viktor’s skin can soothe this pain.

You desperately pull the layers between you up and press your stomach to his. His hips buck into yours, his cock straining in his pants, and he wants—he wants, he wants you so much he whimpers, rutting into your core, the pang of lust and need twisting in his lower belly.

It all falls back into place when he suddenly remembers what it’s like to be just blissfully fucking you, what it feels like to be inside you, and he is aching. He thrusts against you hysterically, cursing his clothes, his hands grabbing fistfuls of your flesh, and you wrap your legs around his hips, digging your thumbs into the hollow of his cheeks.

And it’s only when you moan out his name that he remembers something else—how hard it was to breathe when you left. How bad he felt under Mel’s worried gaze. And he knows he wouldn’t survive it if it were to happen again.

So he pauses, breathing heavily, resting his forehead against yours. He snarls and pulls away, and you feel something hooked out of your chest violently, leaving a gaping hole behind. He disappears from your space so fast you can only register him moving further between your blinks.

When you open your eyes again, you see him in the far corner of the room, hunched on his cane, chest heaving, turned so that he wouldn’t face you.

“Get out.” His voice is flat and rotten, as if someone has made him eat poison.

Wordlessly, you take the box with the star chunk from your pocket and place it on the windowsill before leaving the room. You drop your belongings back into the previously gutted box, not bothering to seal it back up, drop the keys into the bowl by the door, and leave with a loud thud echoing all the way back to the bedroom.

Viktor stands by the window, waiting to see you out on the street. His hand clasps against his mouth, trying to suppress a sob, his eyes fixed on you down there, so tiny, waving in a cab. It swallows you and takes you away, alongside your things.

It’s getting late, but he still calls Julia. He gives her the worst, most generic talk he can muster. He gives her a weak “It’s not you, it’s me,” which is, of course, a lie. Because it’s about her—not being you. And he can’t bear another woman crying in his apartment on that day, but he braces through it. He doesn’t tell her about the kiss. She cries a lot, but they part in peace. She’s understanding like that. And he feels about one stone lighter when she leaves.

But it’s not enough. One stone lighter, that’s all he feels after. His apartment is still heavy, still weighed down by the absence of you. He locks the door, leans against it for a moment, trying to breathe. The quiet settles over him, a suffocating silence that makes his chest tight. It’s not like he thought it would be. He should be relieved, shouldn’t he? He doesn’t have to juggle anyone’s emotions anymore, doesn’t have to pretend to be something he’s not. But all he can think about is you. How you left, how he watched you go, how he felt that piece of him break off and disappear when the door shut behind you.

He makes his way to the couch, sits down heavily, his hand finding its way to his lips. His fingers press against the spot where you kissed him, still lingering with the faint taste of you, the memory of your warmth. He mumbles a quiet apology, but it feels hollow, empty, like he’s talking to the walls.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, over and over, the words breaking him. “I love you. God, I love you...”

His breath catches on the last confession, as if saying it aloud will somehow make it real, but it only makes the absence feel sharper. It’s almost unbearable. The pain of not having you here, the pain of knowing he pushed you away. He presses his palm harder against his lips, as if trying to hold onto something that’s already slipping through his fingers. He feels completely gutted.

And you come back to Paul with your gutted box of things. He lets you in, no words said. He makes you tea and sits you on the couch. And you feel... so rotten, so evil for doing this. He cradles your head on his lap and makes quiet, soothing shushing sounds. When it starts to feel worse and worse, you snort up your sniffle and sit up.

“I have to talk to you,” you say in a cracked voice, Paul still smiling, still not realizing, because he would never expect you to do something so horrible.

He cocks his eyebrows and hums. “Oh-oh.”

“Paul, I’m serious,” you say, your voice trembling. The tea in your hands cools as the weight of what you’re about to tell him crushes you into the couch.

“You sure you want to do this now? Seems like you had a hard day already,” Paul replies, his tone gentle, though his gaze searches yours cautiously, as if bracing for something heavy. He’s ready for many things. He understands breakups are complicated. He knows how fresh this is when you started. And he’s told himself he’s ready for this kind of moment as well. Yet. Yet.

“I need to tell you something,” you insist, setting the tea down and folding your hands in your lap to stop them from shaking.

“Let me guess. Things are not as over between you and Viktor as you thought they were,” Paul says, leaning back, his face unreadable but his voice still gentle, knowing.

“I—” you stammer, feeling a lump rise in your throat. Were you this obvious?

“You don’t need a genius to know that. It was pretty fast… you and me. I am aware,” he continues, his voice soft but tinged with resignation, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his jumper. He’s actually hoping to be wrong, but well.

“We kissed,” you admit, the words spilling out like a confession you can’t hold back any longer. And then you wince as the memory somehow becomes real once you speak it out loud. But you can’t tell him what kind of kiss it was. That you’ve betrayed Paul about a million times today, with each tender and longing kiss Viktor gave you—and you gave back to him. Let him think it was just a kiss.

“Oh.” Paul freezes, his expression shifting ever so slightly, though you can’t tell if it’s surprise or hurt—or both.

“Oh?” you echo, your own voice quivering with uncertainty, afraid of what will follow.

“Well, I… I didn’t exactly expect you to say that,” he admits, running a hand through his hair, his movements deliberate, as if giving himself time to think.

“What did you think I was going to say?” you ask, your voice cracking, the weight of guilt pressing on your chest like a vice. The bottoms just keep coming.

“Oh, I don’t know. That you’re not ready to move in yet? I don’t know what I was thinking, really,” he says with a bitter laugh, his shoulders sagging as he looks away from you for the first time.

“Paul—” you start, but he cuts you off with a raised hand.

“Do you want to get back together with him?” he asks, his tone measured, though the tension in his jaw betrays him.

“No,” you say quickly, but the certainty in your voice wavers under his gaze. No. No, you don’t want to. You’re sure you don’t want to. And yet.

“Do you want to move in with me?” he asks, his voice quieter this time, almost cautious, as if he doesn’t want to hear the answer.

“I… don’t know,” you admit, your hands clenching into fists against your thighs, wishing you had an answer that would hurt less. No. You don’t want to.

“Do you still love him?” Paul’s question lingers in the air like a storm cloud. You swallow hard, your silence speaking louder than any words could. And you hate yourself for it. This poor, kind man. And what you did to him. Almost the exact same thing Viktor did to you.

Paul sighs, the sound heavy with understanding and pain. “Do you love me?”

“I—I don’t know,” you whisper, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes under the pressure of his scrutiny.

“Well,” Paul says, forcing a weak smile that makes his lines more prominent. “I guess that concludes it.”

“Paul—” you try again, desperate to say something, anything, to fix this.

“Don’t,” he interrupts, his voice breaking slightly. “I guess I should’ve known. Jesus, how have I been so stupid?”

“You’re not stupid. I am. I’m so sorry,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, your chest aching with regret. He looks so hurt. And it aches to be so broken that you can’t love a nice, beautiful, boring man. It would be so easy if it weren’t so hard.

“Is that all it was? Just a wait up before you can get back with him?”

“Paul, I’m not getting back with him. And no, it wasn’t. I just… don’t think it’s fair. To be with you, when I’m not…” anything in particular. Not in the relationship, not outside of it. Just complacent.

“Do you have any idea… what it feels like to be with someone who is in love with someone else, all the time?” He looks at you and the answer is written all over your face, then takes a long sigh. “I’ll call you a cab.”

You sit in silence for a while. You drink your cold tea. You stand up, pick up your box for it to be taken from your hands and carried by Paul to a cab. He slumps it onto your knees and closes the door before you can say ‘thank you.’ Then he pats the cab’s roof and sends you away. He will make you his own box, soon.

And you come back home, to your dark place, with one box, and another already anticipated, to stack one on top of the other. Thoughts clattering in your head. Viktor, the mess you’ve made, the confusion—all so harrowing.

You should feel something, shouldn’t you? Relief, maybe? But it’s just emptiness, the kind that fills every corner of your flat, each inch of it reminding you of what you’ve lost. You try to focus but your thoughts slip back to Viktor, to the kiss, to the way he touched you, like he still cared, like he still wanted you.

Sitting down on the bed, you press your fingers to your lips, the memory of his kiss burning there, so vivid, so real. You can almost feel him again. The warmth of his hands, the way his lips fit against yours like they were made to. Your chest tightens, the ache deepening. You close your eyes, leaning into the pillow, whispering, “I love you. I miss you so much,” to the fabric, as if hoping that saying it aloud will somehow help you to repent.

And in that quiet moment, when the dust settles down, the truth you've been running from finally breaks through. It was always there, under the surface, but now you admit it. Now, you let yourself feel it, how much indeed you love him and miss him.

[briefinquiries]

Under the Blood Moon | Peaky Blinders | Chapter 24

Tommy Shelby x Reader: Chapter 24

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 | Chapter 23 | Chapter 24

Fic Summary: You came to Birmingham for a fresh start, to bury the past and keep your head down. As a former nurse in the war, you’ve seen enough blood and death to last a lifetime. But fate (and the Shelby’s) have other plans. After stitching Tommy Shelby back together, you find yourself drawn further into their world, a world of violence, loyalty, and power. When Tommy offers you a job, it comes with more than just good pay, it comes with expectations and lines you never planned to cross.

Chapter summary: Luca Changretta makes his move, crossing a line by targeting the youngest Shelby. In a calculated ambush, the Shelby's are forced into a desperate fight, rattling the foundation of their trust and control.

Word count:  8.8k

Warnings: Violence, injury, mentions of blood, PTSD and war flashbacks, alcohol use, and mild language

A/N: I've been so awful at updating, SORRY and thank you all for being patient. maine might lowkey get a snow day tomorrow (rip, but also fingers crossed??), so if we do i might be able to write another chapter :)

--

It had been quiet for days.

The kind of stillness that felt like the whole city was holding its breath. Like something just out of sight was winding itself tighter with every tick of the clock.

The streets were too calm. Even the usual hum of conversation in the betting shops felt subdued, like people were speaking just low enough not to draw attention from whatever shadows lingered nearby. Doors stayed locked a little longer. Eyes lingered a little too long on unfamiliar faces.

Tommy said Luca must be dealing with something in New York. He’d heard rumors, whispers of unrest, tension between families, something about one of Luca’s allies gone missing. A temporary distraction. A wedge in the machine. Whatever the cause, the pressure that had been choking Birmingham like smoke seemed to ease—just slightly.

Polly had gone back to her own house for the first time in a week, insisting she needed real tea and a proper bath or she’d start cursing at people. Finn had started hovering near the older boys again, hopeful and quiet, desperate to be given something—anything—to do. Arthur spent most of the day in the betting shop, sorting the books with a half-smile and a cigarette hanging from his mouth. And John… John cracked a joke at breakfast. A real one. About Arthur’s new haircut, which had earned him a half-hearted shove and a round of laughter that didn’t feel forced for once.

Even Tommy had let himself sit for five whole minutes that morning with a cup of tea he didn’t drink.

Things were almost starting to feel normal again. 

You found him standing by the front window after breakfast, one hand braced against the sill, the other holding a nearly finished cigarette. The smoke curled lazily in the still air, ignored. His eyes were fixed on the street outside, watching the same corner he always did, like he was waiting for something to move, for someone to step out of place. He didn’t blink much. Didn’t shift. Just stood there, tense and silent, like he was trying to piece together a threat he couldn’t quite see yet.

You hesitated before speaking. “Harry said he’s short a hand today. Thought I’d go help at the Garrison. Just a few hours.”

Tommy turned then, his eyes narrowing slightly. “No.”

You raised an eyebrow, folding your arms. “It’s been days since anything’s happened, Tommy.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s when people get stupid.”

“I won’t be stupid,” you said calmly. “I’ll be behind the bar, not out wandering the streets. And you’re going to be there anyway, aren’t you? You said you, John, and Arthur were meeting with someone.”

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw clenched, muscles shifting as he stared past you, thinking it through. You could tell he didn’t like the idea of you out in the open, even somewhere familiar. His arms stayed crossed, fingers tapping once against his sleeve, a small habit when he was biting something back.

Eventually, he let out a short breath through his nose and nodded once, sharp and reluctant. “Fine. But you stay inside. Don’t step out for anything. And if something feels wrong—even a little—you tell Harry and he’ll get me straight away. Got it?”

You stepped closer and reached out, resting your hand against the front of his shirt. The fabric was still warm from the morning sun, and you could feel the tension underneath it.

He caught your wrist gently. His eyes locked onto yours, steady and serious and searching yours.

“I mean it,” he said.

You nodded, swallowing. “I know.”

He held your gaze for a moment longer, then dropped his hand. “I’ll be down in the back room by three. Stay where I can find you.”

You headed out for the Garrison just before one. The walk through Small Heath was familiar—same cracked pavement, same rows of soot-streaked brick. You kept your coat buttoned to the collar and your gloves tucked deep in your pockets. The sky was gray, but it wasn’t raining, and the streets were quiet. For once, no one seemed to be staring too long, and no shadows felt like they were trailing behind you.

You kept your pace up, not quite rushing, but not strolling either. The past few weeks had made watching corners, checking over your shoulder, and listening for footsteps that didn’t belong a habit. Even when things seemed quiet, you didn’t let your guard down.

By the time you reached the Garrison, it was already filling up. A few regulars were parked at their usual tables, nursing pints and muttering over the paper. A couple of men from the factory had wandered in early, their work shirts still dusted with coal. The air inside was warm, the floor scuffed, the hum of voices steady but low. 

Harry greeted you with a grateful nod as you stepped behind the bar.

“You’re a blessing,” he muttered, already elbow-deep in washing glasses. “Don’t know how the hell I was going to manage the afternoon rush.”

You smiled faintly. “I missed it here.”

You slipped into the rhythm easily—drying glasses, topping off pints, wiping down counters. The kind of work that let your mind drift while your hands kept moving. Tommy, John, and Arthur arrived not long after and disappeared into the side room with two men in sharp suits and quiet voices. 

Tommy’s eyes found you first.

He gave a small nod as he passed, but he didn’t keep walking right away. He paused at the bar, rested one hand lightly against the edge, and leaned in just enough for his voice to be heard over the quiet hum of the pub.

“All quiet?”

You gave a faint smile, nodding. “So far.”

He studied you for a moment. Then, with the corner of his mouth twitching in something close to a smile, he reached out and gently touched the side of your waist, his fingers brushing the fabric of your dress like he needed to feel you there.

“Won’t be long,” he murmured.

You leaned into the touch, just slightly. “I’ll be here.”

Arthur made a sound behind him, half impatient grunt, half teasing, and John muttered something under his breath about lovebirds.

Tommy cast them both a look, but didn’t take the bait. Instead, he gave you one last glance before disappearing through the side room door with the others. It clicked shut behind them.

You could still hear their muffled conversation through the wall, low tones, nothing distinct. But it was enough to make the space feel protected, for just a little while. Everyone was exactly where they were supposed to be.

You stayed behind the bar, falling into the routine without needing to think much about it. Wiping down the counter. Drying glasses. Restacking the clean ones in neat rows. The usual sounds filled the space, glass hitting wood, stools creaking, quiet conversation in the background.

A few regulars were spread out at the tables, hunched over their pints. Most of them older men, talking low about football scores and council taxes. The radio behind the bar buzzed now and then, playing a scratchy jazz track that didn’t quite fit the room, but no one seemed to care enough to turn it off.

You finished drying a tumbler and placed it on the shelf with the rest, then bent down to grab the small ledger Harry used to track the afternoon’s orders. Nothing unusual. Just another slow, steady day.

You were drying off a short glass when the front door opened with a soft jingle.

You didn’t recognize the man who came in. He wasn’t dressed like a factory worker or one of the usual drinkers that passed through. His posture was straight, his steps steady, none of the tired slouch or fidgeting you were used to seeing in men coming off a shift. He looked put together. Plain coat, well-fitted. Clean shoes. No hat.

He didn’t glance around or take in the room. Just walked straight to the bar like he already knew where he was going and sat down at the far end, quiet and settled, like he had all the time in the world.

You blinked, the cloth stilling in your hand.

He didn’t meet your eye, or say a word. You watched him for a moment, cloth slack in your hand. 

You cleared your throat lightly and stepped a little closer along the bar.

“Can I get you anything?”

Your voice came out steady, casual. But the man didn’t answer.

He didn’t even move.

You waited a beat, brows drawing together.

“Sir?”

Still nothing.

You adjusted your grip on the rag, not because the glass needed more cleaning, but because your hands needed something to do. You weren’t exactly nervous, but something about the way the man sat so still, not moving a muscle, made the air feel heavier. The space behind the bar suddenly felt narrower.

You glanced toward the back room. The door was still closed. You could hear the low murmur of Tommy’s voice through it, along with John and Arthur’s, nothing clear, just the muffled rhythm of conversation.

Everything’s fine, you told yourself.

Maybe he’s just tired. Or lost in thought. Or…

The phone rang, sharp and sudden.

You jumped a little, the sound cutting through the quiet and catching you off guard.

It rang again.

Then, without looking up, the man at the end of the bar finally spoke.

“You’re going to want to answer that.” His voice was low. Smooth. Devoid of urgency, but full of certainty.

You turned to look at him, unsettled by how calm he seemed. He didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

The phone rang again.

A slow, cold feeling crawled its way up the back of your neck. You reached for the receiver, hesitating just a second before lifting it to your ear.

“Hello?”

For a few long seconds, there was nothing but static on the other end. You almost thought it was a deadline, until you heard the heavy breathing. It was light and uneven. Not the breath of someone calm or collected. A little too fast. A little too shallow.

Then, “Hello?”

The voice was small, young, and strained. Your heart dropped. You knew that voice before your mind even caught up.

“Finn?”

A sharp, ragged inhale, he gasped your name. “They’ve got me—” he burst out. “They’ve got me—please—I didn’t know what to do—”

Your heart slammed into your ribs. “Where are you?” you asked, your voice already breaking. “Finn, where are you? Are you hurt?”

“I—I don’t know—” His words tangled over themselves, rushed and panicked. “I was just trying to help—I thought if I followed them, I could find out something—I heard John say they were going to meet someone and I—I thought maybe I could watch from across the street, just in case—”

Your stomach dropped.

“I didn’t tell anyone—I didn’t want to get in trouble—but they grabbed me. They pulled me into a car—I didn’t see their faces—I didn’t see anything—”

He was crying now, or close to it. You could hear the breath catching in his throat.

The words tumbled out, too fast, too choked. You could hear the terror in his voice, that wild edge right before someone starts to scream.

“They said I had to call,” he sobbed. “Said I had to—said if I didn’t—if I didn’t—God, I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I just wanted to help. I thought Tommy would be proud if I did something real. Please, I don’t want to die—”

Your knees nearly buckled. Your eyes flicked back to the far end of the bar. “It’s okay, Finn. You’re going to be okay. Just breathe— okay, love? Just breathe.”

The man at the bar had his hands folded neatly in front of him, unmoved from the moment he’d sat down. But now—his lips curled. Just slightly in an almost imperceptible smirk. Cold. Knowing. Cruel. Like he was enjoying the show.

Your blood ran ice-cold. But just as you opened your mouth, just as you realized what you were really in the middle of, the voice on the line changed. You heard a quiet shuffle, and then someone else took the phone.

“Put Tommy on the line,” the voice said. It was smooth and controlled. 

You turned toward the end of the bar—but the stool was empty. Suddenly, the man was gone. 

You nearly dropped the receiver. Your voice cracked as you shouted over your shoulder. “Harry!”

Footsteps from the back. Then Harry appeared in the hall, startled, wide-eyed.

“Get Tommy,” you said, breathless. “Now.”

Something in your face must’ve told him everything, because Harry didn’t ask a single question—he just turned and sprinted down the hall.

You held the phone to your chest, pressing it tight like you could somehow stop the sound of Finn’s voice still echoing in your ears. Your breath came in short bursts, your chest tight, the ringing in your ears louder than anything in the room.

You didn’t even notice how badly your hands were shaking until the side room door flew open.

Tommy was first through it, followed closely by Arthur and John. All three of them looked alert, ready for a fight.

Tommy spotted you and stopped in his tracks. His eyes scanned your face, then the receiver clenched in your hand. He didn’t ask again. Didn’t need to.

He was across the room in three long strides, jaw tight, shoulders squared.

“What is it?” he said, his voice low and clipped, already bracing for the worst.

You opened your mouth, but no sound came. Your throat locked up. So you did the only thing you could, and you held the phone out to him.

Tommy took the phone from your shaking hand, his eyes never leaving your face. His fingers brushed yours—steady, deliberate—but the way he gripped the receiver was firm, controlled. Like he was already bracing for what he was about to hear.

He raised it to his ear. No greeting. No hesitation. Just silence.

You stood frozen, watching him.

His jaw tightened almost immediately, the muscles along his cheek shifting. His eyes narrowed, focused on some fixed point across the room, but you could tell he wasn’t seeing it. His whole body went still, shoulders squared, chest rigid, as if he were holding himself back from moving, from reacting.

The room had gone quiet, like everyone else was holding their breath.

“Hello?” he said, flat and even, like he wasn’t going to give whoever was on the other end the satisfaction of hearing anything else.

Another pause.

Then his eyes sharpened.

You couldn’t hear what was being said, but you saw the way his expression changed. First the slight flare of his nostrils. Then his lips pressed into a thin line. His grip on the receiver didn’t move, but something in his stance stiffened, like a pressure valve locking into place.

John and Arthur exchanged a glance, but neither interrupted.

Tommy finally spoke again, quiet and low. “I’ll give you one chance to return him alive.”

Another silence. His eyes flicked down, then away, calculating something even as he listened.

“If he’s hurt, there’s nowhere you can go that I won’t find you.” His tone didn’t rise. He didn’t curse or shout. 

You stepped closer without meaning to, your hands still trembling at your sides.

Tommy nodded once, barely perceptible.

Then, calmly, “Tell him if he touches Finn, I’ll put every man with his name in the ground. One by one.”

He listened a moment longer, then lowered the receiver and ended the call with a sharp click.

You didn’t say anything.

No one did at first. 

The silence in the Garrison was thick—crackling.

Then it all shattered.

“What the fuck was that?” John barked, already moving toward you. “How the fuck did they get to Finn? Where was he? Who the hell—”

Arthur’s voice cut over his. “Where were the guards? He wasn’t supposed to be alone—he wasn’t alone—”

“Did he say where he was?”

“Did they hurt him?”

“Jesus Christ—how—” 

The questions came too fast to answer, their words piling on top of each other, louder with each second. You couldn’t keep up. Couldn’t think clearly. It was all noise—panic, blame, disbelief—and none of it told you what you really needed to know.

Your ears were ringing. Your chest was too tight. You were still standing there, but you didn’t feel your body. All you could focus on was the memory of Finn’s voice, thin and terrified, still echoing in your skull.

You didn’t even notice the tears until you felt the heat on your cheeks.

Tommy reached for you without a word.

His hand wrapped around your wrist, not tight, just firm enough to bring you back to yourself. The noise in the room didn’t stop, but it dropped away somehow. You looked up, and he was already watching you, his eyes sharp but steady, locked onto yours like he was trying to pull you out of the spiral.

“Go home,” he said quietly, just to you. “Straight home. Have Harry or someone walk you.”

You shook your head, throat tightening. “Tommy—no.”

“Yes,” he said calmly. 

“I can’t—please, I need to stay—I need to know. I have to help,” you whispered, voice starting to crack. “You don’t understand—Tommy, there was a man—he was sitting right there. I looked at him. I let it happen—”

“Hey.”

His voice cut through the noise—firm, steady, right in front of you.

He stepped in, closing the space between you, and brought his hands to your face. His palms were warm, thumbs brushing just under your eyes as he held your gaze. Then he leaned in, resting his forehead against yours.

The closeness made everything else fall away, the noise, the panic, the sick weight in your chest.

“Look at me,” he said, voice low but clear.

Your eyes lifted to meet his.

“Breathe.”

You tried.

His thumbs brushed the tears from your cheeks.

“I need you to listen to me,” he said, voice low and rough. “I can’t help Finn unless I know you’re somewhere safe. Do you understand?”

You nodded, just barely.

Because if you tried to speak, you'd fall apart again.

Tommy’s hands lingered on your face for a moment longer, thumbs warm against your skin.

Then, gently, he pulled back. “Go home,” he said again, quieter now, but firmer.

You opened your mouth to protest, but he didn’t give you the chance.

“I’m going to ring Polly. She’ll meet you there.” He was already reaching into his coat pocket, pulling out his cigarette case with one hand, the other still hovering close like he didn’t trust you to stay upright.

You swallowed hard, your voice rasping when you finally spoke.

“How do you know where to find him?”

Tommy paused, just for a second. It wasn’t doubt you saw—he never doubted himself. But something flickered behind his eyes. Something darker.

“I recognized the voice,” he said. “The man on the phone. He used to work for Sabini. Now he works for Luca.”

You blinked. “And?”

Tommy’s jaw shifted. “I’ve had someone watching him for weeks. In case Luca ever used him.” He looked you straight in the eye. “He just did.”

A cold wave rolled through your chest.

Tommy exhaled through his nose, slow and sharp, then reached for your coat from behind the bar and helped you into it with a tenderness.

“Go,” he said again, softer now. “I’ll be back when it’s done.”

You hesitated—but he gave you one last look, the kind that left no room for argument.

So you nodded. 

…

As soon as the front door of the Garrison shut behind you, Tommy struck a match and lit a cigarette. His hands were steady. They had to be. There was no room for anything else.

Arthur was already throwing questions into the air, his voice sharp and too loud. John was pacing in tight circles, one arm shoved halfway into his coat, like he was ready to bolt out the door and take on half of Birmingham by himself.

Tommy didn’t look at either of them right away.

He took a slow drag, let the smoke sit in his chest, then exhaled hard through his nose. His mind was already turning, every moving part laid out in front of him like a puzzle with missing pieces. He didn’t need noise. He needed facts. He needed direction.

And right now, the shouting was just slowing him down.

Tommy’s voice cut clean through the noise.

“Quiet.”

They listened.

Tommy exhaled smoke through his nose, eyes locked on nothing and everything all at once.

“Frankie Rossi,” he said.

Arthur frowned. “Who?”

“He used to work for Sabini,” Tommy said. “Now he’s Luca’s. I recognized his voice on the phone.”

John stepped forward. “How the fuck do you know that?”

“Because I’ve been watching him for three weeks,” Tommy said, turning toward them. “Johnny Dogs has had a man on him since Luca first landed in England.”

He flicked the cigarette into the ashtray and grabbed his coat. “They’re at a house on the edge of Small Heath. Old warehouse front, backs onto the canal. Used to move cargo through there before the war.”

Arthur was already grabbing his gun from behind the bar. “You think they’re keeping Finn there?”

“I don’t think,” Tommy said. “I know.”

The plan was already forming before Tommy even finished speaking.

He moved quickly, heading down to the cellar beneath the Garrison, where the air was cold and close and smelled faintly of dust and whiskey. He pulled back the shelf like he had a hundred times before and opened the lockbox behind it.

Two pistols. A sawed-off shotgun. Boxes of ammunition, neatly packed. The tools of survival. Of retaliation. Of this life.

He handed the shotgun to Arthur without a word. Arthur took it without flinching, like it was an extension of his own hand.

Tommy paused for half a second, his eyes scanning the rest of the weapons before settling on one of the pistols. He checked the chamber. Loaded it. Moved on.

But somewhere in the back of his mind, something tugged at him.

How many more times are we going to do this?

How many more enemies? How many more backroom raids, ambushes, retaliation plots? It had been years of this—years of protecting, losing, rebuilding, and starting the cycle all over again. Every time he thought it was done, another threat came crawling out of the dark.

And now it was Finn.

Finn—who should’ve been in school, not in the crosshairs of men like Luca Changretta.

And you, caught in the middle of it all, tied to him in ways he couldn’t undo. 

He was so fucking tired of watching the people he loved pay the price for the life he built.

For a second, he let himself picture it. Something else, something quiet. A house far from Birmingham. No enemies. No weapons. Just you. Maybe even a family, if you wanted that. A place where no one had to look over their shoulder.

But the thought didn’t last long. Because this was his life. And right now, Finn needed him.

He tucked the pistol into his coat and shut the case.

“Johnny Dogs is already posted across the canal,” Tommy said. “He’s been watching comings and goings since last night. Finn’s still alive.”

“How do you know that?” Arthur asked. 

Tommy didn’t flinch. “This isn’t about killing Finn. Not yet. It’s about leverage.”

Arthur scoffed. “Fucking bastards are using him like bait.”

Tommy nodded once. “That’s exactly what they’re doing. They want me to come to them. And I am, which means he’s alive.”

John strapped on his shoulder holster, jaw clenched. “And if he’s not?”

Tommy pulled his coat tighter, reaching into the inner pocket to check the pistol again. 

“Then we kill every fucking man inside,” he said simply. 

No more questions.

They slipped out through the Garrison’s back entrance, coats pulled tight against the wind. A dark blue car waited across the street, one of the newer ones, quiet and unmarked. Curly was already behind the wheel, engine running low.

He didn’t say a word when they climbed in. Just tipped his cap, eyes straight ahead, and hit the gas as soon as the doors shut.

The drive was quick, no one talking. No one needed to.

The warehouse came into view just off the canal road—weather-beaten and quiet. The windows were boarded, the metal siding streaked with rust. Piles of rotting crates sat near the loading dock, half-collapsed, as if no one had touched them in years.

It looked empty. Abandoned.

But Tommy leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing.

In one of the upper windows, tucked behind a broken slat of wood, he caught the faint glow of a cigarette ember. Brief. Flickering. Then gone.

“They’re watching,” he muttered.

Curly killed the engine a block away.

“Park up two streets over,” he told Curly. “Wait there. If you hear gunfire, bring the car ‘round. Fast.”

Curly gave a tight nod. “Right.”

The moment the car slowed, Tommy was out first, moving quickly across the street with Arthur and John close behind. They stuck to the edge of the buildings, boots scraping low over the cobblestone, ducking beneath windows and slipping into the alley that curved behind the warehouse.

Everything smelled like rust and wet wood.

They went the rest of the way on foot, cutting through the alley, boots silent over gravel and brick, hearts pounding in time with the threat.

Tommy stopped at the corner of the building and scanned the loading dock, eyes catching on a narrow side entrance, half-blocked by a stack of crates, but unlocked if you knew how to move right.

He turned to Arthur and John, voice low.

“Johnny Dogs says three inside. Two near the front, one pacing. Finn’s in a back room—tied up, probably watched.”

Arthur’s face was tight, his hands already flexing around the grip of the shotgun.

Tommy went on. “John, you take the rear. Go quiet. If they hear you, they’ll use him.”

John nodded, jaw set.

Tommy turned to Arthur. “You’re with me. Side door.”

He looked at them both—calm, controlled, but cold beneath it.

“We get in. We get Finn. If they point a gun, you shoot. No warning.”

They nodded.

Tommy turned back toward the warehouse before moving. The side door creaked open with a groan, the kind of sound that made every muscle tighten.

Tommy went in first, gun drawn low, Arthur right behind him. The air inside was cold and stale, the sharp tang of oil and old metal cutting through the dust. Their boots moved over concrete scattered with debris—empty crates, glass shards, scraps of rope.

It was too quiet. No shouting. No footsteps. Not even breathing.

Tommy swept the first room with the barrel of his gun. Empty.

They moved forward, careful, step by step, through a narrow corridor that led toward the back of the building. A door at the end hung slightly ajar. A faint light spilled through the crack—just enough to show movement.

Arthur raised the shotgun slightly, finger brushing the trigger.

Tommy glanced back and gave a single nod.

He pushed the door open.

Once they were inside, his eyes instantly landed on Finn. He was tied to a chair, wrists bound in front of him, mouth gagged. His eyes were wide and glassy with fear, blinking rapidly when he saw them. He made a sound—choked, desperate.

Tommy was already moving.

“Clear the room,” he snapped, voice tight.

Arthur swept the far side as Tommy crossed to Finn and dropped to one knee. He cut the ropes with a quick flick of his blade.

“You’re alright,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “You’re alright. We’ve got you.”

But the moment the ropes fell and Tommy pulled the gag free—

Gunfire erupted. 

The warehouse windows shattered as bullets tore through the wall, ripping into the crates stacked nearby.

“Down!” Tommy yelled, grabbing Finn and shielding him with his own body.

Arthur fired blindly toward the upper floor, cursing, the shotgun blasts echoing through the rafters—but there was no clear target. Just shadows moving too fast, boots scrambling over steel beams above them.

“They’re up high!” Arthur shouted. “Can’t get a shot!”

“Cover us!” Tommy barked, his voice raw with urgency.

He crouched low, arm around Finn, trying to move—but more gunfire cracked through the air, forcing them back behind a stack of crates. 

Then, another door slammed open across the room.

“This way!” John’s voice rang out. He burst through the far side of the warehouse, eyes wide, gun raised. “Come on—back entrance’s clear!”

Tommy didn’t hesitate.

He yanked Finn to his feet and threw an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close as they bolted toward John.

Gunfire followed them.

Tommy felt a sudden burn slice across his upper arm—sharp, hot, fast. A bullet had grazed him, tearing through his coat and skin. But he didn’t stop.

“Keep going!” he growled at Finn, forcing himself to keep pace, arm still tight around the boy.

Arthur laid down cover behind them, shotgun echoing through the rafters.

Tommy shoved Finn through the door first, John grabbing him and pulling him clear. Tommy followed a second later, nearly stumbling from the pain in his arm. Arthur barreled through right behind them, breathing hard, shotgun still in hand. He spun to slam the door shut, eyes scanning the alley behind them.

“Fucking trap,” he growled, jamming a rusted metal rod through the handles to seal it. “They wanted us boxed in.”

Tommy turned to Finn, ready to tell him to keep moving, but the look on John’s face stopped him cold.

“Tommy—” John’s voice was sharp, panicked.

Tommy’s eyes dropped.

Blood. Seeping fast through Finn’s shirt, soaking the boy’s side. His knees buckled as the adrenaline started to crash, and John barely caught him in time.

“I’m fine—” Finn mumbled, swaying, trying to stay upright.

“Christ,” Tommy snapped, stepping in and grabbing him before he could fall. He pressed a hand to the wound, trying to slow the bleeding. His own arm throbbed from where the bullet had grazed him, but it didn’t matter. Not right now.

“Help me get him out,” he barked. “Now.”

John adjusted Finn’s arm over his shoulder. Together, they half-dragged, half-carried him down the alley, boots pounding against wet pavement.

Arthur ran ahead. “Car’s waiting!”

Tommy’s jaw was clenched tight, blood smeared across his palm, the boy’s weight dragging heavily between them. Finn was still conscious, but barely—his head lolled, breath shallow, eyes fluttering open and closed.

“Stay with us, Finn,” Tommy muttered, more command than comfort.

“I’m—I’m okay,” Finn tried, but his voice was faint, the words slurred.

“‘Atta boy,” Tommy said. “Just hold on.”

They rounded the corner, and the car came into view, engine running, headlights cutting through the mist. Curly had the back door already open, face pale as he took one look at Finn and swore under his breath.

“Get in!” Arthur barked.

Tommy and John eased Finn into the backseat, careful but fast. Tommy climbed in beside him, pressing down hard on the wound with his sleeve as Finn groaned in pain. Blood was everywhere—on the seat, on Tommy’s hands, on Finn’s shirt already clinging to his skin.

Arthur slammed the door and jumped into the front. “Drive, Curly. Now.”

The car peeled off before the doors were even fully shut.

Tommy leaned over Finn, voice low and steady. “You’re alright. We’ve got you. Just keep your eyes open.”

Finn nodded weakly, but his eyelids were already drooping again.

Tommy looked up at John across from him. “How far to the house?”

“Ten minutes if Curly doesn’t slow down.”

Tommy pressed harder against the wound, ignoring the searing pain in his own arm.

Finn’s head lolled to the side, a low groan leaving his throat.

“Finn!” Tommy said loudly. He glanced down. “Stay with us, Finn.”

But Finn’s breathing was changing—getting faster, more uneven.

And then, he let out a sudden cry. “It hurts!” His voice was hoarse and high with panic.

He jerked beneath Tommy’s hands, trying to twist away. His legs kicked out, heel slamming into the floorboard.

“Don’t touch it! Don’t—don’t—”

“Jesus—” John lunged forward, grabbing Finn’s shoulders as he thrashed. “Finn, calm down! It’s alright!”

But it wasn’t.

The adrenaline that had kept him upright was burning out fast, and now the pain was rushing in, full force. Finn’s body bucked again, arms flailing, knocking into Tommy’s injured arm hard enough to make him grunt.

“Hold him,” Tommy snapped, jaw clenched.

Arthur turned from the front, alarmed. “Christ, what’s happening?!”

Tommy pinned Finn’s torso with one arm and pressed the other down over the wound, even as the boy screamed.

“Stop—! It hurts, Tommy—please!”

Every word was like a blade to the gut. But he didn’t let go.

“You want to live?” Tommy growled, even as his voice cracked at the edges. “Stay fucking still! You hear me?”

Finn sobbed, shaking, but the fight started to drain from him, muscles twitching under Tommy’s grip.

Tommy didn’t loosen his hold. Didn’t let himself soften. Not now. Because if he did, he’d lose the edge—and that could get Finn killed.

So he kept his head down, eyes locked on the blood, and waited for the next corner to bring them home.

The car screeched around the final corner, tires skidding on the wet cobblestone. The house came into view—dim porch light flickering, front steps slick with rain.

Tommy didn’t wait for the car to fully stop.

He threw the door open and climbed out, blood already cold on his hands and sleeves. His coat was soaked through—some of it Finn’s, some of it his own—but he barely felt it.

“John— Get his legs.”

John moved fast, grim-faced, lifting Finn as Tommy took him under the arms. The boy was limp now, head lolling back, face pale and streaked with sweat. His shirt was soaked in blood, clinging to his chest like it had been painted on.

“Easy,” Tommy muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Don’t drop him.”

The front door flew open. Polly stepped out first, already rolling up her sleeves, but her usual composure was shaken. Her eyes locked on Finn, and for just a second, her breath caught. “Christ,” she muttered under her breath, already moving forward.

Then you appeared behind her, barefoot, hair still damp from the bath, one hand braced against the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping you from collapsing.

Your eyes landed on Finn.

Tommy saw the moment the terror hit you. You straightened, voice tight but clear. “Bring him inside. Set him on the kitchen table.”

Polly turned on her heel. “I’ll get towels. Scissors. Whiskey.”

“Boil some hot water,” you added. “And bring anything clean—we’re going to need pressure on that wound until I can see it properly.”

John pushed past you to open the door wider, and Tommy followed, Finn sagging between them. His body felt smaller than it had just minutes ago—light and fragile and far too quiet.

They laid Finn out on the kitchen table, his body slack, blood soaking through the towel Tommy had pressed to his side.

Polly was already moving—dropping a pile of clean rags, bottles, and scissors onto the counter with a loud clatter, hands working fast. You had your sleeves pushed up now, eyes scanning the boy’s body like a battlefield, checking for exit wounds, for signs of shock, for how much time you had. 

Tommy stood back, silent, his hands still covered in blood.

He felt it cooling now, sticky between his fingers, seeping into his cuffs.

“Pulse is weak,” you said, mostly to yourself, voice sharp and clear despite the paleness in your face. 

“Where is it?” Polly asked, already soaking a cloth in the boiled water.

“Lower left side,” you replied. “Looks like it might have nicked something.” 

The chair scraped loudly as Polly pulled it closer, dropping to her knees beside the table to cut Finn’s shirt away. You took a fresh towel, pressed down hard on the wound, and Finn flinched—still barely conscious, but the pain was enough to pull a groan from his throat.

“I know, I know. Sorry, sweetheart,” you whispered, your hand steady even as your voice cracked.

Tommy leaned against the doorframe, watching. Too still. Too quiet. His hands were stained with Finn’s blood, dried now along the cracks in his skin, soaked into the sleeves of his coat. It clung to him like the weight of every bad choice he’d ever made.

He should’ve done more. Should’ve seen the setup for what it was. Should’ve anticipated the ambush. He’d known Luca was clever—calculated. And still, he’d walked right into it. Dragged John and Arthur in with him. Dragged Finn.

He was supposed to protect his family.

And he was failing. Again.

Your eyes lifted suddenly, catching his, just for a second.

It wasn’t anger in your face. Not even shock anymore. It was fear. The real kind. The kind that stayed in your bones long after the bleeding stopped. And somehow, that look hit harder than the bullet had. Because you were supposed to be safe, too. 

And standing there, helpless, Tommy realized what scared him most wasn’t that he’d nearly lost Finn. It was knowing this wouldn’t be the last time. Not as long as he was in charge. Not as long as they lived in his world.

Suddenly, Polly brushed past Tommy, coming back in the room with an armful of bandages and bottles, her shoulder bumping his as she moved toward the table.

He flinched, barely, but it was enough.

You’d been focused on Finn, hands soaked and steady, but at that, your head snapped up. “Are you hit?”

Your eyes scanned him, zeroing in on the tear in his coat sleeve. Dark blood was seeping through the fabric around his upper arm. It wasn’t gushing, but it hadn’t stopped either.

“Tommy.”

He tried to brush it off. “It barely touched me.”

You didn’t move. “Take off the coat,” you said, voice sharper now. “Now.”

He hesitated, eyes flicking to Finn still unconscious on the table, attention now fixated on him. 

“It’s just a graze,” he muttered, jaw tight. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter,” you snapped. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’ve bled before,” he said flatly. “Plenty of times. Focus on Finn.”

You stepped in front of him, towel and whiskey in hand. “That’s not the point.”

He met your eyes, and for a moment, there was something almost defensive there. “You think I can’t handle a scratch?”

“Christ, you’re not invincible!” you snapped, your voice rising louder than you intended. 

He stared at you, caught off guard, the anger in your voice slicing clean through the fog of blood and pain and guilt. 

He finally gave in with a muttered curse, pulling his coat off one arm with a wince. The shirt beneath was soaked through, the fabric torn where the bullet had grazed the muscle.

You grabbed a clean towel from the stack and moved around the table toward him.

“Sit,” you said firmly.

“I’ll stand.”

“You’ll sit,” you repeated, already reaching for the bottle of whiskey Polly had left on the counter. “Why do you have to make everything so damn difficult?” 

He didn’t move. Just stared back at you, jaw set, like sitting down would somehow make it real—make him look weak, or worse, make him feel it.

You stared at him, chest tight, rage and worry caught somewhere between your ribs. His arm was bleeding. His shirt clung to the wound. He was in pain, but still too proud to stop moving, too locked into that damn Shelby armor to admit it.

“Fine. Fucking forget it, then. I’m done.” You let out a frustrated sigh, turning your back to him.You shoved the supplies into Polly’s hands, and stepped back. “Here, you do it.”

Polly didn’t ask questions. Just took the cloth and whiskey, already stepping in.

And you returned to Finn, where your help was actually wanted.

Tommy stayed standing for a beat longer, watching you from across the room.

Your back was to him now, hands moving with purpose as you leaned over Finn, murmuring something low and steady. 

Polly moved around him without a word, inspecting the wound. But Tommy wasn’t paying attention anymore.

And he couldn’t even blame you.

He looked down at the towel in Polly’s hands, at the blood on his sleeve. He didn’t want you to see him like this—tired, bleeding, worn down. He didn’t want you to look at him and see someone breakable and vulnerable.

Because if you stopped seeing him as the one who kept everyone safe, then maybe that meant he really wasn’t. Maybe tonight had proven it.

Polly pressed a cloth to his arm, muttering something about stitches, but Tommy barely heard her.

His eyes were still on you. You were kneeling beside Finn, one hand steady on the boy’s shoulder, the other dabbing gently at the wound with a clean cloth. Your sleeves were rolled up, stained with blood. The set of your jaw was tight, your movements practiced—but your face told a different story.

There was pain there. Not the kind that showed up in screams or gasps, but the quieter kind. The kind that settled behind the eyes. That kind of sorrow that came from watching someone small and innocent hurt—again.

Your brow creased, and for a moment, you pressed your lips together like you were trying not to shake. Not to cry.

And you wouldn’t look at him.

He wanted to say something. Anything.

But he didn’t. He just watched you, silently, as Polly dabbed at the bullet graze on his arm. The sting barely registered.

Because all he could think about was how close you were—how your hands moved with care, how your face held everything you weren’t saying—and how far away you felt.

The tension in the kitchen was thick, broken only by the low crackle of the fire and the rustle of fabric as you worked.

Tommy didn’t look away from you, but it was Arthur who finally spoke.

“Is he—?” His voice was gruff, uncertain. “Is he gonna be alright?”

John hovered behind him, pale and restless, arms folded tight across his chest.

You didn’t look up. You were too focused, one hand applying pressure to Finn’s side, the other shifting his shirt back to expose the wound more fully.

“I don’t know yet,” you said, voice low but firm. “It’s still bleeding more than it should.”

Polly looked up from where she was finishing Tommy’s bandage.

“There’s no exit wound,” you said, shaking your head. 

John swore under his breath.

Polly stood then, wiping her hands, her face pale but composed. “What do you need?”

“Boiling water, the sharpest needle you’ve got, and strong thread. And someone to hold him down if he wakes up.”

Arthur moved without being asked, already heading toward the stove. John didn’t move. He just stared at Finn like he was willing him to start breathing normally again.

You were already reaching for the cloth again, pressing it gently to Finn’s side to slow the bleeding while you worked.

Tommy watched from the chair, his arm bandaged, but his entire body rigid. He’d stopped feeling his own pain a while ago.

You cleaned around the wound as gently as you could, your hands moving with methodical focus. The cloth came away soaked again, darker now. The bleeding hadn’t slowed.

You’d stitched worse in the war. You’d stopped worse bleeds, clamped worse wounds—but not in a kitchen, not with a boy this young, not with this many eyes watching every move you made like it was life or death.

You pierced the skin with the needle once, then twice, working quickly, but every time you pressed, Finn’s breathing hitched again—high and sharp, like he couldn’t quite pull enough air in.

Then you saw it.

The rise and fall of his chest had gone uneven again. Too shallow. Too quiet.

Your hands paused.

“Something’s wrong,” you said quietly.

Polly stepped closer. “What is it?”

You looked up—face pale now, voice thin. “I think the lung’s collapsed.”

That silenced the room.

You glanced back down at Finn. His chest was barely moving now, breath shallow and sharp, each one sounding more strained than the last. His lips were starting to lose color. No matter how much pressure you applied or how steady your hands stayed, it wasn’t enough.

“I can’t do this here,” you said. “Not without a proper chest tube. Not without—everything. I can’t—” Your voice cracked. “I don’t think I can fix him.”

Your hands hovered over Finn’s chest like you didn’t know what to do with them anymore. The cloth was soaked through again. You pressed down, but your fingers were starting to shake.

“I don’t know how to help him,” you whispered, more to yourself than anyone else.

The silence that followed felt heavy, like the whole room had stopped breathing too.

Then Tommy stepped forward. “Then we take him to the hospital,” he said, voice low but solid.

You looked up at him, eyes wide, on the edge of unraveling.

Arthur was already grabbing his coat and heading towards Finn without waiting for permission. John moved toward the front door.

Polly gently touched your back. “Go with him.”

Still frozen in place, you nodded once.

Tommy helped Arthur shift Finn’s weight carefully, lifting him with practiced coordination—one arm under his knees, the other behind his back. Finn didn’t stir. His head lolled slightly against Tommy’s shoulder, lips parted, breaths faint and uneven.

Tommy’s sleeves were streaked with blood again, soaking into the fresh bandage on his own arm. He didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just didn’t care.

You looked over at him briefly as you grabbed the last of the cloths and followed him toward the door.

“I’m sorry,” you breathed, voice cracking.

Tommy didn’t stop walking. But he glanced down at Finn, then over at you—just once. There was a flicker of something in his eyes. Something that almost looked like it might become a reply.

But he didn’t say anything.

His jaw tightened, gaze shifting forward again as he adjusted his grip on Finn.

And then Polly’s voice came, quiet but firm behind you.

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,” she said.

You turned slightly, caught off guard by the weight in her voice. She was standing in the hallway now, hands stained with blood, shoulders squared.

“You’ve saved this family more times than I can count,” she said. “Tonight included.”

You stared at her, throat tightening again.

Polly didn’t flinch under your gaze. She meant every word—stood there like the house itself wouldn’t be standing without you. Like she knew what you’d done, and needed you to know it too.

But still… you nodded once. A small, uncertain gesture. Not quite believing it. Not tonight.

Then you turned.

Tommy was already at the door, Arthur just ahead of him, holding it open as the night air swept in cold and sharp.

You followed them out into the dark, the weight of Polly’s words still hanging in the hallway behind you.

John had the car waiting at the curb, engine running, headlights spilling light across the cobblestones. He jumped out the moment he saw you, flinging open the rear door as Tommy and Arthur carefully maneuvered Finn toward it.

They worked in sync—Arthur easing Finn into the backseat, Tommy supporting his head and shoulders, settling him gently across the bench. Finn was barely responsive now, his breathing shallow and rattling, one hand twitching weakly as they adjusted him.

“I’m going in the back with him,” Arthur said, climbing in beside Finn without waiting for an answer.

Tommy followed, slipping in next to Arthur, one arm braced behind Finn to keep him upright.

John looked over at you. “Come on then.”

You slid into the front passenger seat, pulling the door shut just as the tires rolled forward. No one spoke at first.

The city passed by in a blur, wet streets, shuttered shops, lamplight glinting off puddles. The quiet in the car felt heavy, like everyone was trying not to breathe too loudly.

In the back, Finn let out a low, pained sound. Arthur leaned in, murmuring something under his breath, and adjusted the blanket Polly had wrapped around him.

“That warehouse was a fucking setup,” John muttered after a while, hands tightening on the wheel. “They were watching us the whole time.”

Arthur gave a grunt in agreement. 

“They knew we’d come,” John added, glancing in the rearview. “Knew we’d be too focused on Finn to see the rest of it.”

Tommy said nothing. You glanced over your shoulder briefly. He was staring at Finn—his expression unreadable, his jaw clenched so tight you could see the tension all the way through his shoulders.

His injured arm was pressed tight against his side, blood still soaking through the bandage beneath his coat. But he didn’t seem to feel it. Or he refused to.

The hospital came into view just ahead—pale brick and glowing windows, too quiet for what it was. John pulled the car up near the entrance, tires crunching over wet gravel, engine still humming.

Before the car had even fully stopped, Tommy spoke.

“Park the car,” he said to John, voice low but clear. “Wait fifteen minutes before coming inside. We don’t need all of us storming in. One Blinder’s enough to send the nurses running.”

John nodded, throwing it into park. “You sure?”

Tommy was already opening the back door. “Yeah. You too, Arthur. She’s coming with me.”

No one protested. Together, you lifted Finn out of the backseat. His head rolled slightly against Tommy’s shoulder, but he was still breathing, barely.

Tommy’s jaw tightened. “Let’s go.”

You nodded, falling into step beside him as the hospital doors slid open ahead of you, the lights inside too bright and sterile after the dark chaos of the last few hours.

The doors slid open with a mechanical hiss, and the second you were through, Tommy’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding. 

“We need help!”

Heads turned. A nurse behind the front desk froze for half a second before jumping to her feet and calling for a stretcher.

Within moments, two more nurses and a young doctor came rushing down the corridor toward you.

“Gunshot wound,” you said quickly, breathless. “Male, twelve. Entrance wound low on the left side, we think the lung’s collapsed. He’s losing blood fast.”

“Is he breathing?” one of the nurses asked, already pulling on gloves.

“Yes,” you answered. “It’s shallow—one side more than the other. He’s been like this for at least twenty minutes.”

They didn’t hesitate. One nurse reached for Finn’s legs while another supported his back, and gently, they took him from Tommy’s arms.

Tommy didn’t let go right away.

The second they pulled Finn’s weight from him, it was like something dropped out of his chest. He straightened slowly, blood smeared up both arms, across the front of his coat. The warmth of it gone, leaving only the weight behind.

The nurses disappeared down the corridor with Finn on the stretcher, voices overlapping—orders, vitals, prep.

And then it was quiet again. You stood beside him, still staring down the hall where they’d taken Finn. The doors had already swung shut behind the stretcher, and the sound of rushing feet had faded.

Silence pressed in again. The kind of quiet that made everything feel worse.

You looked down at Tommy’s hands. Blood everywhere. Caked along his knuckles, soaked into the sleeves of his coat, smudged across the edge of his collar.

Still, without thinking, you reached for him. 

Your fingers brushed his first, tentative—but he didn’t pull away. You threaded your fingers through his, gently, like you were afraid he’d vanish if you held too tight. 

He looked down, eyes flicking to the contact, then up to your face.

His hand was warm, but stiff. Like even now, even after everything, he wasn’t sure he deserved this—your touch, your calm, your choice to stay.

For once, he didn’t speak. He didn’t argue. Instead, he just stood there, letting you hold his hand like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

And maybe it was.

In the silence of the hospital corridor, with fluorescent lights buzzing and footsteps echoing from down the hall, it was the only real thing left. 

Just you.

And him.

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