#I'm getting a good grade in teeth

[always-a-slut-4-ghouls]

I gotta stop saying "left eye" first whenever someone proposes a saw trap where they remove parts of your body. I could be getting free wisdom tooth surgery

[braceletofteeth]

“don't you crave praise from your paren-” i crave praise from my dentist only

[misscrazyfangirl321]

What is it about brushing my teeth the night before going to the dentist that makes me feel like I'm cramming for a final exam?

[watermelinoe]

i miss traditional college i would've had so much more fun and a 3.9 gpa if it weren't for the pain disorder >:(((

[dumbhero]

finally got to floss my teeth for the first time in years my future dentist is gonna be so proud

[pearlymel]

REASSURANCE

Synopsis. Caleb wants to make sure that you can rely on him, and only him.

Warnings. NSFW, smut, fem reader, obsessive Caleb, fluff, angst, yandere caleb(?), fingering, unprotected, kinda rough, first time sex, 3k ish words.

notes. Caleb's myth just dropped wtf I need him (yeah I'm a Caleb fucker now :p)

Wearing a bell so that you wouldn't escape in your injured state…

Did you hear that right?

No, is he hearing himself?

“what the hell are you spouting?”

Oh, he's heard himself just fine. Heard it inside his head for years. Just as he's heard the excuses you make every time you try to slip away, as if he can't see through them. "I think you heard what I said, pipsquick. Just didn't get it through that pretty head of yours."

He squeezes your ankle lightly, many times you tried pulling away from, but his Evol makes sure you stay. Afraid he might snap it, you freeze. He could.

"Caleb," you try again, this time using that sweet sweet method. calling him using the softest voice.

And the tone almost works. Almost.

"I'm getting tired, and it barely hurts anymore, you can leave me alone." you try convincing him, to get past him.

But nothing ever gets past him, no?

He's always had a hard time telling you no anyways, and he's tempted to give in again. Still, his gaze is hard; he knows you're just biding your time again.

You get a passing grade, though. Not many people could distract him when he's like this...and the tone you use is so terribly effective.

"leave you alone? After you're hurt? Cute. No." But he's still in that mood, so he continues, "keep still. I'm going to clean the wound.”

You grit your teeth together, that method is slowly becoming useless on him.

You comply, for now. doesn't mean you won't struggle later.

Caleb's lip raises slightly, Good. Be quiet a little longer.

He takes your compliance as his win, a faint smirk barely visible on his face as you finally stop resisting. Of course he knows you're just doing it to avoid fighting him at this moment, but he'll take what he can get.

“… Did you mean it?” you break the silence, and he glances up at you with a brow slightly arched.

“putting on.. The bell.” you continue.

"Oh, you mean the collar?"

His hands still for a few seconds, he's not used to you asking about things like this; even at the mention of it, his mind drifts to how you might look wearing it.

"Why? Are you… into that kind of thing?" His voice takes a lower turn, slightly too eager; and your eyes widen a fraction.

“No.” The answer is immediate, you would never put yourself in a situation where it would get… Humiliating.

“Shame.” Caleb scoffs out a chuckle while shaking his head, you're so proper, aren't you? Always proper, polite, kind. A good girl.

So proper, but you're here right now, injured, and on the sofa in his apartment, no less. That innocence is something he'll treasure, but that doesn't stop him from wanting to find ways to defile your purity.

Sick and humiliating...that's how you see it.

He finishes with your leg, then reaches for your chin, tilting your face forward to look at him.

"Let me ask you something first. Honesty, okay?”

You don't answer.

He raises your chin just a little higher, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"No more trying to escape. Do you understand?”

But you shake your head.

His grip tightens just a little bit when you refuse, irritation flaring up. Of course you don't want to understand.

He sighs, restraining the dark emotions bubbling in his chest, forcing his grip to soften again.

"Of course you don't." His hand leaves your chin, his touch moving to the side of your face, his fingers running down along your skin. Soft and warm, and so painfully easy to break.

“let me out,” It almost sounds like a whine from you, and it makes his blood burn.

His hand slides down to your hand, interlocking your fingers together, “No.” his answer is clear, firm.

“I don't need you!” you hiss out through gritted teeth. “Oh, you need me. Don't you get it? I'm the only one who can protect you.” his tone almost sounds crazed.

You scoff, “you're crazy.”

Caleb's cheek brushes against the back of your hand, and a smile graces his face at your words.

You call him crazy, as if your entire existence isn't enough to drive him to madness.

"I am crazy, yeah," he breathes out, a kiss on the back of your hand follows after, "Just for you. I'm so crazy for you.”

“Caleb!” you raise your voice, shaking his shoulder with your free hand, as if trying to knock some sense into him.

“Stop yelling.”

“or what?”

You always do this, and he's getting tired of it.

“or what?” He mocks you, “Don't test me.”

You freezes once more, almost in disbelief at his words.

Your childhood friend is not in his right mind, you know it. You've known each other since forever. Been together since forever.

His hand moves to your neck, his thumb lightly stroking the skin there.

“I won't escape.” his gaze snaps to your face as you speak again, “just.. Just let me out for now, Caleb.”

His gaze then drops to your neck, watching the way his thumb brushes over your skin.

It feels so fragile, so delicate. He's suddenly reminded of how easy it would be for him to wrap his hand around your throat and—Stop it.

He shakes the thought away, forcing himself to focus on your face again. Your words, your tone; they sound like a promise. Something he's waiting for you to actually keep.

"Do you actually mean it this time? Or is this another promise you're going to break?”

“I mean it,”

His instincts are telling him you're lying to get his guard down; you've tried it before, many times.

“Caleb…?”

He's not having it.

Every time you've promised to stay, and you ran off.

Every time you said you'd be careful, and you put yourself in danger.

Every time you said you'd listen, and you deliberately crossed the line to frustrate him.

He's sick and tired of it. Sick and tired of all of it.

Don't you understand? He just wants to keep you safe. With him.

He's just staring at you, his emotions a chaotic mess. He can see the look on your face, the way you avoid looking at him.

It makes his heart ache. Having reached this point where trust is on the line, where you both don't trust each other anymore.

He's done this. He's hurt you.

His throat feels tight and constricted, and he can't help but ask, "you... you really hate me, do you?”

When you're unable to answer him, his face falls. You hate what he has become, but you don't hate Caleb himself. No, never.

He's always known who he is, but this...he's never hated himself as much as he does right now.

"Maybe I shouldn't have come back," he murmurs, the words almost too quiet to hear. Although you catch on the words quickly.

“nonsense.” you shake your head, “I’m…” you pause, “I'm sorry if I hurted you with my words, please don't leave.”

You're apologizing to him. And it tears him up even apart.

You're all that I have left, you think.

…

Even in the vast emptiness of the apartment, he still feels lonely, he still misses your presence.

He's been alone in the living room for an hour now, and he's restless. His thoughts keep going back to you, he keeps thinking about you behind the closed door of the bedroom (where he carried you to, where you're currently resting), and he can't just sit still.

He can't get the image of you out of his head, and the fact that you're so damn close but yet so far away is driving him insane.

He knows he should just let it go, let you be mad, upset at him if that's going to keep you.

He approaches the door and stops for a moment, his hand resting on the handle.

He can hear the faint sound of you moving around in there, the sound of bed sheets rustling, and he knows you're in his room, his bed.

It's weird, knowing you're avoiding him but seeking comfort in his room, but he can't help but find it a little endearing at the same time.

He feels like it's a mistake to enter the room without knocking first, but he needed to see you now. Needed to know if you were doing okay.

And there he was met by the sight of you. his bed, his pillow, his blanket, and you're just there, buried under the covers, and he can just feel the urge to join you.

He steps inside, closing the door behind him, and he just stands there for a moment.

You call out to him in a low tone, “Caleb…?”

"Yeah?" He responds, taking a few more steps towards the bed, the covers covering most of your form, but he can still see your face peeking out.

“What's wrong?”

He sits down on the edge of the bed, the mattress shifting slightly under his weight. He looks down at you, his gaze soft as he speaks.

"Nothing's wrong."

He's lying.

He's here because he can't stop thinking about you, he's here because he needs to see you, he's here because he needs to be close to you.

You feel even sleepier when he touches you, running his hand through your hair, his fingers gently stroking your scalp, and he can feel the way you lean into him, seeking more.

He wants more too. It reminds you of so many nights when you both were teenagers, when you would struggle to sleep, or when you needed some comfort after failing an exam. And he would promise to teach you the subject, even if he had to learn it all.

“I’m sorry about… earlier.” he starts, leaning in to press a kiss on your forehead. “i didn’t mean to scare you.” he adds. I just want to be the one you would lean onto, the one you would rely on to protect you.

You're silent again, half asleep, the sight is quite adorable, the gentle presses and caresses on your head doesn't stop.

“hey, pipsquick,”

You almost smile at the familiar nickname.

“honey?”

Your eyes now fully opened as he grabbed your attention.

You both are really no longer kids…

…

You feel heat rush through your neck, to your ears, is this even okay? Crossing that invisible line?

“Caleb—ah—slow down,” his lips finds yours again, everywhere his lips can reach, until you're relaxed enough underneath him.

All while his fingers continue to curl deep into that spongy spot deep inside your tight hole, his palm never forgetting to press into your swollen bundle of nerves that already has you rolling your eyes back.

His other hand slides up your body to cup your breast, kneading the soft mound, teasing your nipple until it peaks into a hard, aching bud. And Caleb watches your every reaction, how your jaw hangs open as he rolls it between his fingers, pinching and tugging until your back arches off the mattress.

Caleb knows he should slow down, should give you a moment to catch your breath, to come down from the heights of pleasure he's brought you to. But he can't, not when he knows he's the one making you feel like this, all for him. Your first and last.

“p-please enough, just—just put it in,”

Your plea doesn't go unheard by him, “Oh, my sweet girl.” he purrs as he reaches down to undo his pants, the sound of his zipper descending seeming obscenely loud in the silence of the room.

He pulls out his cock, and your eyes widen at the sight of it, a gasp escaping your kiss-swollen lips. He's… huge.

the thick shaft throbbing and hard, the tip already glistening with the drops of pre-cum. Caleb wraps a hand around himself, stroking slowly, his thumb swiping and rubbing over the leaking slit.

Fuck, he's hot.

Upon sensing the nervousness creeping in, he reaches up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. "I know it's a lot to take in, but don't worry. I'll be gentle... at first.” he whispers the last part, and you don't think you quite caught on.

He takes your hand and guides it to his cock, wrapping your fingers around his thick shaft, showing you how to stroke him, how to feel every pulsing inch of him. "Get a good grip, sweetheart," he instructs, he starts to move your hand up and down his length. "Squeeze me just like that, sweets. Yeah, fuck..." He throws his head back with a low groan as your fingers tighten around him, his hips rocking into your touch.

With his other hand, he reaches down to your thigh, lifting your leg up to wrap around his waist, opening you up to him.

“up, up, there we go,” you lift your hips as told, and your hand freezes when he starts pushing in your entrance, your hands scratching at his chest panickingly.

“breathe,” he murmurs, leaning to kiss your shut eyelids while he rubs your thigh comfortingly until he buries himself to the hilt.

his hips starts to move after giving you a moment to adjust, not withdrawing completely, but rolling and rocking against you, stirring himself inside your clutching cunt.

“Caleb..” you whine, bringing him closer as you wrap your arms around him, "Shh, it's okay, baby. I've got you," he murmurs against your lips, his hand coming up to stroke your hair, to cup your face tenderly. "I know it hurts, but I promise, it will feel so much better soon.”

Caleb starts to move again, his thrusts still slow and careful. He can feel your body starting to relax, "you're doing so well," he praises, and you start to rock your hips against his, meeting his thrusts with your own.

"Such a good girl, taking your first cock like a pro.” he teases, and you huff, feeling your face heat up.

He takes your hand into his, intertwining your fingers together while picking up the pace as leans down to capture your lips in a searing kiss, swallowing your moans, his tongue delving to tangle with yours.

he starts snaps his hips faster, driving into you with hard, deep thrusts that's having the headboard slamming against the wall. Until both of you are moaning and whimpering desperately.

His other hand grips your hip, holding you in place as he fucks into you with wild abandon, chasing his own release even as he demands yours. “haaah, I'm so close,” he pants against your lips, his hips jerking erratically as he feels his balls tightening, his shaft pulsing inside you. “let's cum together, please honey,”

Your walls spasm around his cock, gripping him like a vice as your orgasm rips through you, leaving you trembling and gasping. The feeling of your pussy clamping down on him, milking his shaft, is too much for Caleb to bear. With a whimper of your name, he buries himself to the hilt, his cock pulsing and jerking as he starts to come hard, flooding spurt after spurt of his hot, thick cum.

his weight pressing you into the mattress as he grinds his hips against yours, working his cock inside you, making sure every last drop of his cum does not go to waste.

He can feel the warm, sticky fluid starting to seep out around his shaft, dripping down to soak the sheets beneath you.

Then, silence. Accompanied by both your heavy breathings.

…

He's holding you in his arms, your body molded to his, and for a moment, the world feels like it's at peace. Caleb is whispering sweet nothings into your ear, his lips brushing against your skin, his hands stroking your hair. His voice is soft, gentle, and he's holding you like you're the most precious thing in the world.

“I'm sleepy,”

He rubs your back gently, his hand moving in slow circles, and he can feel the way you melt even more against him, "you can sleep. I'm here.”

[missdynamighttt]

sigh... bf! katsuki wasn’t the type to let anyone get away with slacking off, especially not you.

he’d been noticing the way you’d been procrastinating, pushing everything to the last minute. he didn’t mind when you were distracted sometimes, but when it became a pattern? hell no.

one afternoon, you were sprawled out on the couch, phone in hand, scrolling mindlessly through social media when katsuki marched in, clearly fed up.

"oi," he growled, standing over you with his arms crossed. "the hell do you think you’re doing?"

you looked up, giving him a tired smile. "just taking a break, katsuki. i’ll get back to it soon."

"bullshit," he snapped, his fiery eyes locking onto you. "you've been taking breaks all day. what’s your excuse this time?"

you sighed, sitting up. "i don’t know. i.. can’t get into it. my brain’s just all over the place."

he walked over to the couch, sitting down beside you and giving you a quick, pointed look. "you’ve been wasting time for hours. you know that, right? if you keep this shit up, you’re gonna be behind."

you shook your head, feeling a little guilty. "i know... i just don’t feel.. motivated."

katsuki’s gaze softened, but there was still an edge to it. "i get it, okay? you’re tired, you’re stressed, but you can’t let this shit slide. you’re smarter than this. you know that."

he leaned in a bit, his voice growing lower, almost like a challenge. "so you’re gonna sit here and waste your potential? huh? is that what you’re gonna do?"

you paused, your mind racing. he was right. you were better than procrastinating, better than letting your goals slip away. katsuki knew how to light a fire under your ass, even without trying too hard.

"fine," you muttered, getting up from the couch. "i’ll study."

"good," he huffed, giving your shoulder a quick shove. "get your shit together. and when you’re done, i’ll reward you. but don’t think you’re getting anything until i see results."

you rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile creeping onto your face. katsuki may have been rough around the edges, but he always knew how to push you in the right direction.

you hummed, flipping through your notes. "what's the reward, anyway?"

his grin was downright evil. "wouldn't you like to know?"

the next few hours were grueling. every time you lost focus, you’d catch katsuki’s gaze burning into you, silently daring you to slack off. and every time you did, his voice would cut through like a knife.

"oi. focus."

"don't even think about picking up your phone."

"you got five more pages. don’t quit now."

it was relentless, but it worked. you were powering through more than you had in the past few days combined. and admittedly? it was kind of hot seeing how serious he was about you succeeding.

eventually, you slammed your textbook shut, sighing dramatically.

"alright. i'm done. can i get my reward now?"

katsuki didn’t move from his spot on the couch, just raised a brow.

"let me see."

"what—"

"your notes. show me."

groaning, you brought your notebook over, dropping it into his lap. he actually flipped through it, scanning your work like he was grading you. "hmph. not bad. you finally use that brain of yours, huh?"

you pouted. "okay, great. can i get my reward now?"

"tch. desperate, huh?"

"you promised—"

"and i'm a man of my word, ain't i?"

the next thing you knew, he was on you. soon enough, his hands were on your hips, yanking you down onto his lap. his mouth was on yours, hot and hungry, like he’d been waiting for you to finish just so he could devour you.

"katsuki—" you gasped between kisses, "i thought the reward was gonna be like... dinner or something."

"dinner’s later," he growled, his teeth scraping against your jaw. "this is your reward."

and ohhh, he rewarded you alright. every kiss, every touch was dripping with pride — like he was genuinely turned on by you grinding through your study session.

"so fuckin’ proud of you, baby," he murmured against your skin as his hands slid under your shirt, "knew you could do it. my smart fuckin’ girl."

it caught you off guard — the way your eyes started to sting when he called you that.

you hadn’t even realized how much you needed to hear that. how much you’d been doubting yourself lately — feeling like you weren’t doing enough, like you were somehow always behind. and here katsuki was, holding you close, praising you like you’d just moved mountains.

"hey…" his voice softened, your shaky breath giving you away. "shit, baby, what’s wrong?"

"n-nothing," you sniffled, wiping at your face. "sh-shit, i’m sorry... i’m just... being stupid. i didn’t mean to be... a turn-off or anything, holy fuck..."

"nah, nah, don’t gimme that," he said, tipping your chin up so you couldn’t hide. "what is it? c’mon, sweets.. talk to me."

"i just..." you let out a weak laugh, embarrassed at how emotional you’d gotten. "you called me your smart girl, and i... i don’t know. i guess i haven’t really... felt like one, lately."

his brows furrowed, like the thought alone pissed him off. "that’s bullshit. you're smart as hell — way smarter than you give yourself credit for. don’t care how long it takes you to get something done; you always pull through. always."

his thumb brushed over your cheek, wiping away a stray tear. "and i’m proud of you. so fuckin’ proud, y’hear me?"

that did it. you broke down, melting into his chest as he held you close, murmuring soft reassurances into your hair.

"s’okay," he whispered, rocking you gently. "gotcha. always gotcha, baby."

and he did. katsuki wasn’t the type to throw around words like that easily — so when he said he was proud of you?

he meant it.

‎‧₊˚✧[ it's me, kia ! ]✧˚₊‧ ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ ‎‧₊˚✧[ more of katsuki ! ]✧˚₊‧

⋆˚࿔ kia's note ˚⋆ been procastinating a lot lately and im getting there(?) hope you guys arent like me, procrastinating is a bitch😵‍💫 hope you guys enjoyed and if no one told you this yet, im really really proud of you💜💜

[alexiroflife]

"first day"

fluff, happy fushiguro family, slice of life, megs' first day of school send-off

Synopsis: you've been dating toji for a while now and megumi subconsciously calls you mom for the first time on his way out the door

to sum it up: you adore the little family you've come to be a part of

WC: 1,701

Warning(s): none

"Megs!" you call out, standing by the front door awaiting the dark-haired boy's arrival. He soon shuffles around the corner from his room, throwing a bag over his shoulder with a tired expression on his face.

His father turns to watch him walk in, crossing his arms as he leans against the counter. "The hell were you doing in there that took you so long?"

"Nothing," Megumi grumbles, moving to brush past the two of you to rush to the door. "I just wanted to look presentable, that's all."

"So you took thirty minutes to get ready?" Toji quirks a brow.

"Believe it or not, dad, some would say that's not enough time to get ready in the morning."

"Not at all, actually," you agree.

Toji tugs the corner of his mouth in judgment. " Well, you should know," he says to you. "You spend at least ten years in the bathroom when we have somewhere to go."

You scoff, rolling your eyes. "That's such an overreaction. I never take any longer than an hour." Megumi and his father exchange knowing looks and you place your hand on your hip. "What?"

"Don't worry baby," Toji assures you. "It's okay to be in denial."

"We've timed it before. The last time we all went out to dinner as a family, you took two and a half hours to get dressed," Megumi adds.

"That's only because I had to shower and pick out an outfit then do my hair and makeup," you defend.

"Isn't that a little overkill? It takes me half that time to shower, get dressed, eat breakfast, and get some homework done."

"Whatever. Your sister would understand," you sigh.

"Unfortunately, she may be worse than you."

"Women," Toji tsks. You slap his bicep and he pretends to flinch, smirking down at you playfully. "Ouch."

"Alright, well, I'm ready now. I don't wanna be late," the sixteen year old says, turning back to reach for the door handle.

"Ah ah ah, wait!" you stop him. "You're not going anywhere without me getting a good look at you. Turn around, I wanna see how the uniform fits."

Megumi lowers his head and complies, turning back around stiffly for you to admire him. You press your hand to your lips to conceal your smile, eyes gleaming with pride as you look over the sharp navy jacket and pants he adorns.

"Awwww," you coo. "It fits perfectly! How does it feel?"

"Pretty good," Megumi nods, moving his arm around slightly to show his mobility in the fabric. "It's comfortable too. It shouldn't be a problem during missions."

"I still can't believe how quickly time has gone by," you muse. "You're already going into your first year at Jujutsu High! Are you excited?"

"You better be," Toji grunts. "Your uncle Gojo hasn't gotten off my ass about your enrollment for years. At least now, he'll finally shut up."

"I still don't understand why I have to have him as a teacher. He's such a moron, I doubt he'll teach us anything useful," Megumi mumbles.

"Moron or not, he's the strongest sorcerer of the modern age and he's helped out so much. I'm sure he'll be able to give you a good experience," you say positively.

"We talkin' about the same Gojo here? The one who trashed my house playing tag with Megumi and the dogs in the living room?" Toji points out and his son grits his teeth at the memory.

"Oh come on, Satoru was like twenty one back then. I can only imagine the crazy shit you've with the kids when you were raising them," you tease.

"You don't even want to know," Megumi exhales.

"Please, you came out just fine, didn’t ya?” Toji says, reaching out his hand to ruffle at Megumi's spiky hair. The teen recoils, craning his head away and shielding himself with his arm.

"Quit it. I'm not five anymore."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. You're all grown up now, I know. Gonna be a first-grade sorcerer before I can even blink an eye."

"Who said that I would be first grade? I'm only a first year."

"Yeah, and look at who your pops is," Toji grins. "Plus, you got an advantage that I never had. You'll do just fine."

Megumi hums indifferently, doubting himself momentarily but accepting the words nonetheless. "Alright, are we ready?"

"No, not yet!" you pull out your phone quickly and open the camera. "I need to get pictures."

The blue-eyed boy slumps. "(Y/n), I gotta go."

"I know, I know, just a few," you promise, holding your camera up to capture his awkward figure in the frame. "Okay, smile."

Megumi doesn't, and of course you don't actually expect him to. Instead, he calmly stares at the camera with his arms at his sides, unsure of what to do with themselves. Toji moves to stand behind you, leaning down to take a peak at the million pictures you're snapping.

"Toji, go stand with him so I can get one with the both of you."

The two groan simultaneously. "Doll, can we just focus on gettin' the kid to school?"

"It's fine. His stuff is already moved into his dorm. We have time."

"But-"

"Shut up and go stand with your son, now," you glare firmly up at the green-eyed man and he huffs.

"Yes, ma'am."

Toji raises a hand to his hip and tilts his head boredly as he stands beside Megumi, the two of them sharing the exact same blank stare as they look into the camera. You squeal happily. "You two are so cuteee!"

"We done, now?"

"No, I wanna get one more with Megs, and then I'm good." The boys give you a look, but you wave them off. "I mean it! Gosh, here Toji. Take our picture."

Toji obliges, grabbing your phone from your hand as you rush over to the tall boy. His expression melts into serenity as you place your hands on his shoulders and lean your head against his arm, smiling widely at the camera as a hint of a smile touches Megumi's lips.

Toji's heart warms at the sight, watching the way his son grows comfortable in your presence. The picture of the two of you looks so natural t to him like you are meant to be a part of his family, which he knows you are.

He snaps the photo and nods. "Got it."

You exhale, turning to face Megumi. You brush your hands over his shoulders to straighten his jacket, ridding it of any lint and wrinkles. "Okay, Megumi, please remember to be safe."

"I know. I will," he nods.

"And don't be too reckless when it comes to training."

"I won't."

"And try to make friends. I know how easy it is for you to push others away."

"I'll try."

You press your lips together with a final sigh, looking over Megumi's face warmly. You wrap your arms safely around him into a hug, your emotions getting the best of you. You have spent the past year caring for Megumi like your own, and watching him head off to achieve his goals makes your heart swell with joy and fear all the same.

"Text me or your father or Tsumiki if you need anything. Anything at all," you tell him. He returns your hug gently.

"Okay," he chuckles lightly and you pull away. "Don't worry, I'll be fine."

"...I know you will..." you pout. "Okay, I'll let you go. Good luck. I hope you have an amazing first day. I'll see you at the end of the week, yeah?"

"Mhm. I'll call you to let you know how the day went later."

"Please do."

Toji hands you back your phone and walks toward the door with Megumi. "Let's get a move on," he says. He leans over quickly to peck your lips farewell. "I'll be back in a few."

"Don't speed, Toji."

"Speeding gets you places quicker," he winks and you suck your teeth disapprovingly. Megumi opens the door, his dad gripping the frame.

"Bye, boys. Stay out of trouble," you wave, eyes glassy as you watch Megumi walk out.

"See ya, doll."

"Bye, mum."

The three of you freeze the second the words hit the air, everyone stilling in their tracks.

You feel your heart burst as overwhelming happiness consumes you. Megumi keeps his face forward, hiding his reddening cheeks as he processes what he has just said. Toji stares at the back of his son's head, eyes wide, before he turns to look at you to find your shocked, giddy face.

You don't have any time to reply when Megumi clears his throat suddenly, sweat dotting his forehead, and he walks rigidly out of the house and swiftly down the hall without looking back.

Toji stays behind, keeping an eye on you when you look up at him, stunned. "Did he just...?" you murmur.

"Yep."

Your eyes immediately well with tears and your lips wobble, your hands flying over your mouth. "He sees me as his mom?" you whisper.

Toji chuckles, ducking down to you with his hand still gripping the door. "Of course he does. He's always adored you. Him and Tsumiki."

"I'm gonna cry."

The assassin chuckles softly, pressing his thumb to the corner of your eye gently. "You're already cryin.'"

"Shut up," you sniff. "God, I love those kids so much. I just wanna give him all the hugs in the world."

"And you'll be able to. There isn't a better woman on this planet to be there for the kids," he kisses your cheek. "That's why I plan t'marry you someday."

"Fuck you, Toj. You're gonna make me cry even more."

"Sorry, baby. Can't help talkin' about it," he leans back to the doorway. "Let me get the kid squared away and make sure he's not dyin' of embarrassment, then I'll be back to talk to ya about makin' this official."

"You're being for real?"

"Of course I am."

You lower your hands and beam. "Tell Megumi I love him and get back here soon."

"I will," he hums. "But I thought you said no speeding?"

"Just- make sure the two of you at least get to the school in one peace."

He smirks. "Will do, doll."

[inkskinned]

most writing advice is good as long as you know why it is good, at which point it is also bad. the hardest thing (and most precious thing) about being an artist is that you gotta learn how to take critique. i don't mean "just shut up and accept that people hate your work," i mean you need to learn what the critique is saying and then figure out if it actually helps.

i usually tell people reading my work: "i'm collecting data, so everything is useful." i ask them where they put the book down, even though it's too long for most people to read in 1 sitting. i ask them what they thought of certain characters. i let them tell me it was really good but i like it more when they look a little stunned and say i forgot i was reading your book, which means they forgot i exist, which is very good news.

sometimes people i didn't ask will read my work and tell me i don't like it. and that is okay, you don't have to like it. but i look at the thing that they don't like and try to figure out if i care. i don't like that you don't capitalize. this one is common, and i have already thought about it. i do not care, it's because of chronic pain and frankly i like the little shape of small letters. you use teeth and ribs in all your work. actually that is very true. i don't know what's up with that. next time i will work to figure out a different word, thank you. you're whiny, go outside. someone said that to me recently and it made me laugh. i am on the whine-about-it website as an internet poet. you are in my native habitat, watching me perform a natural enrichment behavior. but i like the dip of whiny, how the word itself does "whine" (up/down, the sound out your nose on the y), but i don't know if i want to feel whiny. maybe next time i will work on it being melancholy, like what you would call a male writer's poetry.

repeated "good" advice clangs in a bell and doesn't hold a real shape, dilutes in the water. like sometimes you will hear "don't use said." you turn that around in your head and it bounces off the edges of your brain like it is a dvd screensaver. it isn't bad advice, but it feels wrong somehow, like saying easy choices are illegal! sometimes i will only use "said." sometimes i will just kick dialogue tags out to the trash. sometimes i make little love poems where the fact that i do not say "said" is very bad, and makes you feel bad in your body, because someone didn't say something. i am a contrary little shitbird, i guess.

but it is also good advice, actually. it is trying to say that "said" sometimes is clutter. it makes new writers think about the very-small words and very-small choices, because actually your work matters and wordchoice matters. "i know," you said. "i know," you sighed. "i know." we both know but neither of us use a dialogue tag, because we are in a contemporary lit piece.

it is too-small to say don't use said. but it is a big command, so it gets your attention. what are you relying on? what easy choices do you make? when you edit, do you choose the same thing? can you make a different choice? sometimes we need the blankness of said, how it slides into the background. sometimes we don't.

i usually say best advice is to read, but i also mean read books you don't like, because that will make you angry enough to write your own book. i also mean read good books, which will break your heart and remind you that you are a very small person and your voice is a seashell. i also mean you need to eat books because reading a book is a writer's version of studying.

my creative writing teacher in the 7th grade had a big red list of no! words and on it was SUNSET. RAZORS. LOVE. GALAXY. DEATH. BLOOD. PAIN. I liked that razor and love were tucked next to each other like birds, and found it funny that he believed we were too young to know the weight of razor in the context of pain. i hated him and his Grateful Dead belt, where the colored teddy bears held up his appraisal of us. i hated his no list. it is very good/bad advice. i wasn't old enough yet to know that when you are writing about death you are also writing about sunsets and when you write about love you are tucking yourself into a napkin that never stops folding.

back then my poetry was all bloody, dripped with agony when you picked it up. i didn't know there is nothing beautiful about a razor, nothing exciting about pain. i just understood sharpness, which he took to mean i understood nothing. i wrote the razor down and it wasn't easy, but it was necessary. that's what i'm saying - sometimes it's good advice, because it's not always necessary. and sometimes it is very bad advice, because writing about it is lifesaving.

hang on my dog was just having a nightmare. i heard that it is a rule not to write about dogs - in my creative writing mfa, my teacher rolled her eyes and said everyone writes a dead dog. the literature streets are littered in canine bodies. i watched the rise and fall of his ribs (there is that word again) and had to reach out and stop the bad dream. when he woke up he didn't recognize me, and he was afraid.

it is good/bad advice to say that poems and writing have to mean something. it is bad/good advice to say they're big feelings in small packages. it is better advice to say that when my dog saw where he was, he relaxed immediately, rubbed his face against me. someone on instagram would make fun of that moment by writing their "internet poetry" as a sentence that tumbles across a white page: outside it is sunset and my dog is still in a gutter, bleeding a galaxy out of his left paw. or maybe it would be: i woke the dog up/the dog forgot i loved him/and i saw the shape of a senseless/and impossible pain.

the dog is alive in this one, and he is happy. when i tell you i love you, i know what i said. write what you need to write, be gentle to yourself about it. the advice is only as good as far as it helps. the rest is just fencing. take stock of the boundaries, and then break them. there's always somewhere else you could be growing.

i love you, keep going.

[arilevenatz]

Outscored 𝟐┃C.JH

Pairing: jock! Jongho x Reader

Genre/trope: enemies to lovers au

Word Count: 25.7k (💀) [it's gonna be a 2 parter]

Warnings: biker jongho (need I say more?), he is also a bit annoying, but he becomes a MAN at the end

AN: Ok I'm a sucker for jongho, u guys know it. And after he posted his picture I had a seizure. And I kinda slipped and wrote this whole thing. And yeah this is for all the jongho girlies out there like me. Please please please love this as I spent a lot of time writing this!

Masterlist

This is part two. Read part one here-

one | two

The project turned out better than either of them had expected, and when the professor handed back the grades, it was no surprise that YN and Jongho had scored the highest. The students in the class started whispering about them, dubbing them "the power partners."

YN, however, hated the nickname. She rolled her eyes every time she heard someone say it. “Why can’t people just mind their own business?” she muttered to Hanni one day in the cafeteria.

Hanni, ever the supportive friend, smirked. “Maybe because you and Jongho looked like an actual dream team. Admit it—you two killed that project.”

“Still,” YN huffed, stabbing her salad with unnecessary force, “I don’t like it.”

Over at the ATEEZ table, Jongho wasn’t exactly thrilled with the nickname either. He frowned as one of his friends, Wooyoung, teased him about it.

“Power partners, huh? Sounds about right,” Wooyoung said with a sly grin. “I mean, you two make a good team.”

“Shut up,” Jongho grumbled, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t like it either.”

“Yeah, sure,” Mingi teased, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t like it. But you don’t seem to mind being around her all the time.”

Jongho scowled, but before he could retort, Yeosang, who had been silently observing, spoke up. “Let’s be real, Jongho. Do you actually dislike her, or are you just saying that because you don’t want to admit something?”

“What’s there to admit?” Jongho snapped, crossing his arms.

Seonghwa, ever the voice of reason, sighed. “You’ve been weird about her since day one. You get irritated when she’s better than you, but you also can’t stop noticing every little thing about her. Either figure it out or let it go, because we’re tired of your denial.”

“Exactly,” San added with a grin. “Test it out. See if you actually like her or if she’s just in your head because she’s always in your space.”

Jongho glared at them all, but their words stuck with him. That night, as he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. About the way she had taken charge during the project, the way she had cooked for him, the way she had looked at him when she smiled after their grade was announced.

“Do I… like her?” he muttered to himself, the thought making him feel uneasy.

He shook his head, frustrated. No, it couldn’t be that. It was just… annoyance. Competition. Nothing more.

But the thought lingered, and for the first time, Jongho wasn’t so sure of his own answer.

Jongho’s dilemma had become everyone else’s entertainment. His friends, fed up with his constant denial, decided to take matters into their own hands. They came up with a "foolproof" series of tests to help him figure out his feelings.

Test 1: The Jealousy Test

Hongjoong kicked things off by walking up to YN during lunch. With his signature smirk, he leaned casually against her table and said, “YN, you’re looking gorgeous today. How about we ditch class and grab some coffee?”

Jongho, sitting across the cafeteria, froze mid-bite. His eyes narrowed as he watched Hongjoong laugh at something YN said.

“Dude,” Mingi whispered, nudging him. “Why are you gripping your fork like you’re about to stab someone?”

“I’m not,” Jongho muttered through gritted teeth.

“Uh-huh,” Yeosang said, amused. “Sure looks like it.” Wooyoung winked at Jongho. “Yep, he’s pissed. Jealousy level: high.”

“I’m not jealous,” Jongho growled.

“Right,” Wooyoung said, grinning. “And I’m not handsome.”

Test 2: The Compliment Test

The next day, San decided to push Jongho’s buttons. During class, he loudly announced, “You know, YN is really something. She’s smart, funny, and have you seen her hair? Shiny like silk. I bet she smells amazing too.”

Jongho, who was sitting behind YN, audibly scoffed.

San turned around, feigning innocence. “What? You don’t agree, Jongho?”

“She’s… fine,” Jongho said flatly, avoiding everyone’s amused stares.

“Fine?” San repeated, pretending to be offended. “That’s all you’ve got? She’s perfect, and you know it.”

Jongho slouched lower in his seat, muttering, “Shut up, San.”

Test 3: The Heartbeat Test

Seonghwa, ever the schemer, pulled out a fitness tracker with a heart rate monitor. “Okay, Jongho,” he said, strapping it onto his wrist. “Time to see how you react to her.”

“This is stupid,” Jongho grumbled, but he didn’t resist when Seonghwa placed the tracker on his wrist.

As YN walked into the room, Jongho’s heart rate spiked immediately. The boys stared at the tracker in silence before bursting into laughter.

“Calm down, lover boy,” Mingi teased. “You’re about to break the machine.”

Jongho yanked the tracker off, his face red. “It’s broken,” he insisted.

“Sure it is,” Yeosang said with a knowing smirk.

Test 4: The Accidental Touch

Mingi "accidentally" bumped YN into Jongho while they were walking down the hallway. She stumbled, her hand brushing against Jongho’s arm as he steadied her.

“You okay?” Jongho asked, his voice unusually soft.

“I’m fine, thanks,” YN replied, smiling politely before walking off.

The boys, watching from a distance, erupted into cheers.

“Did you see that?” Wooyoung howled. “He didn’t even yell at her!”

Jongho ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I hate all of you.”

“Face it, man,” San said, clapping him on the back. “You’ve got it bad.”

Despite the teasing and their ridiculous tests, Jongho couldn’t shake the growing realization. No matter how much he denied it, his friends were right—YN had gotten under his skin, and there was no turning back.

YN paced back and forth in her dorm room, arms crossed and brows furrowed as she fumed. “What is their problem? Why can’t they just leave me alone?!” she practically yelled.

Hanni sat on the bed, nervously watching her friend explode. She held a notebook in her lap but had completely forgotten about it as she tried to calm YN down. “Okay, okay, breathe. Don’t let them get to you, YN. They’re just… being their usual chaotic selves.”

“No,” YN snapped, spinning around to face Hanni. “This isn’t just their usual chaos. They’re deliberately messing with me, and I’m done with it.” She threw her hands up in frustration. “What do they even want from me?!”

Hanni bit her lip. “I mean… maybe Jongho likes you?”

YN stopped dead in her tracks, staring at Hanni like she’d grown another head. “What? Jongho? Like me? Absolutely not.”

Hanni shrugged, holding up her hands in surrender. “I’m just saying! It’s not like he goes out of his way to mess with anyone else like this.”

YN groaned, pressing her palms to her temples. “Even if that were true, how does this make any sense? His friends are involved now too! They’re all acting like lunatics, and I’m losing my mind.”

Hanni got up, placing her hands on YN’s shoulders. “Okay, listen. You want peace, right?”

“Yes,” YN said through gritted teeth.

“Then confront them. March up to their table, call them out, and demand an answer. If Jongho or his friends don’t give you one, I’ll personally throw my coffee at Wooyoung.”

Despite her anger, YN couldn’t help but let out a small laugh. “You’d really throw your coffee at Wooyoung?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Hanni said with a grin. “I’d make it iced so it stings more.”

YN sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Fine. Tomorrow, I’m confronting them. But if I don’t get a proper answer, they’d better be prepared.”

Hanni gave her a thumbs-up. “Now that’s the YN I know. Go get ‘em, tiger.”

The next day, YN stormed into the cafeteria during lunch. The usual buzz of chatter filled the room, but she had her sights set on one table: Ateez’s.

Without hesitation, she marched over and slammed her hands on the table, startling them all. The entire cafeteria seemed to quiet down as people turned to watch.

“What do you want from me?!” YN demanded, her voice firm.

The boys exchanged glances, some smirking, some looking a bit guilty. Jongho, sitting at the center, raised an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?” he asked calmly.

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” YN snapped. “I know you’ve all been messing with me. Whatever weird little game this is, stop it. I don’t have time for this nonsense.”

Wooyoung leaned back in his chair, grinning. “She’s feisty. I like her.”

“Wooyoung,” Seonghwa warned, giving him a look.

“Look,” YN continued, glaring at Jongho specifically, “I don’t care what your problem is. If you have something to say to me, say it. Otherwise, stay out of my way.”

Jongho leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he met her gaze. His expression was unreadable, but his voice was low and steady. “Maybe I do have something to say.”

The tension was thick as YN folded her arms, her heart racing despite her anger. “Then say it.”

For a moment, it seemed like Jongho might actually confess something, but instead, he leaned back in his chair and smirked. “Not here. Later.”

YN rolled her eyes. “Unbelievable,” she muttered, turning on her heel to leave.

Behind her, the boys chuckled, but Jongho remained quiet, his smirk fading as he watched her walk away.

The lecture droned on, the professor’s voice blending into the background as YN’s attention started to waver. She rested her chin on her hand, her fingers tapping lightly on the desk. Her focus drifted from the lesson, and she casually let her gaze wander around the classroom, trying to keep herself awake.

It was an innocent habit. A quick scan of the room, her eyes briefly passing over her classmates. But when her gaze landed on Jongho, she froze.

He was already looking at her.

It wasn’t just a passing glance or idle staring. His eyes were locked onto her with an intensity that felt borderline magnetic. His dark brown eyes were sharp, unwavering, and inexplicably powerful. It was like he wasn’t just looking at her—he was seeing straight through her.

YN’s breath hitched for a moment. Her stomach churned with unease, but at the same time, something unfamiliar twisted deep within her. She hated to admit it, but he looked… ridiculously attractive. His expression was calm but unreadable, his jawline accentuated by the way he tilted his head slightly.

Why does he look like that? she thought, trying to keep her composure. And why can’t I stop looking at him?

It reminded her of that night at the red light stop—the same piercing gaze through the black helmet. But this time, it felt more personal. There was no helmet to mask his features, no physical barrier between them. Just those impossibly striking eyes.

She quickly averted her gaze, her cheeks warming despite herself. Get it together, YN. It’s just Jongho.

But her heart wasn’t cooperating. It beat just a little faster than usual, and she couldn’t shake the feeling of his stare lingering even after she looked away.

Unbeknownst to her, Jongho smirked faintly. He had caught the way her face changed, the subtle way her lips parted in surprise before she turned away. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make him feel victorious.

Interesting, he thought, leaning back in his chair. So she’s not entirely unaffected after all.

Jongho was never the kind of person to overthink emotions. He dealt with things as they came, approaching life with confidence and logic. But when it came to YN, logic didn’t seem to work anymore. Every time he saw her, his feelings became more chaotic, more confusing, and undeniably more prominent. While he couldn’t fully grasp what he felt, his actions started to show it, whether he intended them to or not.

YN was seated in her usual spot, scribbling notes furiously as the professor explained a particularly complex topic. Jongho sat a few rows behind her, his eyes drifting toward her more often than his notebook.

The class was halfway through when the professor announced a quick pop quiz. Everyone groaned, including YN, who had just run out of ink in her pen.

“Great timing,” she muttered under her breath, shaking the pen in frustration. She rummaged through her pencil case, but it was clear she didn’t have a spare.

Jongho noticed immediately. He reached into his bag, pulling out an extra pen without hesitation. Instead of handing it over himself, he nudged the guy sitting next to him, gesturing toward YN.

“Pass this to her,” Jongho said, his voice low.

The pen made its way to YN, who blinked in surprise when it landed on her desk. She glanced over her shoulder to see who it came from, her eyes landing on Jongho. He didn’t say anything, just met her gaze briefly before looking away, as if it wasn’t a big deal.

“Thanks,” she whispered, though he didn’t acknowledge it.

It was a small gesture, but it left YN feeling oddly unsettled. For someone who usually went out of his way to annoy her, the act of kindness felt strange—almost deliberate.

YN sat at her usual corner table, flipping through a thick reference book for an upcoming assignment. She was so absorbed in her work that she didn’t notice Jongho entering the library until he pulled out the chair across from her and sat down.

She looked up, startled. “What are you doing here?”

“Studying,” he said simply, pulling out his notebook.

She frowned. “There are plenty of other tables.”

“This one’s fine,” he replied, not looking at her as he started writing.

YN sighed, deciding to ignore him and focus on her own work. But as the minutes ticked by, she couldn’t help but notice him stealing glances at her. She tried to brush it off, thinking it was her imagination, until she reached for her coffee cup and accidentally knocked it over.

“Crap,” she muttered, quickly grabbing a tissue from her bag to clean up the spill.

Before she could fully manage, Jongho slid his notebook aside, pulling out a small packet of tissues from his jacket pocket. He handed it to her without a word.

YN paused, staring at him. “You carry tissues around?”

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging. “You never know when someone’s going to be clumsy.”

She rolled her eyes but took the tissues. “Thanks, I guess.”

Jongho smirked faintly but said nothing, leaning back in his chair as she cleaned up the mess.

As she continued working, YN couldn’t help but feel his presence more than usual. There was something different about him lately—something softer. And though she hated to admit it, it was starting to mess with her head.

Jongho, on the other hand, was quietly observing her, trying to figure out why watching her focus so intently on her work made him feel strangely… content.

It was one of those days where the world seemed to be falling apart for YN. She sat in the library, her head buried in her arms, tears streaming silently down her face. Her phone lay on the table next to her, the call from her mother still echoing in her mind. Her dad had suffered a stroke. The news had hit her like a freight train, and the helplessness of not being able to reach him was eating her alive.

She had tried everything—calling for train tickets, searching for buses, and even looking into flights—but nothing seemed to work. The distance to her hometown suddenly felt insurmountable, and it left her feeling trapped and powerless.

Hanni sat beside her, her own heart breaking at the sight of her best friend in such despair. She had never seen YN like this—so vulnerable, so broken. Hanni tried to console her, rubbing her back gently, but she knew words wouldn’t fix this.

“You need to go to him,” Hanni said softly.

“I can’t,” YN choked out, her voice barely above a whisper. “There’s no way to get there.”

Hanni clenched her fists, her mind racing. If no one else could help, then there was only one person who could. She didn’t hesitate. Standing up, she grabbed her bag and stormed out of the library, leaving YN behind.

Jongho and his friends were lounging in their usual spot outside the gym, the air filled with their loud chatter and occasional bursts of laughter. Mingi was tossing a football back and forth with San, while Wooyoung was busy showing off some absurd new trick with a deck of cards. Hongjoong leaned against a bench, scrolling through his phone, while Jongho sat quietly, sipping on his protein shake, his usual stoic presence anchoring the group.

The peace was shattered when Hanni stormed into the scene, her expression a mix of frustration and desperation. The group turned to her, their conversations dying mid-sentence.

“What’s this?” Wooyoung smirked, tossing the cards onto the table. “The library queen has graced us with her presence?”

Hanni ignored him completely, her eyes locking onto Jongho. “I need to talk to you.”

Jongho raised an eyebrow, setting down his drink. “What is it?”

“It’s YN,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “Her dad had a stroke, and she needs to get home, but there are no tickets available. She’s stuck, and she’s losing it. You have a bike. You can take her.”

The guys exchanged glances, the playful atmosphere immediately shifting into something more serious.

“And why do you think he should do it?” San asked, crossing his arms.

“Because he’s the only one who can!” Hanni snapped, her tone sharper than she intended. “I wouldn’t trust you to get her there safely. Jongho can handle it.”

Jongho’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Why me?”

“Because,” Hanni said, her voice softening, “for all your stupid games and ego battles, I know you care about her.”

The group went silent, all eyes on Jongho. He didn’t say anything at first, his jaw clenching slightly as he processed her words. Then, without a word, he stood up, grabbing his bag from the bench.

“Where is she?” he asked.

“The library,” Hanni said quickly.

“Alright,” he muttered, slinging the bag over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

His friends watched as he started walking off, a mix of surprise and curiosity on their faces.

“Wait,” Wooyoung called out, smirking. “Is this your knight-in-shining-armor moment, Jongho? Should we start calling you Prince Charming now?”

“Shut up,” Jongho shot back, but there was no real heat in his tone.

As Hanni led him toward the library, she couldn’t help but glance at him out of the corner of her eye. Despite his usual stoic demeanor, there was a determined look in his eyes that gave her hope. Maybe, just maybe, YN had someone who would always be there when it truly mattered.

The library was eerily quiet as Hanni and Jongho stepped inside, the soft sound of turning pages and the occasional rustle of papers filling the air. Hanni led the way to the corner where YN was sitting, her head buried in her arms, silent tears streaming down her face.

Jongho’s jaw tightened at the sight. He didn’t hesitate. Striding up to her, he stopped just a step away and cleared his throat.

“YN,” he said firmly, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade.

She lifted her head slowly, her eyes red and puffy from crying. She blinked up at him, confusion crossing her face.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice hoarse.

“I’m taking you home,” he said bluntly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Get your stuff and pack a bag. We’re leaving now.”

She stared at him for a moment, stunned by his words. Normally, she would’ve protested or argued back, but she was too emotionally drained to put up a fight. Instead, she just nodded, her movements slow and robotic as she stood and grabbed her bag.

Hanni watched the exchange with a mix of relief and curiosity. She had never seen Jongho so direct, so...caring, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

“Thank you,” Hanni whispered to Jongho as YN gathered her things.

He didn’t respond, his eyes fixed on YN the entire time. Once she was ready, he turned on his heel and led the way out of the library, his stride confident.

The ride was quiet, the hum of the bike engine filling the silence as they sped down the highway. YN sat behind Jongho, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist as the cool night air whipped past them.

Jongho didn’t say a word, but he drove with an intensity that YN couldn’t ignore. Despite everything—the teasing, the bickering, the games—she felt a strange sense of safety in that moment.

She rested her head lightly against his back, her tears drying as the rhythm of the bike soothed her nerves. She didn’t know what to say, and for once, she didn’t feel the need to fill the silence.

Jongho, on the other hand, was acutely aware of her presence. Her warmth against his back, the way her arms tightened around him every time they turned a corner—it was all making his thoughts spiral. He didn’t understand why he felt so protective of her, why her tears had struck such a chord with him.

But one thing was certain: he would do whatever it took to get her home, no questions asked.

As they entered the hospital, the smell of antiseptic filled the air, mingling with the muffled sounds of machines and quiet conversations. YN wasted no time running toward the general ward, her heart pounding as she navigated the maze of hallways. Jongho followed closely behind, her bag slung over his shoulder, his usually calm expression now tinged with concern.

When she finally reached the ward, her heart sank. Her father was lying on a general bed, his face pale and drawn, wires and monitors attached to him. Her mother sat by his side, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, exhaustion etched into her features.

“Mom,” YN called, her voice trembling as she approached. “What’s going on? Why is he here? Why isn’t he in a proper room?”

Her mother looked up, her tired eyes meeting YN’s. “The hospital is full, sweetheart,” she said, her voice heavy. “There aren’t any rooms available right now. This was the only space they had.”

YN clenched her fists, her heart breaking at the sight of her father in such a crowded and uncomfortable setting. She looked around, taking in the other patients crammed into the small ward, the lack of privacy, and the impersonal atmosphere.

“This isn’t right,” she whispered, tears welling up in her eyes. “He needs proper care.”

Just as the air in the room grew heavier with worry, a nurse approached them, her voice soft but clear.

“Excuse me,” she said, looking at YN’s mother. “A private room has just been arranged for your husband. We’ll move him there shortly.”

YN blinked, her mind racing with confusion. She looked at her mother, who appeared equally surprised, and then back at the nurse.

“Wait, what?” YN asked, standing up abruptly. “How did that happen? Who...who arranged it?”

The nurse didn't say anything, YN was shocked, glancing at Jongho, who was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

“Someone already covered the charges,” the nurse said quietly.

YN’s gaze snapped to Jongho, her heart sinking and racing all at once. She stared at him, her eyes wide with a mix of disbelief, confusion, and something she couldn’t quite name.

“You...you paid for it?” she asked, her voice shaking slightly.

Jongho shrugged, not meeting her eyes. “It’s no big deal,” he said, his tone casual. “Your dad needed a proper room, and you didn’t have time to deal with all the red tape. That’s all.”

“No big deal?” YN repeated, her voice rising. She took a step closer to him, her emotions swirling in a chaotic storm. “Jongho, private rooms in a hospital cost a fortune! You can’t just—why would you even—”

He finally looked at her then, his gaze steady but tinged with something soft, something almost vulnerable. “Because you needed it,” he said simply. “That’s all that matters.”

For a moment, YN couldn’t speak. Her throat felt tight, and she wasn’t sure if it was from gratitude, anger, or something else entirely. She glanced at her mother, who was watching them with a knowing look, and then back at Jongho.

“You didn’t have to do this,” she said, her voice quieter now, almost a whisper.

“I wanted to,” he replied, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The nurse cleared her throat gently, breaking the tension. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go make sure everything is ready for the transfer,” she said before walking away.

YN stood there, her emotions a whirlwind. She wanted to thank him, to argue with him, to understand why he would do something so selfless after everything they’d been through. But instead, she just nodded, her voice trembling as she said, “Thank you, Jongho. Really.”

He gave her a small nod, his stoic facade firmly in place. But as she turned back to her father, he allowed himself a brief moment to watch her, his chest tightening with an emotion he was finally starting to understand.

The hospital lobby was quiet except for the occasional announcements over the intercom. YN sat on one of the plastic chairs, arms wrapped around herself, staring at the floor. Jongho sat beside her, his legs stretched out, arms crossed, silent as ever. The check-up was still ongoing, and the wait felt endless.

She didn’t know why, but the weight in her chest felt unbearable. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the emotions swirling in her head. Or maybe it was because, for the first time in a long while, someone was sitting beside her, just… there. No judgment. No empty words of comfort. Just Jongho, quiet and solid.

Without really thinking, she spoke. “My dad is an alcoholic.”

Jongho turned his head slightly, his brows furrowing, but he didn’t say anything. He just listened.

“He wasn’t always like this,” she continued, her fingers clenching the fabric of her hoodie. “He used to be a good dad. He worked hard, took care of us, made stupid dad jokes. But then… something changed.”

Jongho didn’t ask what. He let her talk.

“He started drinking. At first, it was just a little. Stress, he said. Just a way to unwind. But then it got worse. He started losing jobs, coming home late, spending money we didn’t have. And the worst part was…” She swallowed. “He got angry. All the time. At everything.”

Jongho’s jaw tightened, but he still didn’t interrupt.

“He never hit us,” she clarified, her voice quieter now. “But the words… sometimes they cut deeper. The yelling, the accusations, the way he would just explode over the smallest things. My mom tried to handle it, but it wore her down. And me? I—I couldn’t stay. I had to get out. That’s why I left. That’s why I stay in dorms or anywhere but home.”

Jongho exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable. Then, in a voice lower than usual, he finally spoke.

“That’s why you never go back.”

YN blinked, turning to look at him. His face was calm, but there was an edge to his voice. Like he understood more than he let on.

She nodded. “Yeah.”

Silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t awkward. It was heavy, filled with things unsaid.

Then, Jongho shifted, resting his arms on his knees as he stared ahead. “Must’ve been hard.”

YN let out a dry chuckle. “Yeah, well. Life’s not exactly a fairy tale.”

He glanced at her, his gaze softer than usual. “No. It’s not.”

Another silence. This time, it felt… different.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said, “You’re stronger than you think, you know that?”

YN turned to him sharply, caught off guard. “What?”

Jongho shrugged, looking away. “I’m just saying. You left. You got out. You built something for yourself instead of letting it trap you. That takes guts.”

YN didn’t know what to say to that. She wasn’t used to people saying things like this to her—especially not Jongho of all people.

Jongho leaned back in his chair, exhaling sharply. He rubbed his hands together, as if debating whether to speak or not. YN was still staring at him, her eyes searching, waiting.

“I guess… it’s only fair if I tell you something too,” he muttered, his voice quieter than usual.

YN didn’t push. She just nodded, silently telling him to continue.

“My parents,” he started, pausing for a second. “They never really cared about me.”

That caught her off guard. She had always imagined him coming from a well-off family, considering the way he carried himself, the expensive apartment, the confidence.

“They weren’t bad people,” he continued, staring at the floor. “They just… weren’t really parents. Their world was business, money, social status. I was more like a project than a kid. Something to mold into their perfect successor.” He scoffed. “But I wasn’t interested in any of that.”

YN stayed quiet, letting him talk at his own pace.

“I grew up in empty houses. Big, expensive places with no warmth. I had tutors, trainers, all that. But never them.” He clenched his jaw. “They were always too busy. Too far away. And when they were around, it was all about expectations. I had to be the best. Had to be strong. Had to be exactly what they wanted. If I wasn’t, I wasn’t worth their time.”

YN felt a strange tightness in her chest. She had never heard him talk like this before.

“But my friends?” He huffed a small laugh. “They’re my real family. They were the ones who actually cared. Looked out for me. Picked fights for me when I was pissed off. Made sure I ate when I was too stubborn to admit I was hungry. Taught me how to survive outside of what my parents wanted me to be.”

He glanced at her, his expression softer now. “That’s why I’m the way I am. Why I fight, why I stick with them no matter what. They’re all I’ve got.”

Silence settled between them again, heavy but not uncomfortable.

YN finally spoke, her voice gentle. “You’re lucky, you know?”

Jongho raised a brow. “Lucky?”

She nodded. “You found people who care about you. Even if it’s not in the way you expected.”

Jongho stared at her for a long moment, then smirked slightly. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

She didn’t say anything, just gave him a small smile in return. And for the first time since they’d met, they weren’t rivals, weren’t enemies. Just two people, sitting in a hospital lobby, understanding each other in a way no one else ever had.

For a moment, neither of them moved. YN had acted without thinking, driven by the strange warmth in her chest. She had never hugged him before—never even considered it. But right now, it just felt right.

Jongho stiffened, caught off guard. It's not like he was not hugged before, wooyoung and san always hug him, but this was different.

It was YN.

She held onto him tightly, her face buried in his shoulder, gripping his hoodie like she was afraid he’d disappear. She didn’t say anything, didn’t explain. She just stayed there, holding him like she needed him.

And what she didn’t know was that Jongho needed it just as much.

Slowly, his tense shoulders relaxed, and he let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. His arms moved on their own, wrapping around her waist, holding her just as tightly.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

For once, there was no competition, no rivalry, no mind games. Just them.

Jongho closed his eyes, resting his chin lightly on the top of her head. He didn’t understand his feelings completely, but he knew one thing.

He didn’t want to let go.

Jongho had never felt this out of place before. Hospitals weren’t his thing—too quiet, too sterile, too full of emotions he didn’t know how to deal with. But YN had dragged him inside, refusing to let him just stand outside like some outsider.

“If you’re uncomfortable, you can just stand in the doorway,” she had said.

And that’s exactly what he did. Arms crossed, leaning against the frame, watching silently as YN sat beside her father’s bed, her mother beside her.

Her father was awake now, looking tired but stable. He still had that roughness to him, even as he weakly talked to YN, but it was clear he wasn’t the same man she had once feared.

Jongho didn’t say much, didn’t interfere, but YN’s mother noticed him. She had been watching him carefully, taking in his presence, the way he lingered like a silent guardian.

Then, with a warm but firm voice, she said, “You should come to dinner at our house.”

Jongho’s head snapped up. “Huh?”

“My daughter wouldn’t have made it here without you,” her mother continued. “Let me properly thank you.”

Jongho hesitated. Dinner? With YN’s family? That was… new. He wasn’t used to things like that.

“I don’t—” He started to refuse, but then he saw it.

The way YN was looking at him.

She wasn’t saying anything, but her expression said everything. She wanted him to say yes.

And damn it, if there was one person who could make him agree to things he normally wouldn’t… It was her.

“…Fine,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

YN smiled. And Jongho, despite himself, felt a little warmer inside.

Jongho had never really thought about how YN lived. He knew she stayed in the dorms, but seeing her actual home was… different.

The house wasn’t tiny, but it wasn’t big enough for three people to live comfortably either. There was only one bedroom, and judging by the way her mother moved around the space so naturally, it was clear that privacy wasn’t really a thing here.

As they paced around the room, Jongho’s sharp eyes caught every little detail—the slightly worn-out furniture, the faint scent of home-cooked meals, the single bed pushed against the wall, the small study desk that was clearly YN’s. She didn’t even have her own room.

He didn’t say anything, but YN must have caught the way he was observing everything because she suddenly crossed her arms and looked up at him.

“I know it’s not as big as your fancy apartment,” she said, a teasing edge to her voice, “but you’ll have to adjust.”

Jongho scoffed, shaking his head. “You think I care about that?”

YN blinked. “Don’t you?”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re the one who has to live here. I’m just visiting.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you saying you wouldn’t survive in a smaller home?”

Jongho leaned against the wall, smirking. “I’m saying you clearly think too much about what I think.”

YN opened her mouth, ready to argue, but before she could say anything, her mother called from the kitchen.

“Dinner’s ready!”

The conversation was left hanging, but Jongho didn’t miss the way YN shot him one last glare before turning on her heel and walking towards the dining table.

He shook his head, suppressing a small smile as he followed her.

Dinner was… different. Not in a bad way. Just different.

Jongho had expected it to be awkward. Maybe some polite conversation, a few “thank yous,” and then he’d be on his way. But YN’s mother? She was nothing like he expected.

From the moment they sat down, she treated him like he was one of her own.

“Eat more, Jongho. You need to keep up that strength, right?” she said, piling more food onto his plate before he could even respond.

Jongho blinked. “Uh—yeah, I guess.”

YN stifled a laugh as she watched her mother practically adopt him on the spot.

“You must work out a lot,” her mother continued, eyeing his broad frame. “No wonder you’re so strong! You know, YN never brings home any friends. I was starting to think she didn’t have any.”

“Mom!” YN groaned, her face heating up.

Jongho smirked, looking at YN. “Yeah? I’m the first?”

“She never even talks about anyone,” her mother added. “But I can tell she trusts you.”

YN glared at her mom like she just exposed a national secret, while Jongho simply took a bite of his food, feeling… warm.

The conversation flowed so naturally. Her mother asked him about his studies, his life, if he was eating properly, even scolding him a little when he admitted he mostly ordered takeout. She fussed over him in a way no one ever had before.

It was strange. It was new.

But it felt… nice.

For the first time in a long time, Jongho felt like he had a place at a family dinner. Not just as a guest, but as someone who belonged.

YN noticed. She watched the way Jongho let his guard down, how he actually smiled—a real one, not his usual cocky smirk. It made her feel happy.

He deserved this.

He deserved to feel this warmth.

After dinner, YN grabbed the trash bags and headed outside, leaving Jongho alone with her mother to clean up.

Jongho wasn’t used to doing dishes with anyone—he usually ate alone or with his friends, where everything was chaotic and someone else always handled the cleaning. But standing here, washing dishes beside YN’s mother, it felt… peaceful.

As they worked in comfortable silence, her mother suddenly spoke.

“She didn’t have a great childhood, you know.”

Jongho paused, glancing at her. He had already known that from what YN told him at the hospital, but hearing it from her mother hit differently.

She let out a soft sigh, scrubbing a plate. “I did my best, but… I still feel like I failed her.”

Jongho didn’t know what to say to that. He had never really thought about parents blaming themselves before. His own never did.

“I just want her to be happy,” she continued, her voice quieter now. “She pretends she’s strong, but she’s been through a lot.”

Jongho set down the dish he was holding, wiping his hands on a towel before turning to her.

“Don’t worry,” he said, his voice firm but sincere. “As long as I’m here, she will be happy.”

Her mother looked up at him, studying his expression. Then, she smiled—soft and knowing.

“I believe you.”

It had been a month since that night at YN’s home, and things between her and Jongho had… changed.

They weren’t enemies. They weren’t exactly friends either. But they had fallen into a routine—one that felt strangely domestic.

Jongho would casually grab an extra coffee for her in the mornings, placing it on her desk with a simple, “You looked half-dead, don’t read too much into it.”

YN, in return, would remind him to eat properly, sometimes even handing him snacks with a nonchalant, “I don’t want you fainting in the gym or something. That’d be embarrassing.”

They walked to class together, studied together, and even sat next to each other during lectures. If Jongho wasn’t around, people would ask YN where he was. And if YN was late, Jongho would just roll his eyes but keep the seat next to him open.

They bickered over stupid things.

“Why are you staring at me?” YN asked one day, feeling his eyes on her.

“I wasn’t.”

“You literally were.”

“I was just zoning out,” Jongho huffed, looking away.

Or when YN handed him an umbrella on a rainy day.

“Here,” she said, shoving it into his hands.

Jongho frowned. “I don’t need it.”

“Then get soaked. Not my problem.”

“Then why’d you bring me one?”

“You're too noisy. Shut up and take it.”

They acted like they were just tolerating each other, but everyone else saw the truth.

They were basically a couple.

Just two idiots too stubborn to admit it.

YN felt… different.

It wasn’t something she could explain easily, but it was there—a strange pull toward Jongho. Like a force of nature she had no control over.

And, of course, Hanni wouldn’t shut up about it.

“You’re in love,” Hanni declared one day, arms crossed as if she had just solved the biggest mystery of the century.

YN, horrified, immediately shut her down. “Shut up. No, I’m not.”

“Oh, really?” Hanni smirked. “Then why do you always look out for him?”

“I just—he’s stupid sometimes, I need to make sure he doesn’t die.”

“And why do you get sad when you don’t see him?”

“That’s… that’s normal! I see him all the time, it’s weird when he’s not there.”

“And why do you get weird feelings when you’re together?”

YN froze.

Because that was true.

She did feel weird things when they were together—like her heart deciding to sprint for no reason, or how she found herself staring at him longer than necessary. She noticed the way his jaw clenched when he was focused, how his voice was deeper when he was tired, and how his hands were always warm even when it was freezing outside.

Oh no.

Hanni grinned, seeing the realization dawn on YN’s face. “Yeah. You’re so in love it’s embarrassing.”

YN groaned, covering her face. “This is the worst day of my life.”

Jongho was losing his mind.

It started subtly—little things he noticed during their daily interactions. Like how small her hands were compared to his when she shoved a snack into his palm. Or how short she was, always tilting her head up to glare at him when they bickered.

And then it got worse.

One day, she was rambling about something, waving her hands dramatically, and all he could think about was how badly he wanted to squish her cheeks.

Another time, she got mad at him over something stupid—probably about stealing her drink—and the way her nose scrunched up made his fingers twitch. She looked like an angry little kitten, and he… he was the big bear who wanted to scoop her up and keep her in his arms.

“Are you even listening?” she huffed, crossing her arms.

No. No, he wasn’t.

Because his brain was too busy fighting the cuteness aggression building up inside him.

So instead of answering, he just reached out and flicked her forehead.

“Hey!” she whined, rubbing the spot. “What was that for?”

Jongho smirked, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Dunno. Just felt like it.”

If only she knew it was to stop himself from doing something even worse. Like pinching her cheeks until she smacked him.

He was doomed.

Like when they had gone out for ice cream, and YN, being herself, had managed to make a mess.

She was eating too quickly, and suddenly, a small drop of melted ice cream landed on the tip of her nose.

Jongho stared.

She blinked up at him, confused. “What?”

His grip on his cone tightened.

Was she real? Was this actually happening? Was she actually standing there, looking up at him with big eyes, ice cream on her nose, completely unaware of how devastatingly cute she was?

He exhaled sharply, leaned in, and—

Flick!

She yelped as he wiped the ice cream off with his thumb, scowling at her. “You’re a mess.”

She pouted. “You could’ve just told me.”

Yeah, well, if he had told her, he would’ve also had to admit that he was two seconds away from pinching her cheeks and calling her cute.

So no, thanks.

Or like when YN had forgotten her hair tie, so she dug into her bag and pulled out a tiny, pastel pink hair clip.

Jongho watched as she struggled to keep her hair out of her face with that.

The tiny clip was fighting for its life against her hair, barely holding anything in place. She kept adjusting it, pushing stray strands away with a frustrated huff.

Jongho’s jaw clenched.

It was too much.

The stupid little hair clip, her pouty concentration face, the way she kept huffing when the strands fell back—

Before he could stop himself, he reached out, plucked the clip from her hair, and smoothly tied it up with his own black hair tie which he conveniently had on his wrist.

She blinked at him. “...Oh.”

He crossed his arms. “There. Now you won’t look dumb.”

Her lips parted in offense. “Excuse you! My clip was working just fine—”

Jongho just flicked her forehead again and walked off before she could see the stupid grin threatening to break out on his face.

She was going to kill him one day.

Or worse—he was going to fall harder.

Jongho had always paid attention to the little things. It was something he’d always done, but now it was a bit more… personal.

The way YN would subtly try to avoid the topic of her birthday when it came up, how she’d always change the subject or even just shut it down completely. He never understood it until he saw it written in the corner of her notebook one day, almost as if it was an afterthought—her birthday was coming up.

Something about that made him pause.

He couldn’t help but wonder why she never celebrated it, why she never talked about it. It bothered him more than he realized. No one should feel like that about their birthday. It was supposed to be a day to feel special, to be loved.

But for YN… it didn’t seem that way at all.

YN stepped into Jongho's apartment, not knowing why he suddenly called her, but what she saw made her stop in her tracks. The entire place was decorated—soft, pastel colors, fairy lights hanging delicately from the walls, and small touches of things she liked scattered around the room. It felt like a scene straight out of one of those Pinterest boards she had secretly admired but never thought she'd experience herself.

On the table was a small cake, decorated with cream and flowers—exactly the way she liked it. But what really caught her eye was the little crown placed beside it.

Jongho stood by the door, hands in his pockets, nervously watching her reaction. His heart pounded as he waited for her to say something.

"Jongho..." YN started, her voice barely above a whisper as she took in the effort he’d put into everything. "What is all this?"

He scratched the back of his neck, feeling a little embarrassed now that she was actually here. "Well... I know you don't like big celebrations, but I thought you'd like something a little special, you know? Something just for you."

She blinked, stunned. "But... this is all for me?"

"Yeah, I mean, it's your birthday, right?" Jongho said casually, though there was a small, nervous grin tugging at his lips.

YN couldn't hide the smile that tugged at her own. She looked around, noticing the little details—soft cushions, a few of her favorite books stacked neatly on the shelf, the little crown, and the cake that seemed to have her name written all over it.

"Why the crown?" she asked, half-laughing, half-teary-eyed.

Jongho shrugged, a little embarrassed. "You deserve to feel like a queen today. No one should ever feel like they don't deserve to be celebrated."

That did it. YN's heart swelled, and for a moment, she couldn't speak. The thoughtfulness behind everything hit her hard. Her birthday had always been a quiet, unnoticed day, but here Jongho was, treating her like she was the most important person in the world.

He stepped forward, holding out the little crown. "Here, your majesty."

YN laughed softly, taking it from his hands and placing it on her head, feeling a warmth in her chest she hadn't expected. "This is... this is too much," she whispered, wiping a stray tear from her cheek.

"You deserve it," Jongho said, his voice low but warm, his eyes locking with hers in that moment. "Happy Birthday, YN."

Her heart skipped a beat, her emotions rushing to the surface. "Thank you," she whispered back, her voice cracking slightly. She looked at him, her gratitude overflowing. "Thank you for seeing me."

Jongho stepped a little closer, the two of them standing there amidst the cozy decorations, the soft glow of the fairy lights casting a warm hue on their faces.

"You’re welcome," he said simply, then took a step back, a playful grin appearing on his face. "Now, let’s eat this cake before I eat all of it myself."

YN laughed, feeling lighter than she had in a long time, her heart full of warmth from the little moments that had made this birthday unforgettable. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt this special—this loved.

Jongho had done it. He had turned her quiet day into a celebration of everything she had ever wanted.

After cutting the cake and sharing a few playful bites, Jongho leaned back in his chair, a small smirk playing on his lips. "Alright, birthday girl, close your eyes."

YN raised an eyebrow, suspicious but amused. "Why?"

"Just do it," he said, rolling his eyes but still holding that teasing grin.

With a little sigh, she closed her eyes, sitting still as she waited. She could hear him moving around the room, the sound of rustling paper and something being set down on the table in front of her.

"Okay," he finally said, his voice a little softer than before. "You can open them now."

YN opened her eyes—and immediately, her breath hitched.

In front of her was something she never expected but instantly adored—a bouquet of books, beautifully wrapped in soft-colored paper with a ribbon tied neatly around them. Not just any books, but ones she had casually mentioned wanting to read, ones she had stared at in the library but never picked up, ones that he must have noticed her lingering over.

She blinked rapidly, her fingers tracing over the spines as if making sure they were real. "Jongho… you—"

"You like them?" he asked, voice steady but eyes betraying a hint of nervousness.

YN couldn't speak. The warmth in her chest was overwhelming, emotions bubbling up faster than she could control. Instead of answering, she got up from her seat and wrapped her arms around him tightly, burying her face in his shoulder.

Jongho stiffened for a second, but then, slowly, he relaxed into the hug, his arms coming around her just as tightly.

"You idiot," she mumbled against his hoodie, voice muffled but full of emotion. "This is the best gift ever."

Jongho let out a small chuckle, resting his chin lightly on her head. "Good," he said, a smile forming on his lips. "Because I wasn’t sure if you’d think it was lame."

YN shook her head against him, gripping onto his hoodie tighter. "It's not. It’s perfect."

And for a while, they just stayed like that, wrapped up in warmth and something unspoken between them—something soft, something real. Neither of them said it aloud, but they both knew.

They were falling, and this time, neither of them wanted to stop.

Jongho felt his heart race when he saw the small blush creeping up her cheeks, her eyes glistening with emotion as they met his. Her gaze lingered, vulnerable yet trusting, and something inside him clicked. All the words he'd been holding back, all the feelings he couldn't quite define-they came rushing forward.

Before he could even think, he cupped her face gently with his hands, tilting her chin up just slightly. She didn't pull away, her breath hitching as she stared at him, her lips parted slightly in confusion.

Without a second thought, he leaned in, his lips brushing against hers in a soft, tentative kiss. His heart pounded in his chest as the moment stretched between them-gentle, slow, and full of everything they had been holding back.

YN's breath caught as she froze for a moment, her mind catching up with what was happening. But then, instinctively, she closed her eyes and leaned into the kiss, her hands finding their way to his chest.

The world around them seemed to disappear as everything fell quiet, just the warmth of their bodies and the undeniable pull between them. Jongho's hand slid to the back of her neck, deepening the kiss, and YN's fingers clenched slightly around his hoodie, her heart thumping in her chest.When they finally pulled away, they were both breathless, their foreheads resting against each other. Jongho looked down at her, his thumb brushing her cheek as he caught his breath.

"YN," he whispered, his voice rough, "I... I don't know what this is, but I can't stop thinking about you."

YN's heart fluttered at his words, her cheeks still flushed. She could feel the sincerity in his voice, the way his hands were slightly trembling as they stayed gently on her face.

"I think I feel the same," she whispered back, her voice just above a breathless murmur.

His hands were still cradling her face as if she were something fragile—something precious. His usual sharp gaze was softer now, almost uncertain, but there was something firm in the way he held her.

“I don’t know what love is supposed to feel like,” he admitted, his voice low and honest. “But I know that when you’re not around, I don’t like it. And when you are, I feel… lighter. Like I actually want to be better.”

YN’s heart pounded against her ribs, her breath catching at his words.

“I want to stay with you,” he continued, his thumbs brushing against her cheeks. “If this is what love is, then let it be.”

Her eyes widened slightly, emotions swirling inside her. He was never the type to say things without meaning them, never the type to hesitate. And yet, here he was, standing in front of her, vulnerable and real.

She felt warmth bloom in her chest, something overwhelming yet comforting. Her hands slowly reached up, resting over his.

“Then let it be,” she whispered back, her lips curling into the softest of smiles.

Jongho exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath this whole time. He leaned his forehead against hers, closing his eyes for a second, just taking in the moment.

Neither of them needed to say anything more. They had already said everything that mattered.

After his confession, YN quickly realized one thing—Jongho was insanely clingy. Not in the physical sense, no. He wasn’t the type to smother her with hugs in public or demand constant attention. But mentally? Emotionally? He was all over her.

Her phone never knew peace.

Jongho: Where are you?

Jongho: Why aren’t you answering?

Jongho: You’re not dead, right?

Jongho: Hanni said you left the library 15 minutes ago. Where are you now?

And if she didn’t respond fast enough? Oh, he’d find a way. One time, he literally called Hanni when YN ignored his messages during a movie marathon.

“You’re ignoring my texts,” he accused when she finally picked up.

“I was watching a movie,” she sighed.

“Oh,” he paused. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because… it’s a movie?”

“Tell me next time.”

YN groaned, but deep down, she found it cute—annoying, but cute.

Another time, she was just grabbing a coffee on campus, and before she could even sit down, she received a message:

Jongho: You didn’t tell me you were going to the café.

She blinked. Looked around. And there he was, sitting at a distance, sipping his own drink while watching her like a hawk.

She marched up to him. “Are you spying on me?”

He raised an eyebrow, completely unbothered. “I was here first. You should’ve told me you were coming.”

YN threw her hands up. “I didn’t know I needed permission to get coffee!”

“You don’t,” he said smoothly, “but if you told me, I would’ve gotten your order ready.”

And the worst part? He actually did. Because as she was about to go order, the barista handed her a drink. “Your boyfriend already paid for it.”

Jongho just shrugged at her bewildered expression, sipping his own coffee like nothing happened.

Yeah. He was absolutely clingy. But the way he looked after her, worried for her, cared for her in ways she didn’t even realize she needed?

She wouldn’t change it for the world.

You could never stay mad at him. No matter how much he annoyed you with his endless messages, his possessiveness, or his constant need to know where you were—one look at his big, boba-like eyes, and you were done for.

And he knew it.

That slight smile he had whenever he looked at you? It was because he knew you couldn’t resist him.

Whenever you pouted at him, complaining about how clingy he was, he’d just chuckle, pull you into one of his signature big bear hugs, and squeeze you tight. You always acted like you wanted to escape, but deep down, you never really tried.

And when you were alone? Oh, Jongho had no shame.

He’d squish your cheeks, stretching them like you were some kind of stress toy. “Why are you so cute, huh?” he’d mutter, poking at your puffed-up cheeks.

“Jongho, stop—”

Squish.

“Jongho!”

Squish.

And the moment you’d glare at him, trying to act serious, he’d just lean in and kiss you, completely ignoring your protests.

“Yah—”

Another kiss.

“Stop—”

Another.

And by the time you finally gave up, he’d smirk, pressing one last kiss to your forehead. “You talk too much sometimes.”

But you couldn’t even be mad. Not when he was him. Your annoying, possessive, clingy, yet completely lovable Jongho.

Though you and Jongho never officially announced your relationship at college, he made it clear as day that he was yours—and that you were his.

And he had his ways of making sure everyone knew.

Jongho had always been intimidating, but after you two got together, his death glares became ten times worse. If a guy so much as looked at you for too long, Jongho would lock eyes with them from across the room. No words needed—just a single, cold stare, and the poor guy would scurry away like a frightened puppy.

Hanni once joked, "You don't need a security system, girl. Just let Jongho sit outside your dorm and scare people away."

Jongho wasn’t big on PDA, but when it came to making a statement, he had his own subtle ways. A hand on your lower back when guiding you through a crowd. A strong arm thrown over the back of your chair when another guy was getting too friendly. Holding onto the strap of your bag like it was a leash when you were walking together, just so he could keep you close.

The message was clear: Don’t even think about it.

His friends suffered the most. Jongho was always bringing you up in conversation, even when it wasn’t relevant.

“Jongho, pass me the notes.”

"YN already explained it to me. You should ask her—she’s smarter than all of us.”

"Jongho, do you want to come to the gym later?"

"Nah, I'm meeting YN. She gets grumpy if she doesn’t see me enough."

"Jongho, stop flexing your relationship, man—"

"I’m not flexing. I just have a girlfriend who happens to be better than yours."

“…None of us have girlfriends.”

"Exactly.”

The moment that really sealed it?

One day, some guy—clearly new to the college—had the audacity to flirt with you in the cafeteria. Nothing serious, just casual small talk.

Jongho, who had been sitting a few tables away, calmly stood up, strolled over, and without a word, took the spoon from your hand and ate your food from your spoon and even drank water from your cup.

You nearly choked.

The guy looked confused. Hanni was losing her mind in the background. Jongho? He just stared down at the poor guy, smirking slightly.

"Oh, were you saying something?" sitting down, he asked, his voice low and smooth, his arm resting on the back of your chair.

The guy got the message.

Jongho had never been the type to update his Instagram often. His feed was mostly filled with scenic shots—sunsets, cityscapes, the occasional black-and-white aesthetic post. He rarely posted selfies, let alone anything personal.

But now? Now his Instagram was practically a shrine dedicated to you.

It started subtly. A blurry candid of you sipping coffee at a café, captioned: “Not the coffee, just the person.”

Then came the next one—a picture of you reading in the library, chin resting on your palm, completely unaware of the photo being taken. “Genius girlfriend era.”

And then it became a habit.

— A mirror selfie of him at the gym… with you in the background, struggling with a dumbbell. “She’s trying.”

— A plate of food with your hands reaching for it. “I don’t get to eat in peace anymore.”

— A side-profile shot of you laughing. No caption. Just a red heart emoji.

Jongho wasn’t dumb. He knew there were girls lurking in his DMs, waiting for an opening. So he made sure they saw exactly why they had no chance.

Every post? Tagged @yn2001. Every story? Tagged @yn2001. Even in the comments, when someone asked, “Where’s this?”, he’d reply, “With @yn2001.”

Even his bio, which had previously been empty, now had:

“Taken. @yn2001.”

One day, he posted a picture of your intertwined hands, your fingers laced together on top of his lap. No faces, no explanation—just that.

And the caption?

"Mine.”

The DMs? Silent. The message? Loud and clear.

You were never the type to crave attention. Growing up, you had learned to blend into the background, to be self-sufficient. No one had ever really gone out of their way to make you feel special.

But Jongho? He changed everything.

The way he made it so obvious that you were his. How he walked beside you, making sure you were always safe. How his arm would find its way around your shoulders in crowded hallways. How he’d subtly block anyone who got too close.

The Instagram posts were one thing, but it was the little things that made you feel like a princess.

Like when he casually handed you his hoodie when you complained it was cold—without a word, just draping it over you like it was second nature. Or when he adjusted the straps of your bag because “It’s too loose, you’ll hurt your shoulder.”

Or how he always paid attention. If you so much as mentioned craving something, you’d find it mysteriously appearing in your dorm the next day. Kinder Joy? There. Your favorite drink? Waiting for you in class.

And the way he looked at you.

Like you were the most precious thing in the world.

For the first time in your life, you were someone’s priority. And you loved it.

The winter air was biting as you arrived at Jongho’s apartment for the night. He had asked you so politely—almost shyly—that you couldn’t say no.

After dinner, which you cooked while he hovered behind you like a baby bear, occasionally wrapping his arms around your waist or resting his chin on your shoulder, you both settled in for the night.

Jongho sat on the couch, scrolling through his phone while you went to do your skincare routine in the bathroom. You were halfway through when you felt his presence at the door.

"What are you even doing?" he asked, arms crossed as he watched you pat a serum onto your face.

"Skincare," you replied, giving him a pointed look.

He scoffed. "Looks like sorcery to me."

You rolled your eyes and grabbed an extra headband, walking over to him. "Sit."

He raised an eyebrow. "No way."

"You asked me to stay over. This is part of the deal," you said with a smirk.

With a grumble, he let you pull him onto the bathroom stool. You pushed back his hair with the headband, suppressing a giggle at how unexpectedly adorable he looked with it on.

"Don't laugh," he muttered, glaring.

"I'm not!"

You squeezed some cleanser onto your hands and started rubbing it into his face. He blinked rapidly at the sudden sensation, grabbing your wrist.

"What the hell—"

"Relax, big guy. Just let it happen."

He huffed, but let you continue. His face was surprisingly soft under your fingertips, and for a moment, you were lost in the closeness of it. Jongho, however, was glaring at his reflection.

"Feels weird," he grumbled.

You chuckled. "You’ll thank me later when your skin is glowing."

After washing off the cleanser, you moved on to toner and serum, explaining each step. Jongho just sat there, staring at you with those soft, unreadable eyes.

"What?" you asked.

"Nothing," he mumbled, looking away.

But his ears were red.

By the time you finished with moisturizer, he was pouting. "Feels sticky."

You flicked his forehead. "Beauty is pain."

He rolled his eyes but didn’t stop you when you applied lip balm on him, his lips parting slightly at the contact.

"All done," you declared, stepping back to admire your work.

Jongho looked at himself in the mirror, rubbing his face slightly. "Huh… not bad."

"Told you."

He turned to you, a sly grin forming. "So if I have good skin now, does that mean I get more kisses?"

You gaped at him, heat rushing to your cheeks. "Jongho!"

But he was already pulling you closer, his arms wrapping around your waist as he nuzzled into you.

"Thanks, princess," he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

And just like that, your heart was gone.

You sighed, sitting on the edge of Jongho’s bed, your fingers idly playing with the hem of your oversized sweatshirt. He had just finished brushing his teeth, stepping into the room with his usual confident ease. His damp hair was slightly tousled, and his sharp eyes softened when they landed on you.

He tilted his head, noticing your hesitation. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitated for a moment before sighing. “I sleep weird.”

Jongho blinked, clearly not expecting that answer. “What do you mean weird?”

“I mean…” You sighed again, fidgeting with your hands. “I move a lot in my sleep. I might—” You glanced at him briefly before looking away. “I might throw my leg over you. Or shove my feet under yours. Or, you know, hug you.” You rubbed the back of your neck. “I don’t want to disturb you.”

For a second, he just stared at you before a small, amused scoff left his lips. “That’s it? I thought you were about to say something serious.”

You frowned. “It is serious.”

He crossed his arms, a teasing smirk playing on his lips. “What, you think I’m gonna throw you off the bed?”

“No, but—”

“You can do whatever you want. It won’t bother me.”

That was a lie. Jongho never liked being hugged in his sleep. He never liked people clinging to him or invading his space while he rested. It had always felt suffocating, and he never hesitated to shove someone off if they got too close.

But you? You were different.

So when you eventually curled up beside him, shifting in your sleep and unconsciously draping your arm over his waist, he didn’t push you away. When your leg tangled with his, searching for warmth, he let it be. And when, in your sleep, you tucked your cold feet under his, he only let out a small huff, shaking his head with a quiet chuckle.

What surprised him the most was the way he naturally responded. Without thinking, his arm wrapped around you, pulling you closer. His hand found the curve of your waist, his thumb absentmindedly stroking small circles into your skin through the fabric of your sweatshirt.

You sighed in content, unconsciously burrowing into his chest. Jongho glanced down at you, his lips twitching at the sight of you so comfortably nestled against him.

If it were anyone else, he would’ve been annoyed, but with you…

With you, he found himself pressing a lazy, almost absentminded kiss to your forehead before resting his chin atop your head.

Yeah. He loved this.

Divider from @/cafekitsune

[anticmiscellaney]

Homunculus motorcycle jacket. The mouth on the side is the same shape, size and placement as my phalloplasty graft scar.

It's really hard to get a good photo of the glow in the dark aspect, but all the paint glows (the eyes are green, the mouth is white, the elbow eyes are orange). I mixed it up myself from commercial-grade glow pigment and Angelus leather paint. I made most of the eyes and all the teeth out of polymer clay.

There are some things I'd do differently, but I'm fairly happy with it. I'll probably keep refining it over time, adding more little details. Looking forward to wearing it out and about this summer.

[hotyanderedaddies]

The School Bully Loves You, Pt. 4:

Yandere Bully Interrupts Your "Date"

Part 0 │ Part 1 │ Part 2 │ Part 3

[Yandere! Bully x GN Nerd! Reader]

·゜·:.。..。.:·☆·゜·:.。..。.:·☆

Jonathan was a nice guy, you figured.

The quarterback of the football team was always all smiles, and he seemed to never treat you differently despite being way higher up on the social ladder. Therefore, you sort of liked to tutor him. Not only did it feel like you were sometimes hanging out with a close friend, but it also made you feel good deep down that a guy was paying you some attention... even if it was just for school. But still.

And plus, you figured that he could potentially protect you from Blake.

Seriously, it was crystal clear that Jonathan lived in the gym after school, given his large muscles and athletic prowess.

Blake is muscular too, but he tends to hide his bulk underneath his leather jacket.

But still!

You tried your best to force your mind away from Blake as you and Jonathan pulled into the parking lot of a local diner. It was a small place where the two of you could be uninterrupted during your study session. It was one of the few local spots where Jonathan would treat you as payment for tutoring him, and you'd always order something sweet and tasty!

The two of you took your seats at one of the booths near the back, and your eyes stayed glued to the door. The constant fear of Blake finding you kept you on edge, and you found it hard to stay present with your brain always straying back to the bully.

You mentally berated yourself, annoyed that you kept thinking about Blake.

He'd claimed you as his, and you'd gotten three strikes.

Both of those spelt trouble in your mind, and you wanted nothing more than to avoid the guy. Therefore, you figured that being away from school with someone big who could protect you was the best course of action.

Jonathan and you placed your orders and tried to start the tutoring session, but it was close to impossible for you to get your nerves settled.

"Is something on your mind?" the jock finally asked when he'd noticed you staring nervously at the door for the millionth time.

"O-oh!" you mumbled, jerking out of your panicked daze. "I'm sorry, I'm just a little... distracted." You sheepishly smiled at the end of your statement, hoping that the jock wouldn't catch onto you inadvertently using him as protection.

Jonathan pursed his lips into a thin line, deep in thought. "So," he slowly asked, shrugging his broad shoulders, "is it Blake?"

You jerked back in your seat, shocked. "Wh-what do you mean?" you stuttered, trying your best to force an innocent smile onto your face.

Jonathan scrunched up his face in confusion. "Oh, my bad," he muttered. "I just thought that you two were having couple problems."

"'Couple problems'?" you repeated.

Jonathan shrugged again. "Well, yeah," he grunted. "I mean, by the way Blake talks about you, I thought the two of you were dating..."

"The way he talks about me?" you repeated again, feeling yourself go pale at the words you heard.

Never in your life would you have ever expected Blake to talk about you in any sort of positive manner. You always tried to avoid him like the plague, hence you'd preferred if he didn't know that you existed. But if he were to talk about you, you half-expected him to curse your name and call you the scum of the earth given how badly he's beaten people up all around you.

Thinking about it, there were several of Blake's victims you knew personally:

Kyle, the bully who's stolen your lunch money back in the sixth grade. He'd gotten his face beaten to a pulp, causing his nose to be a little crooked now.

Tristan, the guy who'd called you ugly on picture day. Blake had based his face so hard that his front teeth had been knocked out, totally ruining his picture.

Cesar, the douche who'd smashed your science project to smithereens for a YouTube prank. Well, Blake had filmed himself stomping him in the nuts, posting it to Cesar's now defunct account.

Wait...

"Wh-what has Blake said... about me?" you asked, feeling your heart fall to the floor as you thought everything over. It all had to be a coincidence, right?

The waitress delivered your food, distracting the jock for a second as he began to eat his fries. "Oh, um, he says lots of things about you," he mumbled, his mouth full of food.

That didn't really help.

"Like what?" you pressed.

The jock took a loud gulp of his soda. "Well, he says that he--"

He was cut off by the loud slamming of the front door. The both of you were altered to the booming noise, making you both flinch as you turned to see none other than Blake enter the tiny diner.

The bully's eyes scanned the area before landing on you, narrowing in your direction.

Uh-oh...

To be continued...

·゜·:.。..。.:·☆·゜·:.。..。.:·☆

I'm sorry about the lack of tagging people! I'm forever and always appreciative of everyone's interest in this story. Unfortunately, I just can't tag everyone at the moment. I apologize and hope you all understand!

[uzumaki-rebellion]

Choose One (Chapter 1) by Uzumaki Rebellion

Characters: Elijah "Smoke" Moore and Elias "Stack" Moore (characters in the Michael B. Jordan movie "Sinners"). Lena Blackwell (OC).

Warning(s): Adult language, Angst, Pre-Sinners movie.

Summary: Lena Blackwell works in an illegal after-hours Black & Tan club in Bronzeville where she seduces twin brothers Smoke and Stack. Each brother has qualities she likes and she embarks on an illicit affair with both. All is well until one of the twins starts catching feelings.

Word Count: 3.8K

Masterlist HERE.

"See-line woman (see-line)

Dressed in red (see-line)

Make a man (see-line)

Lose his head (see-line)"

Nina Simone – "See-Line Woman"

She fucked them both.

Smoke and Stack.

Seducing the twin brothers was easy, but confusing at the start.

She met Stack first. The gold in his teeth gleamed in the light of the Sunset Café, one of the most popular Black and Tan clubs in the Bronzeville section of Chicago. Lena Blackwell worked behind the bar instead of the floor, where jam packed circular tables faced an at capacity dance floor moving to the sounds of the latest jazz band snazzed up in tuxedos.

Although the Sunset Café advertised itself as a supper club and a popular music venue, people along the stroll knew it was a higher class speakeasy. Unlike other clandestine establishments with secret code words whispered to get in and concealed entrances to deceive law enforcement and politicians, the Sunset owners paid off low-salaried policeman to look away. Their mob ties kept money in the right pockets to warn of raids and shakedowns from other gangsters. People wanted liquor and any other spirits they could get their hands on in a city that was supposed to be as dry as the Sahara.

Stack slithered over to the far end of the long polished mahogany table with a toothpick wedged between his gums. For over twenty minutes, he rapped to her while she tried to keep the prohibited drinks flowing.

"You should come work for me," he said, sizing her up with blatant lust in his bold brown eyes.

"I'm not a whore for you to put on the stroll, mister. Order another drink or leave me be."

He gave her a crooked grin with his sexy lips, then admired her perfectly coiffed hairdo styled with pin curls and slathered in Sweet Honey Brown pomade. Lena cut him to the quick.

"I know a pimp when I see one," she snapped, mixing drinks for one of the female servers.

"I ain't mean it like that baby. This is a legit business proposition. I'ma go back home and open a juke. I need a talented drink mixer such as yoself."

His delta accent was raspy and thick like overcooked grits. He was one of them sorry souls who migrated from the dirty south. She wondered if his feelings got hurt when he discovered the north was no different than the low down redneck peckerwoods he ran away from.

"Mmm hmm," she said, rolling her eyes.

"I'm serious. Think about it. Lemme have some cold water," he said.

Lena reached down into a false shelf and poured Stack some high grade illegal moonshine. She slid the glass to him and he guzzled it down.

"Stack!"

Lena tilted her head to see the caller.

Well, damn.

The head of the Bronzeville syndicate gestured toward Stack. Ernie Miller, the Black godfather of the south side, was wide in the gut and built low to the ground like a bulldog. A dangerous cat, who carried a switchblade known to cut throats on a whim.

Stack slid a fat wad of cash out of his pocket and laid a crisp twenty on the counter.

"Keep the change for your tip," he said, winking at her.

The change from his tab would cover her rent for two months.

He stuffed the rest of his money in his pocket where a shiny set of brass knuckles dangled, and left the bar to join Ernie. For the first time, Lena took notice of Stack's finely tailored brown suit and the sharp creases in his pants. He had syndicate connections. A gangster. And a good tipper. She watched him enter a secret door in the back and never saw him again that night.

Two days later, as she started work at the bar, she spotted Stack nursing a drink at the far end, listening to an older barfly chat away to him. He drained the last of what was in his glass and Lena offered him some cold water.

Stack looked at her in confusion and shook his head in the negative.

She worked her shift, expecting Stack to hit on her at the bar again, like most men did.

He didn't.

"Cat got your tongue tonight, mister?" she teased, wiping down a spill near his arm from another patron.

He stared at her and then turned away to watch chorus girls tear up the Black Bottom dance in short dresses. Maybe she'd been too curt for him last time, and he took the hint. Ironically, that made her take a sudden interest.

He was tall, fine-looking, and a sharp dresser. She wondered if he smelled as good as he looked. Her eyes stayed on him until he wandered off to take an empty seat next to Ernie in a far left corner with some other broad-shouldered men.

"What was he drinking?" she asked another bartender.

Max, a reed-thin high yella man with a nasally voice, glanced at her.

"A South Side and the last glass was some Smoke."

"Eww, he likes that Smoke shit? That could kill him," she said, crinkling her nose.

"Them ex soldiers like that cloudy fuel alcohol."

"How you know he's an ex soldier?"

Max held out his hand and wiggled it.

"His hands. They shake a little bit. Lotta them war boys came back messed up."

Lena couldn't imagine the jovial man she met the other night acting shell-shocked. She reached under the bar and grabbed some gin. Adding some lime, sugar, and a bit of mint, she made a fresh glass of South Side.

"I'll be right back," she said.

Her heels click-clacked on the floor and she passed several raucous tables enjoying the floor show. Ernie had stepped away to talk to some people two tables over. She placed the South Side in front of the ex soldier.

"Thought you might enjoy this better than that rot gut you were drinking earlier," she said.

He glanced down at the drink and a slow smile raised the corners of his lips. No gold on his teeth. She studied his features, his hair, and the large build of his body. This had to be the same man.

"What they call you around here?" she asked.

"Smoke."

"Not Stack?"

He showed more teeth and some dimples.

"No. Just Smoke."

He had a twinkle in his eye and he chuckled softly.

"Where you from?" she asked.

"Mississippi."

"You really opening a juke down there?"

He squinted at her, but before he could answer, Ernie returned.

"Let's go," Ernie said, grabbing his coat.

The soldier stood and brushed against her. She looked up into his eyes and shivered. He reached down for the drink she prepared for him and sipped it down in front of her.

"Thank you," he said, handing the glass back to her.

She clasped it with both hands, feeling woozy by the scent of his cologne. He grabbed his suit coat, and she glimpsed the gun in a holster strapped to him.

"Excuse me," he said, his voice soft like cotton.

Lena stepped aside and touched her forehead. The man had her breaking out in a sweat.

Two more men caught up to them near the bar and that's when she gasped, seeing double. The man who called himself Smoke greeted his twin brother Stack. Lena returned to her post and Stack peeled back his lips, showing her gold in his mouth. She ended up grinning, and he leaned an elbow on the bar.

"You look even more beautiful when you smile," Stack said.

Staring at them both, she could tell they were physically identical, but the personalities, their auras…so opposite.

One thing was for sure, seeing them together…she was smitten.

And she wanted them both.

Stack usually showed up at the Sunset around nine.

Lena figured out his routine quickly because out of the two twins, Stack liked to party and be around the nightlife the most. He stood out in a crowd of men and the ladies loved him.

The Sunset Café started advertising to lure more women into the place for capitalistic gain. Originally the owners created it as a gentlemen's club, but in order to stay lucrative during prohibition, they had to open up the market to new customers, and women loved to drink.

To hide the odorous stench of bootleg hard liquor that could turn female customers away, new cocktails were created adding syrups and various fruit juices to sweeten the bitter taste. The club manager ordered all bartenders to add more cherries, orange slices, and canned chucks of pineapples in the drinks to appeal to the good-time girls who sought excitement. Especially the white ones.

White women loved the Sunset.

White men loved it too, and the forbidden allure of rubbing shoulders with negroes brought out their lascivious side. Everyone in Chicago knew that colored folks couldn't have their own entertainment spaces without white folks sniffing for some action in the mix. As much as they pretended to hate negro people, they sure couldn't stay away from them. Colored patrons and performers tickled their libidinous fantasies. The best music, the best food, and the best dancing happened on the south side where negroes were crowded together. They didn't call it Bronzeville for nothing.

Lena eyed the entrance. Stack was due to swagger through any minute.

The supper hour kept the bar less hectic as folks ate garnished devilled eggs, green beans, steaks, fried catfish, buttermilk-dipped fried chicken, with the added sides of creamy macaroni and cheese with generous slices of honey cornbread.

Max flipped through his tattered, olive-colored copy of the H.P. Dreambook. A man wearing a turban in front of a crystal ball illustrated the cover. He pestered busboys, servers, and Lena about their dreams so he could search them up in his book and find the corresponding numerical interpretation to play the numbers. Another bartender named Frank polished glasses and worked the other end of the counter.

"C'mon Lena, your turn, what you dream last night?" Max asked.

"I don't really have dreams."

"Everybody dreams. Bernice, what about you?"

Bernice scratched an itch on her prominent nose and thought about her answer while she waited for Lena to pour whiskey into three tumbler glasses.

"The night before, I dreamed about going to Paris and seeing Josephine Baker," Bernice said.

She spun around and shook her hips.

"Y'all think she really dances over there naked wearing bananas?" Bernice asked.

"Lemme see, travel… bananas…dancing…" Max murmured.

He circled numbers in his book with a stubby pencil. Lena placed the drinks on Bernice's tray and tapped her foot waiting for Max. Two other female servers went to Frank to fill their orders.

"Okay…two…twenty-nine…seventeen," Max said.

He reached into his tip pocket and pulled out a coin, handing it to Bernice.

"Give that to Melvin and tell him to combinate my numbers," he said.

"You give your own money to the numbers man," Bernice said.

She flounced away from the bar, and Max sucked his teeth.

Stack strolled in and took off his hat and coat, leaving it with the coat check girl. He surveyed the room and two gleeful white women sauntered over to him.

"Them ofays sure do love them some Big Stack," Max said.

Bernice returned with another drink order. She glanced at Stack, too.

"Can you blame them? Look at him…just a big stiff drink I'd love to pour down my throat."

"Man can't even get into the club without women flocking to him," Max said.

"Those two wait to see him every week. They reserve the table closest to the door to catch him," Bernice added. "I ain't never seen him with anything darker than a paper bag, though."

"That's cuz you and those ladies are at the top of the hierarchy."

"What are you bumping your gums about now, Max?" Bernice sighed.

"Niggas out here go for color first, hair texture second, and shape last. Listen to me…don't roll your eyes…white girls and you lightskins…that would be you Bernice with your mixed ass…are at the top. If a woman ain't that, they'll take a brownskin, like Lena, if they have good hair. But if they can't have number one or two, a woman has to at least have a good shape. See, Bernice here, she only got one and two—"

"I got a cute shape, too! I'm all three!" Bernice protested.

"Not with those knock knees and small tits…anyway, like I was saying…you gotta have what's on that list or you won't get no attention in this club. That's why Lena is behind the bar and not on the floor with you all night getting the fat tips. Facts is facts, and that man over there likes to have all three."

They watched Stack as he charmed the women blocking him from the rest of the club.

"Hmmph. Men are stupid," Bernice huffed. "Miss Two-out-of-three, can I get three shots of rum?"

"Coming right up, Miss Three-out-of-three," Lena said.

Bernice cackled, then took the drinks away.

"I never noticed she had knock knees," Lena whispered to Max.

Stack sauntered over with the women and their loud chatter livened up the counter.

"Hey Max," Stack said.

"Good to see you this evening, Mr. Moore," Max said, taking on his polished bartender voice.

He dropped his dream book under the counter.

"What can I fix for you tonight, sir?"

Max waited for the order. Lena headed over to another patron who wanted hooch.

"Ladies, what would you like to drink?" Stack asked.

The first woman, a shapely red head with narrow features asked for a Sidecar, and the second woman, a wide-eyed brunette, requested a Malört.

"You like that bitter stuff?" Stack asked.

Lena clocked the brunette's curling edges from perspiration, and the slight roundness of her nose. To a regular white person, she could pass as Italian or even a Jewish Russian. However, the hair, the extra curve in her ass, and the nervous fluttery eyes told the truth to Lena. The woman glanced at her; a mutual understanding passed between them that she would be treated as a white woman. Who was she to judge what people had to do to survive a depression?

If Stack knew, he didn't let on. Max gave them their drinks and Stack turned his steady focus on Lena.

"You look real nice tonight, Lena."

"Thank you, Mr. Moore," she said.

"When you wear all those curls, it makes your pretty eyes look mysterious—"

"Stack," the redhead interjected.

Her tone came out sharply, saying his name.

"I'm talking, baby, give me a minute," he said.

The bass in his voice caused her lips to bunch up. Her brunette friend sipped the Malört and looked away.

"I didn't come down here to watch you talk to a bartender," the redhead whined.

"Bitch, I don't care what you came here to do."

Max stepped in to de-escalate.

"Mr. Moore, what would you like to have?"

Lena left them to serve other people, and Stack dismissed the two women. He conferred with Max and the floor show began, capturing his attention. Stack loved watching the dancers. He probably ran through most of them based on his reputation. Irritation stretched across his face and Lena served him the moonshine he loved.

"Those girls don't know how to act when you talk to other women," she said.

"I'm tired of them dingy broads anyway. They both have dry coochie and bad attitudes. White bitches love slumming with dark dick, but act all bent outta shape if a colored woman gets a tiny bit of attention."

"You do know one of them is colored, right?"

"Yeah, I know."

He grinned and looked deep into Lena's eyes. She gave him a sly smirk and his eyes drank her in.

"You want some more?" she asked, enunciating each word.

Stack watched her succulent red lips and his gaze dipped to the top of her white blouse, eyeballing the outline of her breasts.

"You undressing me with those eyes, Mr. Moore?"

Dimples.

"I think you're undressing me," he said.

"I been did that," she teased, and sashayed away to serve a counter rush of older men with their mistresses.

She knew he kept his eyes on her ass the way she intended by swinging her hips extra hard.

He loved watching her.

For weeks she acted coquettish and purred his last name any time she served him. Ernie treated him and Smoke as his most trusted muscle men. If he needed an enemy whacked, he sent the Smoke Stack twins with the chopper to deliver a Chicago overcoat first class. Stack strutted around the club with a dominance that aroused her. Most tough guys annoyed her, their performative masculinity a tremendous joke to her.

Not Stack.

He oozed overt power, and she wanted a taste of that in her bed.

"Be careful, Lena, being a gangster's woman ain't the life you want," Max warned on a different night.

He caught her ogling Stack. Lena loved the way his thighs stretched the material of his pants, and she licked her lips at the heavy bulge in the crotch. What she would give to sit on all that hefty weight. She flirted with the gangster using long unblinking stares on him, and lightly touched his hand whenever she served glasses of rum, gin, or the moonshine he liked to call dog soup. Eventually, he would just beeline to the bar to greet her the moment he walked into the club. He only had eyes for her.

Women were easy for Stack to catch because they threw themselves at him. She lured him in night by night, forcing him to chase her, keeping him expectant, and on his toes. The man hadn't chased a woman for a long time and it showed.

Her calculated seduction worked.

He started bringing her things. Diamond earrings. Real ones. Fancy gold hair clips and chocolate candy in heart boxes. He asked around and found out her favorite snack was the roasted peanuts sold a block away on the street from an old German man. He left her small warm bags at the bar before her shift started on Fridays to last her all weekend. She showed up to work one night and Max could barely contain himself. He handed her a large box with a knee-length fur coat inside.

He asked her out a few times, but she played demure, citing the rules of employees not fraternizing with employers.

"Aw Lena. I don't own this place…I work for the man who does. He pays your checks, not me."

"The other girls will be mad if they see me with you."

"Fuck 'em."

"I'll think about it."

He floated for a week after she said that. Like most men, he wanted a slut to fuck in private, but a good girl to woo in public.

A month later, Lena had a rough night with some rowdy patrons. Lower-level men of Ernie's syndicate. Stack had been out of town on business, and she missed interacting with him. His flirty nature kept her work nights fun, and they flew by fast. Without him, they dragged on for hours.

After Lena helped clean the bar area and counted money at closing, the numbers man slid over to Max and handed him a fifteen dollar win.

"Holy shit!" Max shouted.

He turned to Lena, his eyes shiny with joy.

"I'm taking you to Al's Diner for steak and eggs!"

Lena grabbed her coat and purse and walked out of the club with Max. Bernice joined them. They caught a cab to Al's Diner in a seedier area, but the food was delicious. Lena ate her fill and listened to Max make plans to buy his girlfriend new dresses, and a new tailored suit with nice dress shoes to replace the clodhoppers he wore outside of work. Bernice planned a rent party and Lena promised to spread the word and address to their shared apartment building. Max offered to pay for all the food at her party so she could sell dinner plates and keep all the proceeds.

After Max splurged on chocolate malts, she shared another cab ride with Bernice to her second-floor walk-up.

Another week passed, and Stack didn't come to the Sunset. Lena worried that the Italian mafia under Al Capone's orders gunned him down in the windy city or Bugs Moran and the Irish mob caught him slipping and threw him in Lake Michigan. Smoke huddled with Ernie and the other men in their crew, talking animatedly. She made her way around the bar counter. Tensions around the city had been thick among the immigrant groups, but colored folks kept on striving for better. Tempted to ask the other twin about his brother, she felt two muscular arms lift her up when she headed to the secret storage room to retrieve more spirits.

"Stack!"

Her heart triple-thumped in her chest like a train roaring down an uneven track. She turned and threw her arms around his neck instinctively.

"You missed me," he whispered in her ear.

The vibration of his voice along the delicate skin on her neck thrilled her. The breathiness in the shell of her ear heated the blood in her veins.

She kissed him.

Smashed her plump wanton lips across his fuller ones and slipped her tongue past the seam, tasting the strong whiskey on his breath. Their heads slanted for the proper angle to slide warm tongues together. His deep kisses sent love pulses straight down to her toes. Stack tongued her breathless hidden behind an alcove. He cradled her face before pulling away first.

"Damn. I ain't been kissed like that before," he drawled out in his delta accent.

She held his longing gaze in the yellow light of the hanging lamp that dangled above them. As tough as he was, his face looked so gentle and pure up close. Like a big ole puppy that just wanted to play fetch with her heart.

"Go out with me tonight," he asked.

She tickled the facial hair on his chin, then ran a slender finger down the part in his hair.

"How 'bout you go out with me?"

He grinned.

"Where?"

"It won't be nowhere high class like you're used to, but you'll have a good time. Promise."

He lunged for her mouth again, wrapping his beefy arms around her waist, lifting her off her feet.

"Oh, no wonder it's taking you so long to bring those bottles out," her co-worker Frank said.

Lena jerked away from Stack and grabbed the bottles she came for. She rushed past Frank, beaming all the way back to the bar.

Chapter 2 HERE.

A.N.:

Thanks for your patience! It's easier to do little chapters to buy me time to finish it. But y'all read so darn fast though!

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[jesswritesthat]

Bakugō Katsuki: Engineer

Fandom: BNHA // MHA — [ Masterlist ]

Summary: ~1.5k, fluff, a little violence.

• Being a talented inventor meant your skills were sought by many (both good and bad), but then you catch the attention of Dynamight.

Warnings: Cursing, violence, mention of weapons, post time skip.

>>>>——————————>

"You can't be serious Bakugō-san."

The pro snapped to his trusty assistant, raising an expectant brow when replying like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"You said they're the best. That's who I want for my agency."

"Yes but—"

"But nothing! Do you know where I can find them?"

"Everyone who has tried has been refused. Their infamous talent has been sought by heroes, big companies, and even villainous characters... All of whom failed to hire them."

"’Cause I haven't asked yet."

"Bakugō-san, I know there's no convincing you otherwise but, I'd recommend having other options available at least."

True to his assistants' warnings, you were no easy recruit, all his efforts at communication were futile. Emails? Calls? Letters? You hadn't replied to any of his professional outreach methods and he suspected this was a common occurrence for you.

Fine then, he'd turn up the heat. Your workshop address wasn't a secret to those with connections and Bakugō wasn't one to give up without a fight. Literally, if need be.

———

It was a perplexing thing in the middle of nowhere, your workshop. A metal-like building heavily lined with obscure defensive weaponry as well as having access to your own personal scrapyard it seemed. But it was yours. A rumoured mechanical talent for crafting hero gear and inventions, one that drew attention from far and wide. However you were content in your independence, it was less hassle this way you'd hoped.

Alas, the confident banging on the metal entrance doors with conviction was far from unusual.

"I told ya, I don't—" You paused once sliding open the door and taking a look at your visitor, lifting your goggles and shifting to a smile. "Haven't seen you at my door before."

"Since ya didn't answer my calls or mail, I don't have a choice." The man seethed through gritted teeth, trying to be more 'accommodating' like advised.

"Oh? Which one are you again?" Your gaze flicked to a pile of (some charred) letters in a nearby bin, smile growing more smug by the second.

"Bakugō Katsuki. You might know me as Dynamight though."

"Yeah you're fun. I like you." You smirked proudly, honesty and bemusement present. "The way you yell at people resonates with me."

The man rolled his eyes with scoffing sound, choosing not to say anything rambunctious enough to have you slam the door in his face - still, he was surprised when you welcomed him in.

"Tch. S'pose you know why I'm here then."

"You, and many others. Had Lemillion here last month, least he bought me a welcome basket with cake and such." You joked, easing the caution the blonde seemed to be upholding around you with his natural personality showing.

"Tch, ain't gonna get you none of that crap unless you start working with me. I did bring something useful though because I'm better than the other extras you've dealt with." He held out a bag, one you quizzically explored to find a peculiar item to win one over with.

"A spanner...?"

It wasn't just a spanner, it was one of the newest, top of the grade, multi tool sets crafted by one of the big brands. Thoughtful. Very thoughtful actually...

"I appreciate it, but I can't accept something this expensive. Especially when I'm going to decline your offer."

"S'fine. It's a gift, but if you feel that guilty about it then you can fix my gauntlets." Bakugō justified rather abruptly, shoving the bag into your arms to ensure you took it.

"Alright. That sounds fair."

"I'll grab 'em from my car, get your shit ready."

That afternoon, you sat beside Katsuki as he talked you through the technicalities of his weaponry whilst you worked on them together. All the while diverting onto conversation tangents and making drinks mid way, he demonstrated his quirk - tiny sparkles of explosive lighting up his hand.

"They're pretty, your explosions."

"They’re deadly— I don't— shut up nerd!" He dismissed you briskly, turning away with an irritated growl.

———

Fixing his gear would be the first and last time you'd see Bakugō in person you assumed, considering you declined his job proposition and all.

So when you received another bout of rapid banging on metal the following week, you were surprised to find a smirking Dynamight rather than another recruiter.

"Shocked to see me or something?"

"Well I— yeah. Figured you'd take my refusal and go."

"Nah you did a good job with my gauntlets, wanted to see what else you're up to." Dynamight flexed his wrist for example, openly pleased with his gauntlets but seemed more so by your genuine reaction.

"Oh really?" You sounded truly perplexed, but also excited to share your work with someone. "Sure, I'll show you my latest ideas!"

Bakugō stayed a while, a couple of hours discussing applications for your inventions and inquiring as to whether there were any materials you were unable to obtain recently. Then it moved on to his occupation, his agency, and then to trivial matters such as popular restaurants around town.

“So, wanna join my agency yet?” The blonde threw over his shoulder on his way out of the door.

“No Dynamight, but thank you for asking and visiting.”

“Fine nerd. I’ll be back then.”

Now you didn’t believe that for a second when he slammed the door behind him, and you felt like he’d only asked for the sake of it - fully expecting you to say no. However, if he did decide to visit again, you wouldn’t be mad about it you concluded.

———

Unfortunately, your next set of individuals weren’t so welcomed. You’d seen them multiple times previously, each visit coming with its increase of pressure to work exclusively for them. A dealer who specialised in exporting weaponry to villains on the black market, they had both the money and power to pose either a threat or a reward. Except, your constant refusals had only fuelled their growing impatience which led them crashing down your door tonight with violence in their wake.

"C'mon (L/n), I came here personally just to hire you. We'll certainly pay you well enough~" The dealer slammed you into the wall, digits digging so deeply into your neck you barely managed a disgruntled wretch.

"I'll neve— ever work— for you assholes!"

"Too bad, the consequence for that is death y’know." You were slung across the floor, a gasp for breath futile when he aimed his pistol at your heart. "Want to reconsider yet?"

"Fuck you."

The gun safety clicked off, one of the henchman's quirks keeping you painfully immobile. If these were your final moments you were furious you hadn't completed your latest invention, maybe a little irritated you hadn't hit the code red before you were taken over by a damn quirk. You avoided pledging alliances to avoid this bullshit! You didn't work for any competitors, you weren't in the line of fire for sharing information, but now you can't even refuse work without getting caught in a crime web?! Society and talent is a sh—

Then an ear splitting bang echoed in the facility, dust clouds and debris forcing through the room like a tidal wave, leaving two intruders knocked out and the remainder covering their faces and yelling confused curses. That's when you saw sparks of light, a familiar explosion you had the privilege of seeing in person only once before.

He came back.

"That's why they call me Great Explosion Murder God!" He grinned menacingly, teeth bared like a predator with a dangerous glint in those crimson eyes. Sparks and smoke danced around him, the hero lowering both his stance and voice when he spoke what sounded like a protective threat.

"Now get away from my agency's' new engineer."

Oddly you felt butterflies in your stomach, but you'd narrowed that down to the whole situation being an absolute bombshell. You watched as Dynamight immobilised them effortlessly, the quirk being lifted allowing you to utilise your inventions - mechanised laser snipers pointed at the foreheads of your unwanted company, all programmed to fire with a snap of your fingers.

"Couldn't have done that sooner nerd?" The hero shot back to you tauntingly, but you didn’t miss how his gaze flared up at the sight of bruising on your neck when he’d scanned you for injury.

"Then you'd be out of a job, hero."

It took no longer than ten minutes for the authorities to arrive, during that time Dynamight had retrieved any information he’d wanted. As well as issuing basic first aid to you contrastingly softly in comparison to the deathly interrogation the dealer experienced.

You’d be taken to hospital for a check of course, (Bakugō personally walking you to your escort since he couldn’t drive you himself right now) but before you bid farewell you had a burning question.

"When can I start?"

"Hah?" Came his classic recall, snapping to you with a look of angry curiosity.

"You called me your engineer, I was wondering when that begins." Your voice was quieter now, but upon realising Katsuki seemed a little embarrassed with hand rubbing his neck and honest answer spilled.

"It's your choice, but I figured saying that would get others off your back when word gets around. You'd be left in peace for a while to continue your work."

"And if I want to work with you, when would you want me at the agency?

"All the time." Just as quickly as he spoke, he realised his lack of hesitance, awkwardly huffing and rephrasing all in one. "I'll send over a contract, you can move stuff into the lab if you like the terms."

"Then I look forward to working with you, boss." Gladly, you held out your hand to him, pleased smirk plastered on your features.

"Call me Katsuki." He shook your hand, victorious grin in play. "And the pleasure’s all mine."

<——————————<<<<

[ Masterlist ]

[awearywritersworld]

do not leave me in this abyss, where i cannot find you

sukuna x reader summary: the higher ups succeed in kidnapping you and sukuna doesn't know if he'll get you back alive. w/c: 2.85k tags/warnings: fluff and angst. reader is kidnapped and gravely injured. depictions of blood. canon typical violence. "good girl". cursing. ft gojo. aged up!yuuji. fem!reader. not canon compliant. no use of y/n. *please mind the warnings for this chapter* a/n: and finally folks, we've reached the climax of the series. there will only be one more official chapter after this one, so i hope this lives up to expectations. this could maybe be read as a stand alone, but it's certainly better when serving as a culmination to the other chapters. i'm a little nervous posting this, so i'd love to hear your thoughts :) series masterlist // masterlist

brontë

sukuna isn't sure at first why the name is familiar, but he soon realizes that a great many of the books on your shelf are authored by women of that name, including jane eyre.

though he finds your copy of wuthering heights, written by an emily brontë, tucked away in the drawer of your nightstand, the headphones you'd asked him grab lying on top of it.

he pulls the book from its spot with care, as the cover is worn and frayed at the edges. flipping through the pages, there are quite a few quotes underlined and countless scribbles in the margins.

while you'd forced him to read jane eyre, he tucks wuthering heights under his arm of his own volition. he isn't sure if it's because you've kept this one separate from the others, or because it might give him an opportunity to know you better, or because he's positive it will make you happy, but he does it all the same.

when he steps back into the living room, he drops your headphones in your lap and takes the seat beside you, wasting no time in beginning the first chapter.

"what've you got there?" you eventually question, even though you know the answer.

he doesn't spare you a glance when he responds, "a book."

"oh, yeah? what kind of book?"

he elects to ignore you, which only serves to encourage your mischievous tone. "i thought romance novels were beneath you and your refined taste."

finally looking at you, he narrows his eyes at your childish taunt. "do you want me to read it or not?"

"of course—"

"then i suggest you be a good girl and behave yourself."

your mouth snaps shut so abruptly that your teeth click as they meet, something sukuna takes note of with a raised brow. you're thankful when he returns to reading rather than saying anything more.

so without any additional interruptions, he delves into the tragic story of heathcliff and catherine. or more precisely, the pain and destruction that follows it.

the further he reads, the better he discerns that while you seem to have a penchant for the brontë sisters, they seem to have a penchant for writing about men that are wicked and callous.

the very notion makes him chuckle.

maybe it explains why he's sitting here with your feet in his lap, while you try and fail (rather cutely) to stifle your giggles at some stupid youtube video.

"what?" you ask, taking out one of your headphones once you notice he's staring at you with a small smile.

"nothing. just enjoying the story."

the way you beam in response makes his mouth go dry.

"hah! i knew it! you're a romantic at heart."

you make a big show of pressing your hands to your chest and swooning.

"settle down there," he chides, his hand patting your thigh. "you're getting ahead of yourself."

two days later, sukuna feels that something isn't quite right. it's barely perceptible, nothing more than a minute shift in the atmosphere, but it grows more palpable as time stretches on.

yuuji's mission takes him farther from home than usual, to a little town about two hours outside of the city.

the curse he exorcises upon his arrival is much weaker than he's grown accustomed to, probably only a third or fourth grade.

yuuji doesn't seem to notice anything out of the ordinary, or at least, he pretends not to. sukuna thinks that's the problem with optimists— they don't take action quickly enough, too busy wasting their time hoping for the best.

when he returns home late that afternoon only to find your apartment door slightly ajar, his hand hesitates before pushing it open.

he discovers that the living room is littered with residuals, but it's eerie how nothing else is out of place... save for you, who is no where to be found.

in a disbelieving panic, he begins checking all the rooms, not hearing sukuna's frantic voice even though it's coming from inside his own head. "she's not here... idiot, she's not here. we have to go. we have to go now."

he eventually finds a note lying on the coffee table, but even this he hardly processes— something about surrendering himself and sukuna to the higher ups at headquarters in exchange for your life.

"listen to me, brat... you're wasting time... idiot!"

"what?" he barks abruptly.

"she isn't far, a couple blocks to the east at most—"

"it doesn't matter. headquarters is to the west. that's where we need to go."

"have you failed to comprehend a single thing i've said about the higher ups?" sukuna sneers. "they'll kill us, then kill her too. she knows too much about jujutsu society. they won't let her live, and that's if she's not... if she isn't already..."

he can't get the word out.

"no... no, they wouldn't..."

"now is not the time for your blind faith in the integrity of others." sukuna tries again and again to assume control of his vessel, and while the force behind it makes yuuji's head pound, it's no use. "for fuck's sake— please, yuuji!"

it's the first time he's heard the curse occupying his body say his actual name or use the word please, and in a strange way, it seems to ground him to some degree.

itadori yuuji has always been uncannily fast, but as soon as he makes his way out onto the street, it's like his feet aren't even touching the pavement. he appears as a blur to the people he passes by and it happens so briefly that they more than likely disregard it as a trick of the light.

the ruby decorating your neck leads them right to you, a low hum of frequency that only sukuna can hear.

yuuji comes to a stop in front of an old warehouse building. there are several wooden boards nailed across the main entrance, which splinter and fall to the earth under the impact of his impatient fist.

although the people down the hall quiet themselves upon hearing the crash, he can still sense their energy. he just can't seem to pick up on yours.

maybe sukuna is wrong? maybe you're not here after all.

"no," comes sukuna's voice, cold and hard. "she's here."

he makes his way down the stretch of hallway and to an open door where he stops, both of his feet planting firmly on the ground. everything appears to be frozen as he stares at ten sorcerers who quietly stare back.

it's clear they were not expecting yuuji, but he knows the higher ups assigned so many sorcerers just in case he did somehow figure out where they brought you.

he recognizes many of their faces and even knows some of their names, their familiarity no doubt intended to discourage him from engaging them.

after a few moments, yuuji's eyes land on your figure— motionless on the floor.

he has to admit, the higher up have put together a fairly sound plan. it's just that there's one small detail they failed to account for.

a curious and constraining sensation erupts from the center of his chest, and yuuji doesn't quite understand what's happening until he registers he's no longer the one in control of his body.

the king of curses remains completely still as he studies you from afar with a slight tilt of his head, his mind refusing to believe the scene right before his eyes.

when the gravity of the situation finally settles in, a gut churning agony blossoms in his stomach and bleeds into every part of his body. every bone. every pore. every vein.

the entirety of him burns, both inside and out.

the air in the room is heavy, overburdened with hostility and raw power. it makes the sorcerers' knees buckle and they nearly collapse beneath the immense pressure.

as sukuna takes a step toward the nearest person, the edges of his vision turn white.

he moves with deadly precision, at a speed which very few people on earth could even begin to comprehend.

it's a joke how quickly it's all over.

some of them are in pieces. others have exploded into nothingness. a few are burnt to ash.

in his haste, sukuna nearly misses the final sorcerer. he's probably the youngest of them all, cowering in the corner of the room. his eyes are wide with horror and his body shakes with fear.

"p-please, spare m-me. i didn't touch her," he sputters out.

the laugh that follows is utterly humorless. "do you actually believe that makes a difference to me?"

"i told t-them not to hurt her! i swear. that's how i got this." he points to his bottom lip, busted open and swollen. "she even told me she was sorry that i got hurt... that i didn't have to defend her."

this gives sukuna pause and his jaw clenches as he considers what you would tell him right now were you conscious.

so even as every fiber of his being screams at him to end the sorcerer's miserable, pathetic life... he restrains himself and pins him to the wall instead, pressing a forearm to his throat.

"go back to the higher ups. go and tell them that if anyone lays a hand on her ever again, i will ruin them," he spits, venom lacing each word. "i'll slaughter every last one of them. i'll level their homes. i'll take everything from them. tell them this is a promise they shouldn't take lightly."

when sukuna takes a step back, the young sorcerer crumbles to the ground. "i- i- i will."

"then get out of my sight," he growls.

returning his attention to you, his demeanor shifts in every respect.

you're going to be okay. you're going to wake up. he's going to take you home and it will be like none of this ever happened.

but when he falls to your side, his knees meeting the ground so brutally that it cracks beneath his weight, his conviction falters.

your blood is spilt onto the concrete. your skin is cold. he can't tell if you're breathing. he can't feel your heartbeat.

he determines that the gash across your side deserves his attention first and his hands tremble as they move to cover it.

he puts every ounce of power he has into his reverse cursed technique, but your eyes don't flutter and your chest doesn't rise nor fall.

his palms stain crimson, and while blood has never bothered him before, the fact that it's yours forces the bile to rise from his stomach and into his throat.

and his face is wet.

why is his face wet?

why are his lips trembling?

why is his vision blurred?

he wipes at his cheeks, leaving a trail of your blood across his face in the process.

"no," he chokes out. "please, don't do this. you're fine. please, you have to be fine. please."

the king of curses begs, but he has no idea who his desperation is directed toward. maybe it's you. maybe it's the gods. maybe it's some entity that's unknowable to him.

hell, maybe it's just whoever will listen to him. there has to be someone out there, right? something.

unbeknownst to him, and poetic in sorrowful sort of a way, his next pleas are reminiscent of heathcliff's after he learns of catherine's death.

"be with me always"

"stay with me, angel. please don't go."

"take any form"

"hate me for this if you want, for being the reason you're in this mess. you can't hate me anymore than i already hate myself."

"drive me mad"

"i'll read every single stupid romance novel on your bookshelf. i promise i'll play all of your ridiculous card games."

"only do not leave me in this abyss, where i cannot find you!"

"just don't leave me here without you. i don't want to be here without you.

"oh, god! it is unutterable!"

"please," he whimpers.

"i cannot live without my life!"

"you're everything. you are everything. you can't leave me with nothing."

"i cannot live without my soul!"

"i love you," sukuna laments. "i love you."

he doesn't even comprehend the words that have been tumbling past his lips, because they're coming from a part of himself that he long believed to be dead and buried.

it's the part of him that can feel suffering and regret and loss and love.

it's the part of him that you've been painstakingly unearthing whenever you send a smile his way. whenever you curl into his side. whenever you press your lips to his.

and he's so undeserving of it each and every time. he's known that. god, has he known that.

he thinks bitterly of the night you'd walked to the park together hand in hand— when you told him the universe had sent you to knock him down a peg.

turns out you were wrong.

the universe gave you to him, but only so it could take you away too.

and it won't just knock him down a peg. it will fucking destroy him. it will completely and irrevocably destroy him.

this is what he does deserve.

how is it that you can be both his salvation and his undoing?

"i love you," he repeats, his voice barely above a whisper.

it's ironic that the three words he's never once said in his entire life are the only ones he can manage in this moment.

he hears a quiet sigh escape your lips, but he knows that it's just his imagination— nothing more than the universe playing its final sick joke.

the sun is out and its rays are peeking through the window of your bedroom. sukuna thinks it's despicable.

everything should be cold and dark today.

you're lying in bed half dead and the only thing keeping sukuna's sanity intact is the shallow rise and fall of your chest.

he should go to jujutsu headquarters and deliver a slow, painful death to every single person involved in yesterday's events. then he should turn their headquarters to ash and stand there watching until the wind blows every last bit away.

but more than that, he should be by your side, so that's where he's remained.

it's been nearly a day and you still haven't woken up, so he's taken to performing reverse cursed technique on you every few hours.

yuuji had shoko come by last night and she assured him your body just needs time, but sukuna doesn't intend on taking any chances. aside from the brat, there isn't a single sorcerer he trusts.

so naturally when gojo teleports directly in the middle of your living room unannounced, sukuna moves swiftly to his feet and blocks the doorway to your room.

gojo regards him nonchalantly, hiding his surprise that yuuji is not the one to greet him. "what are you doing... out and about?"

"that's none of your concern."

"right. well, i came to check in."

"that's not necessary."

the two men watch one another carefully, before gojo eventually chuckles. "god, you actually care about her. i guess the whole soul thing should have been proof enough, but i couldn't bring myself to really believe it until now."

sukuna doesn't respond, so the other man continues. "you should know that the threat to her has been... dealt with."

"that so?" sukuna asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

"mhmmm. word of this spread to the three clans and they agreed civilians have no place in jujutsu politics if it can be helped. not to mention your little... messenger. it all caused quite the ruckus for the higher ups."

"i don't think ruckus is enough to deter them." his tone makes it clear that he feels gojo is wasting his time.

"this isn't the heian era anymore, you know. the higher ups may still be the figureheads of jujutsu society, but they have little say when all three clans concur on a matter." receiving nothing more than a blank stare, he adds, "besides, i'm rather fond of her myself, so i may or may not have made certain threats of my own."

sukuna's eye twitches. "anything else you feel compelled to share before you leave?"

"can i at least see her before i go?" gojo questions, peering over sukuna's shoulder.

"if you do not value your life, i welcome you to try."

a sly grin breaks out on gojo's face.

"eager to make good on your promise of killing me from all those years ago?" he pauses, his hand coming to rest on his chin as if he's pondering something of great importance. "as much as i'd love to see you try, we shouldn't wake our precious sleeping beauty before she's ready, so maybe another time."

with that, he disappears, leaving a very irritated sukuna in his wake.

"our," he repeats under his breath, shaking his head. "that unbearable imbecile."

when he turns on his heel, however, the malicious look is immediately wiped from his face because you're awake.

you're awake and peering at him from behind heavy lids.

"hey," you greet in a small voice.

his eyes grow impossibly soft and he sits on the bed beside you, his hand moving to caress your cheek. your skin is warm again.

"hey, angel."

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[kumkaniudaku]

Hot

Summary: Patrice thinks Terry looks...different when he returns from a Summer in New Orleans.

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!OC (Patrice Ellis)

Word Count: 3.2K

Warnings: None

The summer before senior year was a scorcher. Every inch of Fayetteville felt blanketed in stifling, burning heat and humidity so thick that walking through six feet of pool water was easier than going outside to the mailbox.

For four weeks, Patrice spent the dog days lounging beneath her ceiling fan rotating at full speed, enjoying a good book and spirited hours-long phone conversations with her best friend to beat the heat. Not out of necessity, despite the breath-stealing grip of sweltering heat greeting her each time she got too close to the front door, but because her right-hand man had gone further south for the season. 

No amount of late-evening phone calls taken in his grandmother's upstairs guest bedroom or Facebook pokes sent back and forth could make up for Terry's absence. Typically, he'd board a short flight to New Orleans, live like a local for ten days, then hustle back up the southeast to return in enough time for pre-season conditioning. Maman and a host of cousins looking to brighten the matriarch's day were convincing enough to pull Terry away from the comforts of homes one and two for longer than he wanted. Sure, Granny was happy, but the young lady eagerly awaiting the loud trill of her cell phone every night after 6:00 pm local time was difficult not to miss. 

Patrice might say the same if she weren't still denying her feelings to anyone bold enough to ask prying questions. Everyone except Napheesa Garland. She got the brunt of all Patrice's pining, whether she wanted to hear love-sick sentiments or not. 

On the other end of a phone call already running well past an hour, Napheesa chuckled at her friend's third deep sigh of the evening. "Girl, you have got to get it together. He's literally just Terry. You know how long I've known Terry? His head was big in middle school, and he looked like he was two grades younger than us. That's how long I've known Terry." 

"I bet he was so cute," Patrice sighed, the smile in her voice evident through the receiver. She turned on her back to look up at the ceiling and admire her fresh bubblegum pink pedicure. "I can just imagine a smaller Terry and that cute little smile." 

"The more you talk, the less I'm convinced you don't like him," Napheesa accused.

"I don't," Patrice corrected, her voice climbing guiltily. "I just wanna see what he was like!"

Napheesa kissed her teeth. "Well, today's your lucky day. Check your phone." 

A soft vibration against Patrice's face sent her into a tizzy. Her fingers rushed to transfer Napheesa to speaker so she could view her friend's message and keep the conversation going simultaneously. Her thumb eagerly tapped at the unread message before a cheery smile morphed into a confused front. 

"Yeesh," she vocalized as she turned the phone upside down, searching for any angle to turn the unsightly yearbook photo into something worth seeing.

Against a blue background, Terry of yore posed, almost grimacing at the camera. He looked caught between a wince and a frown, his brows knitted in the same muted anger often etched into his facial expressions when he didn't feel entirely comfortable in his surroundings. Small, raised red bumps peppered his cheeks and forehead. A long stripe of hair in desperate need of loving hands and hot argan oil curled amid sides cut to highlight his curled mohawk. She'd seen Terry with crust in his eyes and ashy from whipping winds after a late fall football game. This Terry, young and awkwardly grimacing at the camera, was as much a stranger as random patrons in a grocery store. 

Patrice zoomed closer. "Wow. A mohawk, huh?" 

"That he barely kept cut," Phee laughed. "All the boys had one. And all the boys looked dumb as hell." 

"I think it's kind of cute. Look at that attempt at a smile." Clear and present flaws slowly transformed into a host of adorable, unique features she would search for on his face the next time she saw him. 

Those bushy brows and hazel-green eyes hadn't changed a bit. Patrice chalked the rest up to puberty working overtime to match the internal with the external. 

"You're sick, P. Like really out of your mind." Phee's accusation came with a deep sigh as if she was disappointed in her friend's inability to say a bad word about her half-best friend/half-boyfriend.

Patrice giggled. "I'm a hopeless romantic! Is it not my job to see the best in my man." 

"Today, he's your man, but as soon as he's standing directly in your face, you act like you can't speak up. A lie don't care who tell it," Napheesa rebutted. 

It didn't matter how close the words crept to the tip of her tongue when they spent the end of their nights together talking about nothing and everything at the same time or how many times she'd started a text message spilling her guts only to delete every word to share some meaningless tidbit for his prompt response. Patrice couldn't say how she felt yet. One day. Just not now. 

As she prepared to explain herself for the thousandth time, stilted beeps on her line alerted her to an incoming call. The contact name, TJ :), lit the screen beneath a digital clock reading just after 6:00 pm. "Oh, hold on, Terry's calling. Don't hang up." 

Ruckus receded into a low hum after a shutting door sealed Terry into his shared room for the summer. "What's up, Treece," he greeted, his speech carrying more drawl than Patrice remembered at the end of the school year. A bed creaked under his weight in the background. "My bad for not texting back earlier. I was fishin' and guess I lost track of time." 

"It's alright. Hey, hold on. Phee's on the other line." Deft maneuvers patched Terry and Napheesa into a joint call bound to start and end with an argument. "Phee, Terry's on. Y'all should be nice to each other." 

Napheesa groaned. "I'm always nice to Terry when he's not startin' shit." 

"Yeah, she nice to me but be playing my boy Kendall like he not trynna see what's up. Why you actin' like that, PheePhee?" 

"It's Napheesa to you since you wanna play, Terrence. And don't be worrying about me and Kendall. Worry about you and your girl," Napheesa countered. 

Terry chuckled. "And who is my girl, hm?" He paused for an answer, a toothy grin spreading across his face as he got comfortable on one of two twin beds in the room. 

Patrice silently prayed to the Lord above, hoping her friend wouldn't pick a moment like this to open a can of worms she couldn't close once the slithering creatures were out and about. They both listened to Napheesa grunt in defeat. 

"Forget it," she huffed. Patrice took a deep breath, silently thankful for Phee's loyalty. "I gotta go. Call me when you want to go to the mall on Saturday, P. I'll pick you up. Bye, Knucklehead." 

"Bye, PheePhee. Tell Kendall I said hey!" Terry teased.

"Shut up!" 

As quickly as they'd gone back and forth over trivial matters, Napheesa was gone with a quick click, leaving Terry and Patrice alone as they usually were when golden hour light filled the evening sky. They sat silently for a moment, both listening to the other breathe in the happiness they thought they could only find in person. 

A soft laugh broke through the stillness. "You still there," Terry questioned. He listened to Patrice giggle back with his eyes closed, allowing the sound to wrap him in a warm embrace. "How was your day? Do anything fun?" 

"Not really. It's so hot outside I thought I saw the devil climbing into the bird bath out back." They laughed at another one of Patrice's patented grandma-isms, which Terry deemed silly but endearing. She continued. "What about you? How was fishing? Catch anything?" 

Terry sighed, the nonchalant shrug evident in his tone. "Just some catfish. Nothin' crazy. Couldn't get Mike to shut up long enough for anything to bite." 

"I don't blame him. Fishing is so boring. I don't know how you do it." 

"I like the quiet on the water. It's good for my brain with all the…stuff goin' on at home," he answered.

Patrice fiddled with the fringe on her throw pillow, searching for words of comfort. "She'll get better. You'll see when you get back." 

"Maybe." The heaviness in his response temporarily paused their discussion, leaving room for the quiet whoost of Patrice's ceiling fan in the background. Terry scratched at his stubble-covered chin and tried to add an extra lilt to his voice to preserve Patrice's happiness. "I got something to tell you." A small excited squeal preceded Patrice's urging for more. He laughed and shook his head. "I'll be home tomorrow night. Probably not in time to stop by or anything, but I could come to the mall with you and Phee on Saturday. If it's cool and all." 

A glossed bottom lip found itself trapped beneath Patrice's top row of teeth, struggling against the confines to break into a smile. "I'll ask her. We could do a movie or something, too." 

"Yeah. Me and you. We got a lot to catch up on." 

A million things came to mind: drama between classmates erupting on MySpace and late-night ooVoo video chats, new storylines in their favorite show, tales of haunted houses and alleged voodoo ladies, and Patrice's brand new haircut. She hoped he'd like the drastic change from her shoulder-length press and curl to the sleek bob she'd begged her mother to sign off on. 

Miles apart, they allowed thoughts of the other to consume their every waking moment. Some were in their slumber until two nights passed, and Saturday morning placed them only a neighborhood away. 

Most of Patrice's energy had gone into picking the right top to show a sliver of midriff when a text message caused her phone to buzz against her dresser. She paused the music blaring from her radio to peek at the phone screen.

Phee: scratch wat I said about Terry the other day. he at the prk looking GOOD! u ready 2 go yet? 

Flutters carrying nervousness and excitement in a revolving cycle filled Patrice's chest and belly. For Napheesa, the proud president and founding member of the 'Terry is Just Alright Club,' to compliment Terry meant she'd seen beauty not yet known to man. She'd finally seen the light at the end of a crush tunnel only meant to carry one to the promised land. 

Patrice couldn't think beyond a quick misspelled confirmation that she was ready to go despite having not yet laid eyes on her shoes, purse, or the earrings her mother required she wear any time she stepped out of the house. She spent the better part of a 10-minute drive to the park adjusting and readjusting the feathered bang in her bob and the right amount of hair to tuck behind her ear while Napheesa rattled off all the info she knew about Terry's whereabouts. 

He was at the big, empty field at the far end of Elton Hayes Memorial Park playing touch football with a group of boys, both of them only kind of knew from surrounding high schools. A rumor from a mutual friend alleged a tattoo on his right shoulder – a rose or a bulldog or something to that effect. Patrice started hearing every other word as the bright red Kia, acting as her chariot for the afternoon, pulled into the parking lot and slowed to a stop. 

Sure enough, Terry was in the area. His green Ford Explorer, full of dents and scratches as a hand me down from his paternal uncle, sat across the way as a sign that he was not just a beautiful mirage in the heat wave but an actual walking, talking person back in her world again. 

Fear quietly gripped Patrice, closing her throat and sending her lungs into overdrive to pull in vital oxygen. She frantically searched her face for imperfections in the mirror. "Phee, do I look okay," she croaked while slathering more lip gloss on her lips. "I don't look weird, right? You think he'll recognize me." 

"Girl, you look fine." Napheesa's eyes slowly pulled away from the group of boys running to and fro across patches of dry grass and light-colored sand to focus on her friend in need of reassurance. She tucked hair behind Patrice's ear and smiled. "I wasn't gonna say anything because he told me not to, but Terry asked me to bring you here. He wants to see you. So don't go gettin' all shy on me. Go talk to him!" 

Most of Patrice believed Napheesa. The rational side with a brain capable of processing coherent thoughts knew Terry well enough to discern when he was sincere and when he was bating her into a silly tale for his own amusement. She'd heard about an alleged crush from Corey and felt sparks of what might be when they shared the same space in comfortable silence. There was something there. Be it the first flashes of burgeoning romance, scary and tingly on her skin like a curious caterpillar finding respite on her arm in Spring, or some internal hoping requited love, Patrice didn't know. 

All she could discern was the quiet pop from the door handle, giving the heat access to the inside of Napheesa's air-conditioned, bright red Kia before she stuck one moisturized leg and the other outside. 

Any fear of intruding on Terry's ambition to turn a desolate patch of grass into Lambeau Field during the playoffs slowly melted away once he caught wind of her presence. Had Patrice been paying attention to her surroundings and not the hunk of new muscle and peanut butter skin basking in early afternoon sun rays, she may have noticed how he eyed her simple cut-off skirt and white graphic tee ensemble. But she couldn't take her eyes off Terry long enough to tell up from down or left from white. 

When he left four weeks prior, she remembered him as more lean, more pale, more boyish than the version of Terry standing a few yards away. He'd gained muscle on his arms and back that rippled beneath slick skin like Usher's muscles in the U Don't Have To Call video. Terry hadn't reached those heights, but he was damn close. And were those abs? The question pinged around Patrice's nearly empty brain as she eyed his naked torso. Those were abs. She whipped her head back around to look at Napheesa in the front seat but found her shock unreciprocated when she noticed Phee laughing at something on her phone. Patrice was in this one alone. 

A second look had her zeroing in on the fabled black and white ink covering the upper portion of his strong right shoulder. She couldn't make out the figure taking up fresh real estate, but she knew she wanted to get her hand on it – squeeze for dear life while he wrapped her body in an embrace so firm and intentional it made her head spin. 

Patrice watched him jog in her direction with teeth gleaming in a dashing smile, fresh-shaven facial hair leaving the ghost of a shadow on his young face, and a fresh haircut glistening from a mix of wave pomade and sweat. His quad muscles define his long legs flexed with each heel stroke against dry earth. Her breath caught in her throat as he drew closer, calling her name like a child excited to see their parents after a long day in school. 

Terry's deepening voice spoke her name once more. "Treece! What's up!?" Wet, sticky skin collided with Patrice's front, wrapping her into a tight embrace that nearly lifted her off the ground as he spoke into the top of her head. He inhaled the scent of strawberries and cream on her skin, then exhaled in goofy bliss before speaking again. "Damn, girl. You don't talk no more? Couldn't get you to quiet down the other day." 

Sweet symphonies made of words coated in a fleeting, down-home New Orleans drawl tried to lull Patrice into an unshakeable haze. The only thing keeping her mind, body, and soul planted to her side of Heaven was the harsh mix of musk and cologne wafting from Terry's body. Recollection of all the time she'd spent layering Victoria's Secret body mist and lotion for her signature scent shocked her back into reality. 

"Gross, TJ! You stink," she complained, only half-serious as she extended her arms to create some separation. He chuckled at her insult while he backed away to give his friend some space. They eyed each other shamelessly, neither bold enough to say the potentially inappropriate thoughts running through their minds. "Welcome back," Patrice finally coughed up when a front room view of large hands scratching at his bare chest became too much to handle. "I thought we were goin' to the mall. You can't go anywhere with me lookin' like that."

Terry shook his head and adjusted the waistband of his shorts, just missing Patrice's eyes following his hand's motions. "My fault. Mike and Rob needed somebody to fill out the team, and I could use the run. You and Phee wanna meet me there? I can leave and get dressed right now."

"If you want to." The meek, sweet voice emanating from her vocal cords startled Patrice into a fight to recover. She stammered through an overcorrection. "B-but, like, hurry up. We still wanna see a movie too." 

"Wait, can we see Transformers? I had to leave before I could go with my cousins." 

His childlike pleading came with green eyes rounded into saucers for extra appeal. Patrice rolled her eyes, purporting annoyance when a swell of abnormal flutters overtook her chest. "Alright," she relented. "But you're getting the popcorn." 

Terry pinched her cheek and smiled. "I'll do popcorn and the tickets. Maman sent me back with a little bit of cash." 

"TJ," Patrice started to protest, only to be met with opposition. 

"Stop it, Treece," Terry warned. "It's fine. Tell me what times they have, and I'll get there before then." 

It was settled. A little playful back and forth and plans to call as soon as new information became available turned an unofficial hangout into more concrete plans to reacquaint with Corey added to round out the foursome. 

Patrice practically floated back to Napheesa's small Spectra, the biting chill of her air conditioning on full blast finally cueing her brain to the stinging, painful skin covering her sweating body.

Phee watched her fuss with hair swelling at the roots in the mirror, anxiously awaiting an update. When none came, she forced the issue. 

She started in a slow, calm voice that resembled one her mother used when she and her two brothers had really messed up. "Patrice Nicole, you better tell me what just happened, and you better tell me quick." A slow smile spread across her best friend's face, further exacerbating the situation. "P! Come on! I'm dying!" 

After allowing the overhead mirror to slam shut against worn interior upholstery, Patrice turned in the passenger seat to face Napheese. A flash of genuine concern flashed across her eyes as reality crashed into her at full speed. She took a deep breath and then allowed a small smile to tug at the corner of her lips. 

"Remember what you said the other day," Patrice questioned, waiting for a nod to continue. "You were right. I think…I know that I like Terry now. As more than a friend."

-------

Sincere apologies for any errors! I'll do a sweep tomorrow but really wanted to get this out.

Reply if you'd like to be tagged in future work!

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