#ITS ALL DAMN HIGH GRAPHICS

[lunian]

second gameplay and i feel like i fell for him even harder this time

[whatever-lmaoo]

Make me a star

Summary: You’re giving Bucky a lap dance.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x curvy!reader (i had a plus size reader in mind but anyone can read it! I didn’t use many descriptive words pertaining to size💖)

CW: 18+ This is suggestive as hell(we get close to crossing that line but i didn’t so ig you could say it’s kind of smut, idk😭 ), implied sex, handcuffs, slight dom/sub dynamics, mentions of spanking at the end, I think that’s all but if i forgot anything please don’t hesitate to send me an ask or dm me💖[1.2k]

A/N: Firstly these cute line dividers were made by @firefly-graphics 🌸 I know the title sucks but I had no idea what to name this😭 This is my first time writing something even remotely suggestive, let alone whatever the hell is up under the cut, so I apologize if it’s not the greatest💖 The song I used for this fic is “Dirty Diana” by Michael Jackson. You don’t have to listen to it because it’s not a song fic, I just used a few lyrics. I hope you enjoy and constructive criticism or any nice comments are always appreciated🥹✨💗

After checking that the handcuffs are tight enough around Bucky’s wrists and positioning his hands behind his back doesn’t cause him any discomfort with his shoulder, you stand up and walk towards your dresser, picking up your glass and sipping your drink. “Was cuffing me necessary?” He says, tilting his head to the side, licking his lips slowly as he lets his eyes trail up and down your figure.

You smirk over the rim of your glass, admiring how the dim light from the candles makes his eyes look almost black. “We both know how touchy you get, and I’ll be damned if I let you ruin my gift to you. Plus, I enjoy seeing you all tied up for me.” Biting your lip, you send him a playful wink before heading to your nightstand.

Placing your cup on its surface, you pick up your phone and scroll through your playlist, searching for the perfect song. Your lips form into a smile once you’ve found it. You close your eyes and roll your shoulders back to release any leftover tension before pressing play and setting your phone back on the nightstand.

You turn around as the familiar intro of “Dirty Diana” plays through your speaker, meeting Bucky’s gaze, swaying your hips slightly as you stroll toward your lover sitting patiently in the middle of the room. He whistles as you glide one hand across your thigh to the hem of your robe, bringing it just high enough to cover what’s hidden underneath. Your other hand travels across your neck and down your curves as you roll your hips to the beat.

You trace your fingers up Bucky’s thigh, past his arm, and to his shoulder as you take your place behind him. You bring your other hand around his body, meeting them both in the middle of his abdomen before dragging them slowly up his chest. One hand dips inside his button-up while the other continues its path up the side of his throat and into his hair. You rake your nails against his scalp before tilting his head back gently and dipping your head into the crook of his neck, peppering kisses across the skin, nibbling on his pulse point before sucking it into your mouth.

The way he trembles beneath your touch and the deep moan he lets out sends an addictive sensation throughout your body. You give his hair one last tug before releasing him altogether; continuing your circle around his form, you glide your hand down his other arm, dragging the tips of your fingers over his thigh before stepping in front of him.

Bending over slightly, you put your hands on his knees, watching his eyes fall to the red lace outline of your lingerie that peeks out of your robe. You push his knees together, placing your legs on either side of him and sit on his lap. The sounds of a gasp and a groan fill the room as your heated core meets his jean-clad member.

You watch as his face contorts into one of realization as you continue to grind on his thighs, your wetness seeping into his pants. “Baby, are you not wearing any panties?” You didn’t think his eyes could get any darker, but somehow they did. “Even better,” you say, rolling your hips as you tug on the tie of your robe, releasing the knot and pulling it through the loops, revealing the pretty, crotchless number you’re wearing.

His mouth watering at the sight of your hardened nipples and barely covered pussy drooling over his thighs, begging for some attention. You chuckle at the sound of him struggling against the handcuffs. “Be a good boy and sit still,” you tease, wrapping the belt around his neck and twisting it around your left hand, bringing his upper body forward.

“I’ll be your night-lovin' thing,” you whisper against his neck. You move your head to hover over his head, your nose barely touching his, gripping his chin with your right hand and tilting it up. “I’ll be the freak you can taunt,” the glint of mischief in your eyes grows as you take his bottom lip between your teeth, sucking on the muscle and letting it go with a pop.

Releasing one end of the tie and throwing it carelessly to the side, you let go of Bucky’s chin. You stand on your knees, dragging your chest in front of his face, grinning as he darts his tongue out, licking a line across your breast, and you pull away just as his teeth grazes one of your peaked nipples.

You slide off his lap and slip off your robe, turning around to bend over so he can get a view of your glistening folds. “I’ll be your everything,” you bring your left hand to the back of his head as you sit in his lap again, grinding your ass back into his cock, dragging your hand to the side of his damp cheek.

Turning your heads to face each other, you look him in the eyes as you whisper, “If you make me a star,” against his lips before crashing your mouths together in a needy and lust-filled kiss, humming at the taste of strawberries and chocolate lingering on his tongue. You continue to move your hips as you swallow each other's moans; he sucks on your lower lip as you slowly pull away, needing to breathe, a line of saliva following you as he lets go.

Chest heaving as you rest your head on his shoulder, you shut your eyes and arch your back, wrapping your left hand around the nape of his neck. Bucky watches as you bring your other hand to your sternum, ghosting your fingers down the middle of your chest, passing your soft belly, and leading them to your aching clit.

Just as you’re about to reach your destination, you hear a growl come from the man underneath you and the chain of the cuffs snapping before you feel a warm hand gripping the inside of your thigh roughly while a cold one wraps around the heated skin of your throat. The contrasting temperature and firm hold he has on you sends you into a dizzying headspace, and a loud moan slips past your lips.

“I may have let you restrain me, but touching my pussy will always be off-limits, Doll.” Another moan escapes you, loving when he starts to get rough with you. “If it weren’t our anniversary, I’d spank your ass raw, but since it is, I guess that’ll have to wait until tomorrow.” He stands up and turns you around before lifting you in his arms, walking to your bed, and dropping you in the middle of it.

You move back until your head hits your pillow, spreading your legs as you watch Bucky slowly unbutton his shirt. “Happy anniversary, Baby,” you say, drooling at the sight of his toned abs. His pants and boxers go next, and you clench around nothing when he starts twisting his hand around his hard cock. Climbing on the bed, he hovers over you, kissing you passionately before pulling away slightly. “Happy anniversary, pretty girl. I hope you’re ready because I’m not stopping until you’ve got nothin’ left to sing.” A dangerous smirk grows on his face as he begins to make do with his promise.

[aurorawritestoescape]

HIS STAR || Joel Miller x f!reader || 2,7k

Summary: Joel and you met a few years ago, being aspiring musicians, and fell in love. Now you’re a rising star while Joel is struggling with his career. One night you come to his place and share big news.

Tw: 18+ mdni, smut, ANGST, fluff, unspecified age gap, Joel’s pov, unprotected piv (wrap it up), creampie, heartbreak, alcohol consumption, swearing. Pics are only for the mood. Reader wears a dress.

A/n: this is written for @the-orange-tabby-cat ‘s writing challenge (my ask is here). I hope you all will like the story. I’m sending everyone who’s been hurting this week a warm hug and lots of love🫂❤️ Kisses to @milla-frenchy for beta-ing😘 Dividers by @saradika-graphics 💕

MASTERLIST

You waltz into his apartment late at night and Joel’s dim living room seems not that dim, his sad life not that sad. Because you are finally here.

Before you came, it was quiet here, still and dull, and now you're twirling around like a shiny twister, wearing your expensive dress, dropping glitter on his faded carpet. You turn the lights on, place the take out you brought on the coffee table and pour him a glass of his favorite whiskey.

Joel's sitting on his worn out couch, watching you with a warm smile, while you're chirping with excitement, telling him about everything at once— the people you've met, the songs you've written, the places you've visited. It seems like he has grown into his old apartment while you're taking over the city, the country, the whole world.

It’s ok. He’s happy for you. Truly.

You can’t come often, only once or twice a month if he’s lucky, your busy schedule be damned, but every time you visit, Joel’s heart overflows with happiness. More often than here he sees you on billboards, beautiful and happy, your face smiles at him from the t-shirts of teenagers, passing him by on the street. You’re always on his mind and in his heart. Always were and always will be.

You both dreamed of becoming professional singers. He met you at one of his gigs in a small bar in Texas. You were too young for him, too beautiful, too talented. But at that time, years ago, he still loved himself and foolishly thought that he deserved you. You fell for each other fast and hard and started climbing that steep mountain together.

You came into his life when he was about to quit the chase but your drive, your passion and talent gave him a second wind. You wrote songs together, lying naked in bed after mind-blowing sex, sang them at the top of your lungs on road trips to various music festivals, supported each other every step of the way. He kissed salty tears off your face after every failure, celebrated with you when you succeeded, which started happening more and more often. His demos were collecting dust on the shelves while your career skyrocketed. Joel kept holding your hand until the moment he realized that he was looking up at you while you were standing on top of the mountain you both had dreamed about, too high for him to reach.

At first envy would squeeze his heart with its freezing hand - he wished to be standing there with you. But terrified of losing you, of ruining your relationship because of that ugly feeling, he taught himself to quiet the nagging voice inside his head and to be happy for you, to feel joy, witnessing your success, even from afar.

After some time it became apparent to him that he was too average, one of many. You were different. One in a million. A star. His star.

Joel continued singing in small clubs, he still needed music like air, but hope for something bigger, brighter was slowly dying in his heart.

Now you’re in his arms, on his lap, tired and slightly cold.

“These tiny dresses of yours— fuckin’ useless— gonna get sick like that,” Joel grumbles under his breath, covering you both with a throw blanket, and you immediately melt against him. Your scent is different every time you visit, he’s enveloped in something sweet and flowery today, but the taste of your lips is the same. Always. They’re intoxicating, soft and desperate. Your hands are eager to touch him, your body pressed tightly to his.

”I miss you,“ you mumble and your tongue slides over his lower lip. His heart sings when a shiver runs over your whole body. You want him. You can have anyone you want and you still choose him every time. He doesn’t know why but he’s grateful for each moment he gets to spend with you, holding you. Fucking you.

“Joel—need you,” you whine and deepen the kiss. Hungry and long-awaited, it soon morphs into a scorching fire, burning you both. A whimper falling from your lips sounds almost pained.

“Yes, baby, yes—jus’ a second,” Joel murmurs and swiftly lifts you so you could straddle him. With trembling fingers you pull down the waistband of his sweatpants and take his cock out. Your panties pulled to the side, you sink on his hardening cock, without preparation, without foreplay. The desire is too strong. Joel is swelling bigger and harder inside your core as soon as your wet walls welcome him, so warm and tight around his manhood.

“Missed you, baby.”

“Yes—yes—missed you— so—so— much,“ you echo him, your words falling with the same rhythm as you move yourself up and down on his lap, bouncing on his length. Then you kiss every inch of his handsome face— his chapped lips, his scruffy cheeks, every wrinkle and every mole which you could draw by heart.

His hands leave your waist and slither down to take your dress off. In a moment you’re naked in his arms, you, the subject of desire of so many people is right in front of him, just a kiss away. And he kisses you, your neck, your collarbone, your bouncing breasts. He licks at your nipples, sucks each tit into his mouth and you sing only for him, your most intimate song.

Joel’s t-shirt rides up and he feels how wet you’re for him as your folds and clit are rubbing against his lower belly. You’re chasing your pleasure feverishly and he already feels how your little pussy starts pulsating around his big cock.

“Come for me, my love.”

His gruff voice in your ear sends a signal to your brain and the sound you love the most pushes you over the edge. You’re crying and shaking, coming all over his stiffness, always so sensitive to the ecstasy he gives you, and he lets you soak him, both with your tears and you cum.

“Yes—yeah, sweetheart— ride it out— c’mon.” He’s lifting you up and down with his strong hands, wishing to give you more moments of euphoria as you tremble and whimper in his arms and soon he explodes inside you with a groan that rings loudly in his quiet apartment. He presses you tight against his chest but without leaving any marks on your soft skin, skin that millions of people could see tomorrow. He’s nuzzling the crease of your neck while his cock is pumping you full of his warm seed.

You’re leaning against Joel’s chest now, still straddling him, his member slowly softening inside you. Your eyes close by themselves, lulled by his heavy breathing, but you drive the sleep away. You need to tell him something, to ask him.

You slide off his lap, feeling your thighs getting wetter, and pull him to lie down with you on the couch. Joel tucks his cock back into the sweatpants and throws the blanket over you two. You face him and your eyes lock. Your mouth opens but then closes again.

“What is it, baby? Tell me.”

He always reads you like a book. You seem anxious.

After clearing your throat you whisper,

“I’m going on a world tour.”

Joel is quiet for a few seconds until he grabs you and hugs you. His chest is rumbling with a joyous laugh and you giggle when he squeezes you too tight and kisses the crown of your head, your forehead, your mouth. You melt into him again, feeling his smile on your lips.

When he parts from you, his eyes are glossy and warm.

”Your first world tour! I’m so damn proud of you, my love!”

You can’t help but tear up, seeing him genuinely happy, and you kiss him again and then murmur a shaky “thank you.”

“Joel. I wanted to ask you—,” you’re looking at his chest now, eyes averted, your sweaty palms placed over his heart, ”I’m gonna be traveling for a whole year… and... I wanted to ask… Will you go with me?”

Joel’s eyes are darting between yours. You look sleepy, tired and gorgeous. He pulls you close to his chest and embraces you.

“Let’s talk in the mornin’, baby. You need rest.”

You look at him for a few moments, your eyes piercing and then ask with a half smile, “Could you sing for me?”

With you lying in his arms, Joel starts softly singing your favourite song, the one he wrote for you, one of dozens he wrote for you.

He keeps singing when your breath gets deep and slow and you’re purring like a little kitten, your head on his biceps, and Joel can’t stop looking at you, can’t stop singing to you until his voice breaks, his eyes sting, and he holds his breath, scared to wake you up with a sob, crawling up his throat.

Here it is. Joel always knew that the time would come. The time when something big would happen, and he would have to do the right thing. Would have to let you go.

He takes a deep breath again and again, trying to calm himself down. He blinks the tears away and feels them on his cheeks. Your face is blurry in his eyes at first but he keeps watching you sleep, memorizing your every feature, as if there’s any chance he’s ever going to forget them. Your image is carved into his heart forever.

It’s not like you two haven’t talked about it before— why you come to him only at night, why you need to be extra careful not to be seen by paparazzi.

It’s still hard to accept for the both of you that Joel is your secret. Your label doesn’t want him around you and Joel understands it. He’s been trying to make it in this business for too long not to know how things work. It hurts but it’s the reality.

And the reality is making him stomp on his heart and break yours.

In your sleep you snuggle even closer to him and with your forehead against his heart he drifts off too. As always he dreams of you.

A few hours pass before you wake him up, stirring in his embrace. Your smiling face welcomes him when he opens his eyes.

“Morning, Joel.”

The dust of mascara on your cheeks, your hair disheveled, you look angelic in the soft glow of the early morning sun peeking through the drapes. Joel’s breath hitches for a second, your beauty overwhelms him, until the pain hits him right in the chest. He has to tell you.

You get up and, after putting on his flannel, pad to the bathroom. When you return, Joel’s sitting up and you take your favorite spot, you get on his lap. Your soft kisses caress his scruffy cheeks until you search for his eyes.

“So—about the tour— what do you say?” you ask, giving him a little smile, your eyes full of hope. Joel feels his heart beating fast and loud. He knows you feel it too, your warm hand is resting on his chest. He takes it, brings it to his mouth and kisses your palm.

“I can’t, baby.”

In your gaze he sees that you knew what he was going to say. You don’t look shocked, but you look crushed.

”Wh—why not?”

Still on his lap, you start hastily telling him why he should go, that it’s going to be fun, that it’s another opportunity for his career, and he lets you tell him all that, he doesn’t interrupt you.

“I can’t do this alone, Joel. I’m scared,” you mumble at the end, looking tired after your pitch, and press your forehead to his chest. Joel hugs you and starts rubbing your flannel-covered back with his hands.

“Remember what your team told you? I’m not good for your image. An old loser like me.”

You break his embrace and sit up, your gaze fiery, your chest heaving.

“You’re not, Joel! I don’t give a fuck what they say. I love you and — ” your voice breaks as tears start flowing down your cheeks.

You slide off his lap and sit next to him, crying. Joel wants to grab you, kiss your lips, comfort you, but he knows it’ll make it harder. For the both of you. His gruff voice is a little shaky when he talks.

“I shouldn’t go. You must understand why. And it’s gonna be ok. You’re a fuckin’ star! Now go and show it to the world.”

You turn your head to him, your wet face twisted with sadness, as you mumble through sobs,

“I—I can’t spend— a whole —year without you”.

“Baby—,” Joel takes a deep breath before ripping the band aid off. ”—I’m movin’ back to Texas”.

You turn to him on the couch.

“What?! Why?!”

Because he sees your face everywhere he goes. It would hurt too much. After this. After today.

So he lies. But only partially.

“Los Angeles isn’t for me. I hate it. Everything here reminds me that I failed.” He raises his hand when you open your mouth, ready to argue. “I’ve tried, sweetheart. You know I have. But it’s not in the stars. Tommy offered me a job. Contractin’. That’s what I’m gonna do for a start, then we’ll see.”

You drop your head and sit quietly for a few moments. Joel swallows loudly, his stomach twisted with nerves. It feels like he’s going to be sick.

When you look up at him again, your brows are furrowed, eyes reddened.

“What about us?”

He takes a deep breath and shakes his head.

“I’m too old and you have a whole life ahead of you. Long, successful, happy life. I won’t hold you back. I love you too much to do it. You don’t need me.”

“Doesn’t sound like you love me,” you hiss at him, your pain turning to anger quickly.

You jump off the couch and grab your dress off the floor after almost ripping his flannel off your body.

“I can’t believe you’re breaking up with me!” you exclaim, standing in front of him, getting dressed, while he’s looking up at you with a pained expression.

“You’re telling me you love me but then you say all this shit?! You won’t even fight for us! For me!”

“But I’m doin’ it for you!” He hates to shout but it’s hard to control his emotions as they’re ripping his heart to shreds.

“Then why do I feel like you’re killing me right now?!” You take a small step towards him, your hand reaching for his. “We can see the world together—wake up together every morning and—“

Joel gets up and holds you by the shoulders, trying to make you listen.

“Stop lyin’ to yourself! Go live your life! Quit returnin’ to me! I’m your past and you still come here jus’ because you’re scared of the future! We had fun together, baby, but now it’s over!”

You shake your head in disbelief, your mouth agape, and then you angrily swat his hands away.

“Fuck you, Joel!”

These are the last words you tell him before storming out. The last words you ever tell him.

He still hears you crying in the hall when he shuts the door behind you. His forehead pressed to the wood, eyes closed, he listens and feels like everything good in his life is leaving with you. He hears the elevator ding and then nothing.

His apartment is quiet again until a loud wail shutters the silence. Joel knows that he’s done the right thing. Then why does it feel like he’s dying?

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!<3

MASTERLIST || more angst - Always and Forever

Tag list: @milla-frenchy @harriedandharassed @iamasaddie @nervousmumbling @bbyanarchist @stevie75 @puduvallee @auteurdelabre @mountainsandmayhem @senoratess @flamingochick55 @theoraekenslover @schnarfer @mermaidgirl30 @staywildflowahchild @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @evolnoomym @keylimebeag @joelmillerisapunk @pascaltesfaye @fruityreads @itwasntimethatdidit40

[lisired]

ex marks the spot

pairing: ex!mark x (f) reader

genre/warnings: smut, a pinch of angst, mystery, exes to lovers, (mentions of) characters death, graphic descriptions of violence and murder, alcohol consumption, unprotected sex, oral (m/f)

summary: Two months ago, you and Mark called it quits and haven’t spoken to each other since. As per tradition, your respective friend groups gather each Christmas eve to keep the peace, but this year somebody has a different plan. And the new chick on Mark’s arm isn’t the worst thing to happen.

wc: 19.9k

author’s note: (this is a repost!) nothing like a christmas mystery lol. partly inspired by honey lavender by ieuan. as always, feedback is appreciated!

Distractions, you chanted to yourself, desperate to think about literally anything other than your many problems. 

A tall window overlooked the entire city, as far as you were concerned. Nightfall had taken over and the bustling streets were caked in thick clunks of snow. Pressing your fingertips against the glass, you could feel relentless winter. 

None of it did anything to soothe the white hot envy scorching its way down your throat. Across the room, there was a blonde girl on Mark’s arm, snuggling against his chest and sucking up all of his warmth. 

That should’ve been you, but you would never admit to yourself (or anyone) that you were jealous of her. You had way too much pride for a silly thing like that. Of course, Mark had never brought a girl to one of these events before, and you had an inkling it was solely to make you jealous. You couldn’t let him win. 

“This is my friend Jodie,” Mark had introduced the girl hanging on his every word like a lovestruck teenager, but noting how close they kept to each other amongst many other things, it was safe to assume they were more than friends. 

Less than lovers, probably, but undeniably more than friends. 

Johnny, the man of the hour, came floating your way with the grace of a butterfly and said, “Damn. You could just tell me if you’re hating the party.”

Your eyes flickered. “What?”

“You’re mad. It’s written all over your body language.” Then, he craned his head and whispered in your ear, “Have a drink and relax a little. Don’t let him know he’s getting to you.”

“He’s not getting to me,” you grumbled under your breath, but you knew that it was an obvious lie. 

“If he’s not, then Jodie sure is. That’s what he wants. The whole reason he’s sucking her face off by the hearth is because he wants you to see.”

You knew that. Mark always wanted to be seen, to be acknowledged. His whole life was based on making people look at him, to which you were no exception. Your relationship consisted of him doing anything and everything necessary to grab your attention, but in all honesty, it didn’t take a whole lot. 

You could never keep your eyes off Mark and he knew it. Wherever he went, he was the most radiant person in the room. He was a Leo to his fucking core.

Getting back in character, you straightened up your stance and threw Johnny a beaming smile. “It’s a wonderful party.”

Johnny grinned. “There she goes,” he said in his regular speaking voice, pleased at your new demeanor. 

He was the master of all things body language and human psychology. He had been friends with you long enough to be confident that you’d never want your ex thinking for a second that he had one up on you. At least you knew somebody would always have your back. With Mark and his friends, you couldn’t help but watch it. 

“Thanks,” you replied quietly, grateful he’d come get you together. And quickly at that. 

“You’re my friend.”

“Mark’s your friend.”

“Yeah, but Mark’s a dickhead.”

You snickered. “Amen to that.”

Johnny was the middleman between you and Mark’s individual friend groups. After an incident dating back all the way to your senior year in high school, your former friend group of nine was split in two. You, Jeno, and Jaehyun on one side, with Mark, Chungha, Haechan, and Yuta on the other. 

Johnny, the god of friendly relations that he was, managed to drift between both sides. Matter of fact, these parties of his were the whole reason you even saw the other side of the group every year. If it weren’t for Johnny wanting to maintain the peace, most of you would never be in the same room again for any purpose. 

You took a glimpse around the party. It was being held in Johnny’s sumptuous two-floor penthouse this year after the outdoor disaster that was last year's Christmas eve reunion. To say the least, hypothermia had never seemed scarier. 

Unsurprisingly, Mark still had his hands and mouth all over Jodie as they stood near the hearth, the fireplace decorated in limestone. Chungha was marveling at Johnny's case of precious stones and cabochon gems. Off to your right, Haechan had his face set in a scowl. 

“Haechan looks happy to be here,” you quipped with total sarcasm.

Johnny didn’t even spare Haechan a glance, like he already knew what he’d see if he looked, and chuckled. “Yeah, we got into a tiny argument a few minutes back. He’ll be fine.”

That piqued your curiosity, but you didn’t press. Haechan always went looking for trouble and Johnny stopped it before it could even happen. Of course Haechan disliked that. 

The elevator dinged, revealing a fashionably late Jeno. Johnny noticed and glanced at you, saying, “I’ve got to greet our favorite guest. Thanks for coming, by the way.”

You shot him an amused grin. “I came for you, but I’m staying for the margaritas.”

Johnny shook his head and laughed. After asking him to tell Jeno that you said hello, the two of you went your own separate ways. 

For a little bit, you went to mingle, but you realized quickly that there weren’t a lot of people you were keen on having a conversation with. Jeno, your best friend, was with Johnny. That left Jaehyun, Johnny’s stepbrother, but you knew he preferred to be left alone. 

Mark obviously wasn’t an option. Even if he knew you better than anyone in the room. 

In spite of knowing you wouldn’t be there long, you made small talk with Jaehyun for a couple of minutes before he got an apparently urgent text message on his phone and excused himself apologetically. 

To where, you had no fucking clue. This was your first time in Johnny’s penthouse regardless of how close you were. You spent very little time in the city and even less at your own home. It was a blessing you hadn’t missed one of these parties yet. 

Maybe a curse. To be frank, you didn’t want to be here, but that had almost everything to do with Mark. Bringing Jodie along to an annual reunion for friends was low, even for him. But you kind of wished you had somebody to keep you company like he did. 

You exhaled your feelings and pretended that they didn’t bother you. Your mother told you a long time ago that the only person you’d ever be able to depend on was yourself and though she had her own set of parenting  complications, it was the best advice she’d ever given you. 

Speaking of advice, Johnny’s was starting to appear way too appetizing and you made a beeline for the kitchen, slipping past Yuta who was apparently on the phone. Those infamous mango margaritas were calling your name. 

When you entered the hallway, turning around the corner from the dining room, you almost immediately retreated. You almost told Johnny that you couldn’t be here for another minute. But Mark noticed you and it was too late. He would immediately know what was going on and take it as a surrender. 

“Look who decided to come,” Mark said sharply, a greeting of his own in some twisted way. “I bet you were hoping to see a fruity cocktail.”

“Yes, and you’re standing in my way,” you spat, gesturing to the cabinets behind you. 

Mark furrowed a brow. “You aren’t going to take one that’s already there?”

You looked at him like he had fifteen heads. Those could’ve easily been spiked with any substance. “Mark, half the people in this house hate each other. I love margaritas, but I love my life way more. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Mark scooted out of your way, though only because he knew the bounds of your survival. It was all that you knew.  

You reached around, grabbing ingredients from various places. All the while, Mark stood there, hating how unbothered you were. He was desperate to get a reaction out of you and would go to great lengths to get what he was searching for. 

His eyes were fixed to your frame and the green sequin gown hugging it tightly. There was a long slit running down the side that Mark clocked before you turned to face the counter, offering a delicious view of one of your perfect legs. When his eyes lifted from your beautiful curves, he noticed the dress was backless. 

Fuck, you were still gorgeous. Worst of all, you were still exactly everything he imagined and wanted. The girl of his dreams. 

“I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you,” Mark admitted, staring daggers into your back.

You rooted in place with shock at the blurted confession, hands on a bottle of tequila, wondering if he had any liquor in his system making him a little more blunt than he should’ve been. 

Until Mark finished, “Because if anyone’s going to kill you, it’s going to be me.”

The flutter in your chest immediately settled back into exasperation. Mark wasn’t afraid of having an altercation with you and he knew he could get away with it without suspicion. Given the bad blood between your respective friend groups, occasional animosity was to be expected. 

Plus it wasn’t like it was still some grave-bound secret. It also wasn’t as if you never saw the glares Haechan threw your way. 

You recovered with a roll of your eyes, turning to him and snapping, “How long are you going to hate me?”

“As long as it takes,” Mark growled, parading out of the kitchen before you could get another word in. He wasn’t prepared to argue yet, but he refused to let you have the last word. 

You shook your head in contempt. Mark wasn’t just your former lover, but the other half of you, regardless of how corny it sounded. You knew he could hold a grudge until the day he was six feet under. As long as it takes. For what, you had no clue. 

Finishing up the cocktail, you cleaned up behind yourself and prepared to head back out to the party, though made a last-minute decision to linger in the kitchen. You were irritated and you weren’t in the mood to socialize or see Mark again until your system had a little liquor. 

A few moments afterwards, Jeno bounced into the kitchen eagerly, grinning from ear to ear like he knew that he’d find you here. As if to sell your suspicions, he greeted, “Found you. And it only took eight seconds.”

You chuckled, sipping from your glass. Though you already knew the answer, you humored him, asking, “How’d you find me?” 

“Easy. I just followed the tequila.”

“Me and tequila do go way back,” you replied, smiling at the memories. Some good, some… unspeakable. You gestured to your glass. “Want one?”

Jeno shook his head. “No thanks. I’m good.”

You gasped dramatically and joked, “What, are you pregnant?”

“No way. I’m a complete virgin.”

You burst out laughing. “You’re a complete fucking lie.”

Jeno looked like he couldn’t even take himself seriously. Then, he shifted the topic, mentioning, “I saw Mark storm out of here. That also was a hint as to your whereabouts.”

You fought a grimace, deciding nonchalance was key. “We talked for the first time in two months. Since the breakup.”

“How did that go?”

“Take a wild fucking guess,” you mumbled, the memory making you wince and take another generous sip. 

Jeno grimaced. “Yeah, he didn’t look too happy. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you assured him, though you weren’t certain. Your heart still raced a little when Mark was close enough. But a familiar pain always followed in its wake. 

Jeno gave you a knowing look, but said nothing. Both of you were distracted by the sound of footsteps, noticing Johnny and Jodie cruising down the hallways. From the looks of it, he was giving her a tour. She was giving Johnny heart eyes.

You arched a brow in curiosity, while Jeno appeared amused. To the average outsider, Johnny looked content as ever, but you and Jeno recognized him with dwindling patience. 

“This party’s getting interesting,” Jeno commented, eyes darting down the hall with interest. 

You nodded in agreement. “It’s already a step up from last year.”

There were painful flashbacks flickering behind Jeno’s eyes. “Damn right. As soon as I stepped into the lobby, all I could feel was warm air.”

You snickered. “Johnny doesn’t repeat mistakes. He hates it.”

“You really know Johnny.”

You noticed that Jeno’s eyes were already on you when you glanced up to look at him. “We dated. You know that.”

“For your mother’s sake,” Jeno replied. 

That was true. She was practically begging you to bring a guy home. Not because she was eager to have grandchildren (though the time would come where she’d start pressing you for an heir), but because having an affluent partner would make you look better, which would thus make the company look better. 

It was before Mark. The bad blood aside, he wasn’t exactly the type of person your mother approved of you being seen with. Mark was a rapper. Johnny, on the other hand, came from a lineage of prominent wealthy businessmen. 

In a weird way, it kind of made sense how the group separated. There was you, whose father was the chairman of an oil company, Jeno, whose father was the chief executive of a private equity investor, and Johnny and Jaehyun, whose mother was an entrepreneur, but Johnny was chosen to take over the business while Jaehyun was stuck with real estate. 

Then there were Mark’s friends. Chungha, who was a successful model and influencer. Yuta, a popular soccer player. And Haechan was the product of two fierce attorneys, but he obviously had no intention of following in his parents’ footsteps. 

Johnny was everything your mother wanted you to be with and to appease her, you dated him for a few months. And you were grateful. He helped you learn new things about yourself and how you navigated relationships. You were never in love with him, but you’d always love Johnny. 

Your heart still wanted Mark. You didn’t know what love was until you fell for Mark. 

“Yes. It was strictly business,” you confirmed, thinking nothing of it. This wasn’t news. Jeno knew you well enough. 

Jeno nodded in approval. “I’m gonna go take a look around the house. This is my first time coming over.”

At least you weren’t the only one. “Have fun. I’m gonna find some food. I’m hungry.”

Jeno told you that he’d see you later, then dipped. Meanwhile, you went around the corner to the dining room, finding plenty of food and wanting to dig in. You didn’t trust half of the guests here enough to eat unsupervised dishes, but unlike the previous years, you didn’t manage to sneak in a meal beforehand. 

Yuta and Haechan ironically didn’t seem to be as wary. They were sitting beside each other, chatting over their food. Out of his friends, Mark was closest with Yuta and Haechan. Their friendship was unwavering and one of the few to stand the test of time. In a way, they were like a trio of brothers. 

You subtly took glances at them. Haechan looked more buoyant and cheerful than earlier. Definitely not in the mood to poison anyone’s food. And Yuta, though you weren’t necessarily close anymore, still seemed like the Yuta you used to know. Before the incident ruined you for the worse.

Haechan couldn’t be any more different. He was the same spoiled little brat, you supposed, but he wasn’t shy about his disdain towards you. And the rest of your friends. If it weren’t for the fact that Johnny was just so goddamn likable, you were certain Haechan wouldn’t come. 

At least you weren’t on their radar for now. Neither of them seemed to be fazed by your presence. Thank god, you thought to yourself, glimpsing across the dining room. There were mistletoes hanging from here to there. You could hear typical holiday music from down the hall. 

It was a good sign at the very least. You were just paranoid and not having Mark to discreetly meet in a bathroom for a quickie forced you to confront the dark essence of these parties. With Mark, the feeling was still there, but at least you could convert it into tension of a sexual nature. 

You still remembered what it was like. Betting kisses on how many minutes of alone time you had before the others noticed you were coincidentally both missing. Those sweet nothings you’d whisper in his ear to coax him towards climax quicker. 

And they would work. Every fucking time. There was nothing like watching his face immediately tense with pleasure at those words and watching his orgasm consequently wreck through his utter being like a freight train. 

You chuckled at the thought. It was too fucking easy, but boy, Mark could fuck. 

Your thoughts wondered again. To Mark, and to Jodie. Did he fuck her, or was he merely using her as a pawn in this little game of his?

You wouldn’t be surprised. On top of his exigency for attention and demand for total adoration, Mark was fucking spiteful. He was the pettiest dude you’d ever met and would go to the ends of the earth and back simply to make a point. 

A few more glances around the dining area and you decided that there was nothing for you there, returning to the solace of Johnny’s marble kitchen. Thinking about your stupid ex made you lose your appetite. 

If you made it back home for Christmas tomorrow, there would be a full-course dinner with your relatives anyways. You used to hope that you’d be able to bring Mark to one of those holiday banquets, though you’d be delusional to think it’d be anything other than a complete fiasco. 

Hell, the only lover of yours to survive meeting your mother was Johnny, and that was because you didn’t know a single person who could possibly dislike him at all. 

To your surprise, a spine-chilling gunshot rang out somewhere down the hallway, jolting you out of your brief abstraction. 

“Fuck!” cried Johnny’s voice, startled. You knew immediately that something was wrong. Johnny, at least on the outside, was never afraid. 

Not since that night. 

You marched straight for the living room and the echoes of several pairs of hurried footsteps said that everybody was on the same page. Though you could’ve swore the gunshot came from here, when you got to the living room, everyone was there except for Johnny. 

No, Jodie wasn’t there either. You would know, because she’d be clinging to Mark’s arm right about now, like a child to their mother’s bosom in a grocery store.

Johnny stumbled out of the lounge with no apparent injuries, but an inscrutable look on his handsome face. 

Jaehyun was the first to ask, “What happened?”

“Jodie,” Johnny said emotionlessly, pointing to the lounge. “She’s dead.”

Nobody moved. You instinctively glanced to Mark, wondering what his reaction would be, but his face didn’t move a fucking inch. 

“Is that what that gunshot was for?” Yuta pressed. 

Johnny shook his head and replied, “No, the gunshot was for me. Somebody tried to shoot me from the overlook upstairs, but missed by an inch. I ran into the lounge for shelter, but found Jodie there instead.”

The bullet in the wall by a lamp was enough proof that Johnny wasn’t lying. One of his guests standing before him now tried to take him out. 

There was a familiar unsettling sensation burning through your gut like a gunshot wound to the abdomen. The room devolved into its own breed of silent chaos, but you could tell from everybody’s faces and guarded postures that the same thought was flickering behind your eyelids.

Mark finally expressed a pinch of anger in his tone, stating in confusion, “I only heard one gunshot.”

“That’s because she wasn’t shot,” Johnny replied coolly, running a hand through his hair. “She was butchered.”

Well, that sure didn’t paint a pretty picture. Just the thought of what you’d see if you walked into the lounge made you stiffen. You jotted down a mental note not to go in there unless absolutely necessary.  

You glanced up towards the overlook. It was tall and offered the perfect angle of Johnny from where you assumed he was standing, plus there was enough space between the metal bars for a bullet to fly. 

To its sides were two different hallways, both functioning as possible escape routes, but everybody got here fairly quickly. Wouldn’t anyone have noticed if someone fired a shot merely seconds before gathering here?

Your arms were folded across your chest and your face was fixed in a line to hide your fear. There was no room for it with this crowd of people. “You didn’t see anyone?”

“I looked up and they were only a sliver.”

Chungha didn’t look too happy. “Shouldn’t we call the police?”

“As if it’s ever that easy with us,” Jeno retorted. 

Johnny quickly shot the idea down. “Nobody’s coming in or out of my house until I know who did this. If you want to try me, be my guest.”

You weren’t keen on being cooped up in this house for only god knows how long with people who were as good as strangers (especially now that bodies were dropping), but you didn’t plan on disobeying either, even if Johnny’s threat did little to intimidate you. 

Johnny knew you. He knew you deep down. If Mark weren’t there, standing only a couple of feet shy of you, you would confidently say that he knew you better than anyone else in this room. But it was Mark who had seen all your ugly. 

Haechan irritably groaned. “Then, what’s the plan, tough guy?”

“Well, we can start with placing you all outside of the scene. What’s your alibi?” Johnny asked. 

Haechan didn’t take kindly to being accused, as evident in his tone when he hissed, “I was in the dining area with Yuta, eating. Our plates are still on the table.”

Johnny glanced at Yuta, who subsequently nodded to confirm that it was true. Plus you could still hear their chatter from around the corner when you were in the kitchen. Their alibi was rock-solid. 

“I was coming out of the downstairs bathroom when I heard the gunshot,” Jaehyun said, glimpsing around. 

Nobody countered him, and Johnny seemed to trust him, all things considered. They may not have shared blood, but they were brothers. 

You rubbed your temple. “I was in the kitchen.”

“I was in the den,” Mark claimed, holding his arm. You could see the slightest shift in his carefully constructed demeanor. “I saw Chungha coming from the back of the hall, so it wasn’t her.”

Chungha said nothing. She was warily glaring holes through the skin of everyone around her. Chungha was a sweetheart and never thought badly of you after the split-up, but she refused to let others get too close, and you honestly respected it. 

You were the same way. Skeptical of everybody that crossed your path and kept a tight-knit circle of buddies. After what’d you seen and done, there was no such thing as being too safe. 

Jeno huffed, “I was just walking around. I would’ve asked Johnny for a tour, but he was a little… preoccupied.”

Jeno didn’t elaborate and nobody asked him to, but you knew exactly what he meant, and you telepathically exchanged the same thought when you made eye contact for the briefest of seconds. It was odd that only seconds prior, Johnny and Jodie were walking together. Now Jodie was dead and somebody tried to shoot Johnny?

“Let’s not waste precious time. It’s obviously Jeno,” Haechan snapped, glare cutting through his enemy like a blade. 

Jeno frowned, offended. “Why me?”

Haechan’s face was tense with frustration. “You know why.” 

“Stop,” Johnny told them sternly, stopping the action before it could accelerate too quickly to be controlled. “We’re all adults here and we’re going to handle this like adults. If you have proof, by all means, share. If you don’t know for certain, then keep it to yourself.”

Unsatisfied, Jaehyun crossed his arms and asked, “So what now? We just continue on as if there isn’t a killer on the loose?”

“Yep.”

Jaehyun sighed in distress, but he didn’t go against Johnny. 

The eight of you separated quickly, scattering about Johnny’s large house. He seemed to be aware that nothing would happen if you all remained together. 

Getting everybody alone upped the stakes. The perpetrator would be more tempted to act. And you needed them to make a mistake. 

At least for now, you decided to remain on the first floor where you were already familiar with your surroundings. In spite of being the obvious attack zone of the killer, you were comfortable here. 

On your way out of the living room, you noticed some of the group assembling into pairs. Unsurprisingly, Johnny and Jaehyun were together. As were Haechan and Chungha. It was a powerful method, but you preferred to be alone. That way there were less distractions. 

You also had no reason to view yourself as a target, though that made you ask yourself the glaring question. Why the hell would somebody want to kill Johnny?

Ironically, the purpose of these parties was to maintain the peace. Jodie’s killer obviously had to know that killing Johnny too would’ve been quite the statement to make. 

That there was no peace when it came to the eight of you. You were composed only of death and destruction. 

You were so deep in your thoughts that you barely noticed Mark walking in front of you until you nearly crashed into him, stumbling and being caught in his open arms. “Whoa there, baby,” Mark said, holding onto you tightly. “You should really be more aware of what’s going on.”

You wrested yourself out of his hold, but in the middle of doing your damnedest to free yourself from him, your fingers accidentally traced a familiar shape in his coat pocket and you stilled in surprise. “You have a gun?”

Mark didn’t try to deny it. “Why would I go anywhere without one, baby?”

“I’m not your ‘baby,’” you hissed, stepping a comfortable distance away from him. 

Mark only hummed. His attention was on the long slit in your emerald green dress. For a second, you couldn’t believe he was blatantly checking you out, then he angled himself towards you and drew his hand to your exposed leg. 

Your eyes flitted to Mark and when his met yours, a sly little grin spread across his lips. You’d be lying if you said that his hand on your legs didn’t instinctively reactivate carnal feelings inside of you, but you dared not reveal it on your face. 

Finally, after a few seconds of scooting up your thigh, Mark found what he was looking for and purred, “Smart girl.” His hand was at your obviously occupied thigh holster, pointing out the fact that you were also armed and dangerous. “I guess this makes us even, huh?”

You didn’t realize you’d sucked in a breath. It was maddening how perfectly he knew your habits, how predictable you were. You threw his hand off and hissed, “Did you try to kill Johnny?”

“No. Did you?”

“No.”

Mark hummed, apparently believing you. Many things could be said about you depending on who you asked, but at least everybody could agree that you weren’t a killer.

You removed his hand from your thigh and straightened your posture. If the two of you had weapons, it was safe to assume that you weren’t the only ones. The gun strapped to your thigh was the only reason you weren’t totally frightened of being alone. 

Your eyes were fixed to Mark, studying him. You weren’t fond of the fact that you were met with the same level of attention, as if he was trying to make you falter under his stare. It wouldn’t be that easy. 

Breaking the silence, you told him, “I’m sorry about your piece.”

Mark didn’t look too bummed. “Didn’t care about her like that anyway.”

Yeah, that checks out. You rolled your eyes. “You never cared about anything or anyone, except for yourself.”

That response seemed to genuinely surprise Mark. “Is that what you think of me?”

You weren’t prepared to discuss your emotions with Mark and the sober part of you made the executive decision to walk away instead. The liquor had you feeling a little too honest. 

Mark, on the other hand, wasn’t done with this conversation. He grabbed your arm and demanded, “Answer me. Is that what you think of me?”

You wrested your arm out of his hold and snapped, “Just walk away, Mark. It’s what you’re good at.”

That’s rich, Mark thought, but rather than argue with you about it, he stormed off. You were unbelievable. After all he did for you, after how deeply he loved you, you seriously thought that he didn’t love you? That hurt more than he cared to admit.

You watched him walk away, bristling. It didn’t matter that he was only doing what you told him to do. He never fought for your love. He always chose himself over you. Why am I surprised?

Irritated, you made a dramatic exit of your own, wanting nothing more to do with Mark for as long as you lived. He just had to be so fucking difficult. If there wasn’t a slaughter party ongoing right now, you’d be tempted to scout for more alcohol.

At least you knew that you were right not to trust anyone. The food wasn’t spiked apparently, but your point still stood. This crowd was unpredictable and you were never truly safe together. There would always be that lingering tension in the air. 

You just wish you knew what their intent in killing Jodie and attempting to kill Johnny was. By now, you were so surrounded by death that you hardly blinked, but Jodie didn’t deserve to die. A puppet in Mark’s silly little games or not. 

As if you weren’t already totally pissed, Haechan made his way towards you and hissed, “Admit it. You’re behind all this.”

You resisted a groan and replied blandly, “I thought you said Jeno was the killer?”

“The two of you are besties. It’s not far-fetched to say that you’re in this together, all things considered.”

Rather than be offended, you were purely annoyed. You crossed your arms. “Even if that were true, that’s ridiculous. Why would I want to take out Johnny?”

“No, no, no. Johnny was Jeno’s idea. You had your eye on Jodie,” Haechan said like he had it all figured out. “I saw her corpse. The overkill? It was insane. I bet you took one look at her sucking the breath out of Mark and lost your goddamn mind.”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, please. You’re pulling shit out of your ass, Haechan.”

Like it was all he knew how to do, Haechan kept pushing. “Two different modus operandis usually indicate two different killers.”

“Oh, yeah? Did Daddy teach you that?” you snarled, feeling your blood pressure soaring. 

Haechan shot you a venomous glare and replied back very belligerently, “It’s not rocket science. You’re jealous. Plus you already sided with a murderer once. Why wouldn’t you do it again?”

“God, it’s been years,” you groaned, bringing your palm to your forehead. This man was a walking headache. “If you don’t like us, then fine. But that blood is on all of our hands. Pointing blood-stained fingers won’t change that.”

Haechan was practically fuming. Obviously, he didn’t like that. 

You had already started to leave, traveling a fair distance away from Haechan, but spun on your heels to give one final retort, “And for the record, Mark having Jodie tag along to make me jealous was a weak move. Tell him to try harder.”

Then, you left. You left and you didn’t look back. It was hit after hit for you, and you just couldn’t seem to catch a fucking break. Haechan literally had no reason to bother you other than to be a nuisance. His parents were lawyers. He was certain that if push came to shove, he’d have nothing to worry about. And neither would the people he cared for. 

There was no telling if you would survive the night at this point. If a bullet didn’t take your life, then stress and frustration was a sure-fire way to finish you off. 

The important question was who would be anticipating your death? 

You wanted to think that you had never been more on edge, though that would’ve been a bold-faced lie. And an insult to your body’s self-preservation effectiveness. You were far from weak and if you were intent on survival, there was nothing or nobody that would stand in your way. 

In an attempt to abate the tension, you made a beeline for the in-door elevator. Hopefully before any other unwelcome visitors could try to snake their way into your path. 

When the elevator dinged, you were surprised to see Jeno. “Where are you headed?” you asked. 

Jeno retorted, “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

You snickered and slipped beside him. Finally somebody whose company didn’t piss you off. “Second floor. Obviously.”

Jeno stepped out of the elevator, but extended his hand to keep the door from closing, scanning the bottom floor for other people. Apparently, there weren’t any, because he finally said, “There’s something weird going on.”

You snorted. “Other than the death and murder? Yeah, probably. Haechan accused us of being killers.”

“No, I mean…,” Jeno trailed, taking a peak across the hallway again. “What if he’s faking it?”

“Who?”

“Johnny.”

You made a face. That wasn’t something you’d even considered and you weren’t exactly convinced now that you had. “Why would he do that?”

Jeno shrugged. “Why do people kill? He was the first one to discover Jodie. And he’s the guy that hosts these parties.”

“Yeah, I think that’s a pretty solid reason to assume he’s not the killer. He’s literally a victim. No offense, but I don’t buy that he killed Jodie then somehow had enough time to make it look like somebody fired a shot at him,” you replied. 

“I guess,” Jeno mumbled, quietening. You were about to ask why, but you clocked Jaehyun casually strolling by.

Which meant he wasn’t with Johnny. 

Jeno cocked you one final glance and said, “People always look at the guy with his hands dirty. No one ever suspects the guy with his hands behind his back.”

Then, he recouped his hand and disappeared behind the elevator doors. In a time that it took you to blink, he was gone so quickly you could’ve imagined his presence. 

And now you were thinking. If Johnny were alone, who knew what he was up to, but in the same vein, that could’ve just made him more vulnerable. 

You immediately brushed the thought aside. Johnny? Vulnerable? Pfft. This guy taught you everything you knew about how to survive and it was only thanks to his valor and self-preservation skills that you were even breathing. 

The elevator dinged again and this time the doors made a little narrow opening for you to walk through. It was your first time on the second floor of Johnny’s luxurious penthouse and the very first thing you did was monitor the new environment. 

Few people apparently. Everything just seemed so normal and there was hardly anything out of place. You could faintly hear the Christmas songs still blasting from the speakers downstairs. 

You crept just down the hall, pausing at the overlook. The place where the gunshot was fired. You gripped the rails, scanning the ground below. In the corner of your eye, you noticed Chungha sneaking about, but she was gone just as quickly. 

The killer had to have been lithe. These little metal bars were thin and did little to conceal your frame. For Johnny to have barely seen them, you could only liken them to a thief in the night.

The problem was that literally everybody fit that description. There was no person that you could rule out, because you each had the capacity. If not the motive, then the means. 

That was why you couldn’t wrap your head around it. Your lone brain couldn’t fathom the devastation plaguing this group and you decided that you wouldn’t even try. With a little breath, you turned and searched for the fitness center.

It wasn’t difficult to find. All you had to do was narrow down your options, taking peeks through windows and quickly discerning that they weren’t your final destination. After some trial and error, you found your way to the massive gym area. 

According to the sign, and a conversation you’d overheard earlier during the party (before all hell broke loose), just around the corner was a soccer simulator. 

Somebody was already inside when you pushed the door open to enter. You bashfully waved your hand. “Thought I’d find you here.”

Yuta looked surprised to see you, but he only wore it on his face for a split second. “Stalker, much?”

“Nah. I just thought, ‘if I was a famous soccer player, where would I go?’ And this was the first place that came to mind.”

Yuta snickered. “Predictable. That’s a character flaw, I guess.”

A tiny laugh escaped your lips. Honestly, you were just glad that you even felt comfortable enough to joke around with Yuta, even if it was meaningless. Haechan was praying for your downfall and Chungha didn’t socialize with outsiders, but Yuta was thankfully normal. 

He didn’t seem to mind your presence either. The large screen glaring at you in a violently blue hue was definitely on, but Yuta’s eyes appeared elsewhere. He finally said, “This gang and parties don’t mix too well, huh?”

“I think not,” you retorted, crossing your arms in amusement. Staying detached from the darkness was the only way you could stay sane. “Somebody always ends up dying at one of them.”

Yuta took a seat in a nearby chair and kicked his feet up on another one beside him pensively. “Sworn enemies with an axe to grind in the same room under the guise of ceasing rivalry one day out of the entire year. I could’ve told you guys how that was gonna end.”

I could’ve, too, you said to yourself, a billion thoughts like a downpour in your head. It was why you never left your house unarmed and hesitated to eat food you didn’t make. 

Because you were protecting yourself. Just like everybody else in this house. 

“Well, it’s not a shock,” you replied in agreement. “We do enough damage on our own, but together? It’s all we’re capable of.”

Yuta fought a frown. “I feel bad for that Jodie girl. I’m sure you’re aware Mark was definitely using her, but she didn’t deserve to be dragged into our sick hell.”

Those pictures of her slaughtered body were flickering in your head again. It haunted you, and you hadn’t even seen her corpse. “Everybody that comes near us gets burned.”

Yuta’s demeanor shifted noticeably, brooding. “I feel guilty. Yet when Johnny told us she died, all I could think was ‘at least it’s not my fault this time.’ Is that wrong?”

His sudden vulnerability surprised you, considering Yuta wasn’t the type to randomly express his feelings, much less to you. You immediately put your hand on his shoulder in comfort and said, “Doyoung’s death wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know.”

Yuta shrugged. “If I had listened to my parents, if I hadn’t invited you all there, that night wouldn’t have happened. Doyoung wouldn’t be dead. And this friend group might’ve stayed in one piece.”

“Yuta, you should blame that creepy psychopathic weirdo. Not yourself.”

Yuta grimaced, as if the sole mention of that guy flung him back to a place he’d already buried. 

And you didn’t blame him. You didn’t even know the guy’s name, but you could describe him vividly. How could you not? The same pale guy in blood-stained overalls appeared in your dreams a little too often.

This little party turned bloodbath wasn’t you and your friends’ first rodeo. Matter of fact, you’d argue that the first round was a tad scarier. You still got flashbacks, so terrified for your life and everybody around you that adrenaline numbed you to the crisp, nipping autumn air. 

For his birthday prelude, Yuta invited all of you to his parents’ expensive farmhouse, sitting just on your hometown’s outskirts. It was quiet, remote. No neighbors, which seemed fun in the first half, but as the night progressed, it became a nightmare not having anyone nearby.

A birthday celebration quickly became a fight for survival, and Doyoung lost. He was one of you, still a part of you, locked away inside your heart but never forgotten.

Jeno had accidentally stabbed him with a gardening tool, thinking that he was the killer. Doyoung had come to his hiding spot desperately seeking shelter, but Jeno panickedly made a mistake that cost him his friend’s life and the trust of his others. 

That was how the friend group divided. There was the side that would never forgive him for Doyoung’s death, blaming him wholeheartedly. And then there was the side that showed him some grace. You were all frightened out of your minds that night. 

Though what Jeno did didn’t matter. You were all complicit in Doyoung’s demise, whether they wanted to admit it or not. The killer made you all finish him off, made you all bury his wounded corpse while it was still fresh. 

Your hands were still stained with dirt and blood, burning hotter every time you thought of him. 

“I blame Jeno,” Yuta seethed under his breath. 

You frowned. 

Yuta stood to his feet, unable to stay still. There was too much emotion in him now, pulling him every which way. “Every year I get whiplash from having to mourn my friend’s death anniversary then celebrate my birthday back to back. That’s unforgivable.”

Though you liked Yuta, you weren’t going to let anyone slander your best friend silently. “I understand, but it’s not just Jeno’s fault.”

Yuta chuckled. “If only you knew.”

Your brows furrowed. “What don’t I know?”

“That Jeno’s fucking obsessed with you. Always has been. We don’t hate him because he killed Doyoung. We hate him because we think he killed Doyoung for you.”

Your lips parted soundlessly, flabbergasted. 

Yuta read the confusion on your face plain as day and continued, “Think about it, sugar. Doyoung had a crush on you. That was everybody’s business. And it’s Doyoung who Jeno accidentally stabs out of all people?”

You couldn’t say anything. It wasn’t like you hadn’t turned down Jeno’s advances once before, but he was so fucking chill. You could’ve forgotten that it even happened. There wasn’t a single thing in your friendship that felt out of place. 

Plus he knew firsthand that you were head over heels for Mark only, even if you didn’t want to be anymore. It was pathetic. Yuta had just told you another guy was willing to go to lethal lengths to keep you away, and yet one of your first thoughts was how painstakingly you loved Mark. 

But Mark hated you. 

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” you said, the lines between fiction and reality beginning to blur. 

Yuta relaxed. He could tell there was a lot going on in your head, because he recognized the conflict akin to the one warring within himself. “It’s dead.”

You appreciated that. Fuck’s sake, Mark and his friends usually liked to push until there was nowhere else to go. And then some. Your thoughts wandered there and you opened your mouth, asking, “Why are you nice to me?”

“I’m not nice to you,” Yuta replied, making you blink. “I just treat you like a regular human being. There’s a difference.”

“Why?”

“Because you haven’t done anything for me not to.”

You shook your head. “Mark wouldn’t agree,” you muttered, rubbing your arms. 

Yuta glanced at you. You were letting your guard down around him, something he was certain you probably hadn’t even done with Mark tonight. “Fuck Mark. He’s been lying to himself. And to be frank, I think he’s deluded himself.”

Your eyes were cold when you looked into Yuta’s. “Elaborate.”

“I mean, he wants to convince us and the whole world that he hates you and he’s moved on, but he hasn’t even convinced himself. You were his everything, man. Mark hasn’t been the same since the breakup. I want my friend back.”

I want my lover back. But Mark used to be your friend, too. A healthy blend of friendship and romance that made your love for each other feel depthless. 

If only you knew back then that your love would be tested. Would you have still sacrificed every piece of yourself to make him happy if you knew that it still wouldn’t be enough?

“I hope you have a wonderful Christmas tomorrow,” you told Yuta after a long pause, a telltale sign that you were leaving and had no more room for conversation. 

“If I make it to tomorrow,” Yuta retorted playfully. “Likewise. Merry Christmas.”

You smiled at him on your way out in a final goodbye. You only wanted one thing for Christmas, and that was to have Mark back in your arms. Where he belonged. 

For a good minute, you meandered about the hallways, cautiously monitoring your surroundings to make sure no one was trailing you. You considered heading to the den for refuge, but Mark obviously liked it there, and you’d had enough run-ins for one night. 

Instead, you opted for the in-door pool, where obviously nobody was. In front of you stood a long line of water with a set of hot tubs off to the side. It was the perfect place to clear your head without having to constantly check if there was someone out to get you. 

Before you could slightly relax, you scanned the room and clocked two exits. If you couldn’t get out of the main exit for whatever reason, there was always the option of the backup door. With that pressure off your shoulders, you took off your heels and sank your feet in the pool. 

Dangling your feet in the water, your mind began to race, hopping from one thought to another at a pace too painful for you to keep up with. You hated being this way. Always having to keep an eye out, never fully trusting anybody. Mark was the only person that you could turn your back to and confidently believe you’d be fine. 

Once upon a time, he was your safe haven, and now you weren’t sure if you could even trust him anymore. For all you knew, he could’ve been behind all this. 

It hurt to think of what you should’ve been, of the happy, oblivious couple you were only months earlier. The couple that didn’t go to bed angry or sleep in different rooms, too stubborn to spend the night beside each other. There was no problem the two of you couldn’t sort out back then. 

You started to wonder if Yuta was right about everything he said. First of all, Jeno didn’t kill Doyoung. It wasn’t that quick. He attacked him first, but you all had Doyoung’s blood on your hands. Literally. 

You only wished you could’ve seen Yuta’s point of view. Jeno was admittedly happy when you and Mark finally broke up, though you figured it was because he didn’t want to see you suffer, not because he wanted you to be with him instead. 

Worst of all, Yuta told you that Mark still wasn’t over you. And you hated it. If you wanted Mark and Mark wanted you, then why weren’t you together?

Then, you remembered. The lack of compatibility that burned your happy home together down to a crisp. Things failed because Mark wanted to conquer. You refused to be taken. What made him feel ignored made you feel free. What made you feel inhibited made him feel secure. When he started to feel unwanted, he pushed you away. 

Your love was a slow burn till the end. All of those years of pining for each other turned into you pining away from heartbreak, eating your heart out for a boy you were destined to never have at all.

You hated knowing that you and Mark would’ve never worked out whether you dated or not. Maybe because you knew that if you didn’t have Mark, then you had no one. It simply wasn’t written in the stars. 

Mark was the only one who knew your biggest fears. Your motivations. He knew firsthand the irreversible impact Doyoung’s death had on the rest of your life, because you confided only in him about the shame. You weren’t scared of being naked with Mark. He saw the ugliest bits of you and it wasn’t what sent him running. 

It was hard to explain to anybody that wasn’t there, but nothing was the same after Doyoung died. Thanks to your parents’ status, you were already used to being careful, but it was nothing like the girl you were after fighting for survival. It was your first time fighting for anything. 

Every inch of you was alive and awake, perpetually on fight mode. Mark wasn’t just the sole place where you could exist peacefully; he understood your trauma and loved you with every fiber of his being in spite of it. 

That was why you couldn’t be with any other guy. How could you explain those nights when you woke up screaming in terror? Mark didn’t ask questions. He just held you and told you that you were safe in his arms. 

If you couldn’t have Mark, then you knew you were meant to die alone. 

The sound of a door pushing open made you immediately stand up, preparing to take off without your heels. They would only slow you down anyways. You saw Mark enter and, rather than cool down, your stiff muscles were overloaded with apprehension. 

“I have an idea and I’m prepared to argue with you about it,” were the first words to come out of Mark’s mouth, speaking before you could dare to, as if he knew you’d have something to say. 

You played it cool, though your heartbeat was harshly thudding in your ears. “What do you want now?”

Mark took your tone in stride. “We should travel in pairs. As they say, safety in numbers.”

Your face tensed in disgust. “And why in the hell would I want to travel with you?”

Mark didn’t skip a beat. “Because if I’m the killer, you’re the only one that stands a chance against me.”

You folded your arms. Mark almost grinned looking at you, but resisted. It was like your favorite pose ever. “I thought you said you didn’t kill Jodie?”

“Technically, I said that I didn’t try to kill Johnny,” Mark answered, a sly smile on his lips. “Do you trust me?”

“I don’t trust anyone anymore,” you replied coolly. Not after you broke it. And me. 

“Good. You don’t trust me and I don’t trust you. We don’t have reasons to. But let’s at least be forward with our intentions here,” Mark said, stepping closer. “I intend to survive. And you?”

“I intend to survive as well,” you asserted. 

Mark added forthrightly, “And we’ll do anything to live, even if it means killing someone else for our own sake. We’re not strangers to sacrificing other people for our benefit.”

You heaved a breath and groaned impatiently, “So what? This is some truce or something?”

“Or something,” Mark replied with enough uncertainty to make you overwhelmingly suspicious. “We’d just be working together. Who says that you have to trust me?”

You hated that you were seriously considering it, but he was making a pretty decent point. It was stupid to be by yourself. You had to admit it, even as somebody that valued her independence like it was your lifeline. 

Mark recognized you in conflict with yourself, even as you tried your hardest to appear neutral. After all those years spent by each other’s side, he guessed it was simply natural. Your bottom lip stuck out, though only slightly. You were giving it your best shot at keeping composed. 

You weighed the pros and cons in your head. If you didn’t pair with Mark, you would be more vulnerable, but if you did, it would be increasingly difficult to ignore having to confront the whirlwind of feelings he left you to soak in. 

You didn’t want that, but it wasn’t like you wanted to die either. Finally, after a moment of contemplation, you relented. “Fine.”

Satisfied, Mark grinned victoriously. “Two heads are better than one.”

That was what you used to think. It used to be enough to simply look into Mark’s eyes, knowing that he was there. Now you couldn’t stand to be beside him. “Not when they’re bumping into each other,” you grumbled. 

Mark cocked a brow. “Then, let’s not make this about us. Let’s focus on survival. That’s our common interest here.”

Obviously, that was easier said than done, but you didn’t argue or complain. This was a rare moment of Mark willing to set your differences aside for a better purpose. At least for now, you intended to behave. 

Plus you wanted to see how long the two of you could go before Mark started barking. He looked sweet, but if anybody thought Mark was all sugar and rainbows, they clearly hadn’t met him. This boy was all fire. 

And you were air; gentle as a featherlight, ocean breeze, but capable of roaring like a tornado if provoked. Forceful enough to spread his flames out further, but not to blow them out. Mark was untameable. You had that in common. 

It sounded corny, but it was the truth. You bettered one another in some ways, but enabled one another in others. Your similarities seemed to work against you, neither of you wanting to set your pride aside. 

That was the problem. If you pushed, Mark pushed back harder. If Mark screamed, you screamed back louder. It was like a fucking seesaw that you couldn’t get off of. 

Rationally, an important question kept prodding at your ribcage. “How did you even find me?” you asked. 

“I had to look everywhere,” Mark said, slight exasperation in his tone. “I knew you wouldn’t be out in the open, so it was just a matter of finding out where you were hiding.”

You nodded. That would have to be a satisfactory response. You weren’t going to press him about it. “Okay, but if we’re going to be a team, we need to try and figure out who’s killing and what’s going on.”

Mark bobbed his head. “Yeah, I know. Have you been seeing anything suspicious lately? I noticed Jaehyun creeping out like he’s got something to hide.”

Your brows furrowed. “Seriously? I did too. When I was talking to Jeno in the elevator. Chungha looked a little suspicious, too.”

Mark obviously didn’t expect that. “You’re kidding. You know how Jaehyun said that he was downstairs when the gun went off?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“I saw Jaehyun coming from down the hall, where I also noticed Chungha come from. She came after him, but it looked timed. Kinda like how we used to leave at different times so nobody would think we were together.”

The mention of those times sent you back, perfectly calculating the ideal time to exit the same room without raising suspicions amongst your friends and foes. 

Bidding the thoughts to go away, you quickly recovered, mentioning, “That’s odd. I don’t know if it’s connected, but earlier when I was talking to Jaehyun, he excused himself to go upstairs.”

“Before the gun went off?” Mark asked, skeptical. 

You leaned down to fix the strap of your heel, which you’d slipped back on after you realized the intruder was only Mark, discerning that he was no threat. “Yeah, somebody texted him. From the face he was making, it looked urgent. I just assumed one of his relatives messaged him and he went to god knows where upstairs to take a call.” 

Mark shook his head in disapproval. Disappointment, maybe. “They’re in cahoots, that’s for sure.”

You pressed, “But why in the hell would Jaehyun and Chungha be working together? They’re not even on the same side.”

“Motives to kill,” Mark sighed, face twisted cutely in thought. It was so stressful pretending that you weren’t attracted to every little thing he did. His eyes widened a little and he said, “Wait.”

“Hm?”

“It’s common knowledge that when Johnny’s mom died, she left him to take over the family business, while Jaehyun got stuck with real estate…,” Mark trailed.

You quickly noticed where this was going and added, “Jaehyun always wanted to be the chief executive. Ever since we were teenagers, it was all he talked about.”

Mark tapped his chin. “I still remember what it was like. I couldn’t tell if he was more depressed about his stepmother dying, or not inheriting her multimillion dollar business.”

“You think he’s still holding that grudge?”

Mark shrugged. “Who knows?”

You subconsciously scratched your forearm. You didn’t realize, but Mark did. It was something you often did when you were anxious, which was basically all of the time. “Chungha’s been paying an awful lot of attention to Johnny’s jewelry case.”

“She likes anything bright and shiny,” Mark responded, thinking nothing of it. “Why? You think she stole something?”

You shrugged your shoulders and replied, “I think anything’s possible, but I don’t think it’s worth killing over. I mean, she’s not just rich. She’s wealthy. She can afford her own diamonds.”

Trying to figure those two out was like attempting to unravel the identity of Jack the Ripper. Jaehyun was composed and Chungha was vigilant. Their guarded natures combined made them both mysterious and lethal. 

Mark couldn’t wrap his head around it, either. But he was certain that those two were up to no good. “Well, we’ve got their motives. Let’s try to think of the others.”

“Johnny told me he and Haechan got into an argument before the party. He looked pretty pissed earlier,” you recalled. 

“Yeah, I picked up on that, too,” Mark said. When a guy who sent earthquakes wherever he went was agitated, it was impossible for the whole world not to notice. 

“Speaking of holding grudges,” you started, gathering any pieces you could find and linking them with each other. “Johnny left Yuta at that shack and because of it he got an injury that almost cost him soccer.”

Mark didn’t seem convinced. “Yeah, but Yuta’s been playing soccer just fine for years now. Plus he told Johnny to leave to find that weapon.”

“The reasoning doesn’t have to make sense to anybody but the killer.”

Mark was silent for a long time, cautiously contemplating. “What about Jeno?”

You were irked at the mention of your best friend, but knew that nobody was totally off the table. Not even yourself. You played innocent. “What about him?”

Mark exhaled a breath, but laughed. “You know, I can’t tell if you’re playing dumb, or if you’ve truly never noticed how much Jeno’s into you. You can’t seriously think him attacking Doyoung was an accident.”

Yuta had already brought you up to speed on the whole jealousy killer Jeno theory between Mark and his pals, which you were none too convinced about. “If Jeno’s the killer, I don’t understand what he’d get out of killing Johnny or Jodie. By your logic, that means you should be dead. Not your girlfriend.”

“Maybe Johnny likes you.”

“Ignoring the ridiculousness of that statement…” 

Mark interjected before you could continue, “Is it so ridiculous? You and Johnny dated, and it was your decision to break things off. You were never in love with him, but have you ever considered that maybe Johnny loved you?”

You hadn’t really considered it, you always assumed Johnny knew he was doing you a favor and it was nothing more or less, but that didn’t stop you from snapping, “Jeno knows where I stand with Johnny. That I was never in love with him. Why would he kill a man that isn’t a threat?”

“Did you like Doyoung back?”

“No,” you hissed. 

Mark shot, “And you don’t see him walking around here, do you? You said it yourself: the reasoning doesn’t have to make sense to anybody but the killer.”

“I think that says more about the faultiness of your theory than mine.”

Mark opened his mouth to speak, but you didn’t let him get a word in. 

You sneered, “And are you seriously going to ignore the fact that Jodie was killed? Carved out like a pumpkin. That sounds like something only somebody with a lot of rage for her would do.”

Mark was losing patience, you could tell from the look on his face. “Are you implying that I killed her?”

“I’m not implying a damn thing. But you were pretty nonchalant over the fact that you got an innocent girl killed,” you replied, definitely insinuating that he was responsible. “Outside of being tainted by your touch, that is.”

“Maybe you did it,” Mark snapped. 

You rolled your eyes. This was the second time you’d gotten this accusation today and you weren’t keen on hearing it again, but Mark was already yapping before you could tell him not to bother. 

“You couldn’t stand to see me with a girl that wasn’t you,” he said, a turmoil of wildfire dancing in his pupils. “So you got rid of her.”

You threw your head back and grunted, “Oh, fuck’s sake. Get over yourself.”

“Get over me,” Mark hissed. “We’ve been over for months. It was never gonna work, you know? Everything’s sunshine and rainbows during the honeymoon phase.”

“Fuck you,” you seethed, turning away and heading for the door. You didn’t know why you thought he was capable of having a civil conversation with you. So much for not making this about us. 

Mark grabbed your arm, glaring at you in disapproval. “I’m sorry, was this too much pressure for you? You couldn’t handle the heat and now you’re walking away again?”

You screamed, “You pushed me away!”

“Because you pushed me first,” Mark yelled, matching your energy. Matter of fact, what you gave, he doubled it and handed it back tenfold. And vice versa. 

Running your hands down your face, you wanted to scratch your skin off with your nails. “Dude. What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about all those times you made me feel like you didn’t want me. All those times you left me alone without a reason why. You got so distant on me, baby. Really had me wondering if there was somebody else.”

Somebody else? You couldn’t believe he was serious. Your heart would never want anybody that wasn’t Mark, because she knew he was the only one that could satisfy her. 

Your face softened for a fraction of a second. “All I wanted was you.”

“You sure had a funny way of showing it,” Mark grumbled under his breath. 

Guilt flickered in your eyes, stinging them to crystals, but you didn’t let them fall. “I needed space. I liked being with you, but not at the expense of losing touch with my soul. I needed room to breathe.”

Mark frowned. “Why didn’t you just say that?”

You asked just as quickly, “Why didn’t you just ask?”

“It felt like a waste of time. I thought you already decided that you didn’t want me. That you were just another girl who underestimated how much attention I need.”

“Wow,” you mumbled quietly. Amused, but angry. “You fight, but for all the wrong reasons.”

Mark’s eyes flitted towards yours. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That you wouldn’t fight for us to stay together, but you’ll shout in my face at literally any other given opportunity.”

Mark reined in his head, running his hands through his hair. “Listen, I’m no good at this relationship stuff.”

“I know.”

That made Mark bristle. It wasn’t just his fault, but you refused to hold yourself accountable. “You’re no expert, either.”

“I know,” you sighed, lips curled into a frown. 

Mark’s eyes flickered. 

It appeared you were finally realizing how egregiously the two of you had mutually fucked up. “We didn’t talk. And that was okay. Our problems were small enough that after we climbed into bed with each other they were long forgotten. But then they got bigger and we didn’t know what to do, other than what we’d always done.”

Mark scratched the back of his head. “But it didn’t work. The problem was still there.”

Part of the reason why you two never worked through the issue was because you failed to specifically identify the problem. Mark didn’t just want to be loved, he demanded it. And he did it by completely seizing power over your mind, body, and soul. 

Your mind in life. Your body in bed. Your soul in everything in between. 

You didn’t like to feel dominated in that way. It made you dig into your heels. Letting Mark exercise this assertive power over you, letting him have control over the tiniest piece of you that was left, it felt like a betrayal. To yourself, and to the dead.

Because you were still clinging to that girl. That girl whose hands were clear of blood and didn’t spend hours scrubbing under her nails away a stain that wasn’t really there. The girl who didn’t take that final blow to her friend’s chest and watch the light in his eyes dim until he was gone. 

It was cruel and unforgivable, but even with the hurt on Doyoung’s face, there was an understanding twinkle in his eyes. You’d seen it, for a tiny fraction of a second. Or maybe you imagined it so that it would be simpler to live with the crippling guilt. 

You were the girl he loved and the last thing he saw. Every anniversary, you swore one of the stars in the sky twinkled brighter. 

I didn’t have a choice; it was him, or all of us. What was my other option? Plus he was going to die either way. The police didn’t arrive on scene until dawn. He would have bled to his death if we didn’t finish him off. 

Mark knew he was high-maintenance and he knew the toll Doyoung’s death had on you, but he somehow never exactly pieced together how it would impact your relationship. That there would be days where you didn’t want hugs or kisses. You just wanted to be left alone.

Plus Mark was so sympathetic about everything you went through and all of your feelings to the point you assumed he would just know you needed space. Somehow you had mistaken his understandingness for being a mind reader. 

And Mark, somewhere along the line, sensed you drifting away, so he discarded you first. Mark didn’t get abandoned. It wasn’t in his nature to stick around when he knew he was on the brink of being cast aside, left high and dry. 

He wanted to be loved, but he wanted to love himself. And he was not against hurting himself, because the pain was easier to cope with than if he let somebody else hurt him.

At least he thought it would be. 

“We couldn’t just fuck and make up anymore, so we started to argue over petty things, and we never got to the core of the matter,” you said, picturing yourself back in that living room, shouting. 

Mark remembered, because it was all he’d been thinking about for months, asking himself what was the final blow in spite of being aware that he was the one who chose to break up. “Pillowtalk was the only time we really discussed our emotions. Remember?”

God, how could you not? This boy would fuck the shit out of you then snuggle you to sleep immediately after, chatting about anything under the sun (or moon) until your eyelids got too heavy and started to flutter closed. 

You simply nodded your head, unable to open your mouth. Though you both were being vulnerable, you were afraid of what you might’ve said. 

Mark chuckled. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I always had these doubts about you, to be honest. You were too good to be true. Most girls get tired of me after a minute so I never stay too long, but you’ve been in my life since we were kids.”

Your eyes were sad when you glanced into his. “So why did you leave me? Why didn’t you fight?”

Mark’s eyes twinkled with regret as he whispered, “I was scared of being abandoned by the girl I loved. So I dipped. I ran before you could tell me that it was over. It gave me some kind of agency over my heartbreak.”

You laughed in disbelief. This breakup was so dramatic, and for what? “In hindsight, we’re just a pair of fucking idiots,” you said, shaking your head in disapproval. “Imagine if we just talked about this months ago. It could’ve all been so simple.”

Mark hung his head in shame, resting his hand at his nape. It would’ve spared him some pain. And so many tears. 

“I’ve spent months thinking that I don’t deserve love because of what I did that night. Because if I can’t have you, Mark, then there’s nobody else out there for me,” you told him, releasing the words you’d been holding back for eons. 

Mark blinked, processing. Then, deciding he was short of words, he said, “I’m done talking,” and smashed his lips against yours. You were surprised, but immediately molded your lips into his, feeling his hands instinctively get a hold of your hips. 

It had been a lifetime since you’d last felt his touch on your skin and to say you missed it would be an understatement. Your body felt like it was being reawakened, dormant sensations coming back to life again. 

Two star-crossed lovers, discreetly meeting each other for one final rendezvous before your individual lives inevitably drove a wedge between your passionate sparks. That, or death. For now, you were content to be in each other’s hold, kissing like it was the last time. 

As your bodies swung in each other’s embrace, you noticed Mark’s feet dancing dangerously close to the edge of the pool. “Careful,” you warned, shuffling him out of the way. “Don’t want your flames to get doused.”

Mark snickered. “Please, baby. I have enough fire for the both of us.”

“I know you do. That’s what I love about you.”

Mark’s ears perked up at that. You loved him? You didn’t know how long he had been waiting to hear you say that. And it made him remember what you told him only moments ago before his brain went blank. “I love you. Don’t ever think that you don’t deserve to be loved.”

Your chest filled with warmth, but you purred, “Or else what?”

Leaning into you, Mark nibbled at your ear a little before whispering, “Or else I’ll have to show you how much you mean to me.”

It was difficult to play nonchalant. Your heart was skipping beats now. You wanted Mark desperately and it drove you to the brink of insanity. “Oh, no. I’m so afraid.”

Mark grinned, dragged you away to a padded chaise. 

You sat there, your entire body excited, but your brain (at least for now) was still capable of thinking rationally and you asked, “Are we seriously about to fuck in a pool chair?”

“We’ve fucked in worse places and done even worse things,” Mark replied offhandedly, thinking about nothing but getting his hands on those pretty thighs of yours. 

You pressed your lips together, aware that you had little to zero grounds for argument. Bathrooms weren’t even anywhere close to the most outlandish location you and Mark had decided would be an apt backdrop for sexual intercourse. Those places were unspeakable. 

Mark took your silence as a victory and whispered silkily, “Sit back and relax, baby.”

You giggled. Mark had never left you unsatisfied. A time with this boy’s head between your legs was guaranteed to be a sacrilegiously fulfilling experience. 

Mark grabbed your left leg, draping it over the side of the chair so that he wouldn’t have to literally bend over backwards to go down on you, and when he noticed the gun poking out of your thigh holster, he laughed. “With your permission, I wanna take your gun. If it makes you feel better, I’ll set mine aside, too.”

You let him take your gun and disarm the weapon before setting it on a poolside table wedged between the chaise you were currently occupying and another. If this was some ruse to get you unarmed, Mark was simply stupid. He would’ve had way better opportunities moments prior. 

But it wasn’t. Mark was tugging your panties down your ankles, something you were certain he wouldn’t bother to do if he had murder on his mind. You usually felt naked when you were bare of a weapon, but something about Mark naturally made you relax. 

Your dress rode up above your hips, giving him complete access to your dripping pussy. Just thinking about what he was about to do to you, you swore, breathing became the most difficult chore. 

Mark took one fucking glimpse at your glistening pussy and almost howled like a goddamn wolf. Instead, the sound that emerged from the back of his throat was identical, animalistic and ravenous as if he couldn’t wait to dig into a full course. 

The comparison wasn’t far off, because as soon as he stopped staring hungrily at you in a way that made you shift, slightly self-conscious, his calloused palms were clasping your thighs tightly and his mouth was flush against your throbbing core. 

“Jesus. Fuck,” you moaned, thighs tensing already. And he just started. To be fair, it had been a couple of months since anybody’s hands - or mouth - had touched you there. You had been unable to give yourself to anybody that wasn’t Mark, which you felt like a total fool for when you saw him boo’d up with Jodie. 

And yet here you were, still letting him have his way with you, giving him the power to break you down and build you back up as he pleased. Your breaths were quick, your lips parting in a shaky exhale at every pass of his tongue against your glistening folds. 

It reminded him of the past couple of years, sneaking around to fuck in the most isolated location you could possibly find. All of those times he mounted you on a fancy bathroom counter to get his head between your thighs, or fucked you there so hard the mirrors clouded. 

All Mark knew was sex and destruction, and half of the time, those things came hand in hand. For a minute, he was more than that with you. Until you were gone and he knew he was at least partly to blame. He wanted to prove to you that he was more than your reckless lover. 

Though that would have to be put on hold. As of right now, his intentions consisted only of wrecking you.

“God, I missed the way you taste,” Mark grumbled with a mouthful of pussy. 

His voice was deep and handsome, and so sexy that you likely could’ve nutted then and there, too aroused to keep a rein on yourself. Mark had that effect on you and the worst part was that he knew it. Sex used to be a game of seduction, teasing each other for hours to see who would break first. 

Of course, you folded the better half of the time. Mark had fucking cheat codes. This boy knew your every weakness and used them to his advantage. The hell were you supposed to do when he made you watch recordings of the previous times he’d pleasured you? Not kiss the very ground that he walked on? 

Pfft. Yeah, right. Though you never went down without stating in defense, “You cheated!”

Oh, fuck Mark. He just had to be so good with his hands. And a pleaser. 

You always got your lick back, though. Mark may have won in the first half, but you knew exactly how to take him down. First, you had to make him think that he’d already won. Then, you had to return the favor, making him swear he saw stars. That was how you kept the balance. 

Mark’s tongue was expertly navigating your clit and you wanted to be mad at it, but all you could bring yourself to do was writhe in the gray chaise. Had not his hands been locking your thighs in place, you would’ve snapped them closed in sensitivity. Mark was not to be underestimated. This boy was way stronger than he seemed. 

You resigned yourself to the fact that your only option was to lie there and take it all. There was nowhere for you to escape. When it felt too good, it was a telltale warning that Mark would seize control of your whole body, and you were torn between fleeing and letting him have it. 

“Don’t try to run away from it, baby,” he whispered knowingly, though he knew you couldn’t resist the temptation of the satisfaction you were promised. “I’ve got you.”

You rolled your hips into his face in a hurried pursuit for relief, desperately wishing you had something to anchor yourself with and lower you back down to earth, but Mark had brought you to a constantly ascending high. 

Mark chuckled, because he knew he had your body down to a science. If you thought it couldn’t get anymore dangerously intense than this, you were wrong as hell and had another thing coming. Mark released one of your thighs, gathering your arousal on his sticky fingers, and fucked it right back into you. 

You gawked. You almost couldn’t believe he was making a mess out of you like this, but then you remembered that he was Mark fucking Lee. Taking your breath was what he did best. His mouth was still on you, sucking and licking, because you were the closest thing to heaven he would ever know and he couldn’t get enough. 

All the while, he thumbed your clit, making a tremble roar through your utter being and your toes clench, tucking into themselves. 

“I’m so close,” you whimpered in the tiniest voice. 

“I know,” Mark replied, pulling back. “What did you think I was doing all the extra shit for?”

You winced your eyes closed and heaved the thickest breath, attempting to regain control over your body, but to absolutely no avail. That was when you came to terms with your fate. Mark was going to finish you off. 

“You know what I want. Let go for me,” Mark whispered darkly. “Do it on my fingers.”

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” you chanted, feeling something tense in your belly. The pleasure blending with the yearning created a sensation unlike any other. Your whole figure was engulfed in flames, scorching you from head to doe. 

It was closing in. You could feel sin’s darkly cloaked hand reeling you in, pulling you closer and closer, and closer to the jagged edge. There was no point in struggling; you were in nature’s grasp now and whatever happened was entirely up to her. 

As someone who prided himself on his ability to please, Mark took great delight in pleasuring you and it was no shock that he knew exactly how to coax you towards climax. “Yeah, that’s it, baby. Let it all go. I’ve got you.”

Finally, you started to cum, ecstasy shooting through your body every which way in the form of uncontrollable warmth, making your head feel light and your toes curl. Mark’s encouraging words became static to your ears, your senses totally overpowered, the life leaving your body for all but a split second. 

Mark was sporting the slyest of grins, watching you wind back down as if he was marveling at his own handiwork. You should’ve been singing his praises, applauding him for his grand efforts. “There you go. Good fucking girl.”

Sex was one of the most powerful weapons in Mark’s arsenal. He sucked at relationships, but he could only walk away after claiming the best nut of your life. 

After a moment or two out of the atmosphere, you came back to the ground, having just stopped tightening around Mark’s digits and shuddering involuntarily. You raised your eyes to meet his own, chest undulating. Gripping the arms of the chair for dear life. “Fuck you. You are the devil.”

Mark snickered, reluctantly recouping his fingers from between your legs. “Oh, yeah, baby. Fuck. I always loved that dirty mouth of yours.”

You rolled your eyes. He must’ve forgotten how good you were at taking back everything he stole from you and giving him damage tenfold in retaliation. Those sets of expletives would be escaping his pretty pink lips any minute now. This was only the beginning of the end. 

Throwing your leg back down, you climbed out of the chaise, standing to your feet with a little stumble. 

“Whoa there, baby. Be careful,” Mark said, grabbing a hold of your wobbling frame and holding you flush against his chest. “I’d hate it if something bad happened to you.”

God, you were weak in the fucking knees for this man. Literally. 

You grabbed Mark by his suit tie and pushed him back first onto the chaise. His eyes went wide in surprise, but he quickly recovered and grinned. “Damn, babe. I like where this is going.”

You chuckled, crawling on top of him and pulling his face into yours. Mark’s hands were below your ribs, holding you in his arms while the two of you made out for what felt like an eternity. In the best way ever. 

Mark grunted none too quietly when you felt his tight bulge pressed sharply to your core and mischievously got the clever idea to grind against it. The sound had you throbbing again, desperate to mount his cock then and there, but you were bent on teasing him at your own expense. 

The wet smack of your lips meeting only enhanced your arousal further and while you did a significantly better job at keeping composed, Mark was losing his mind by the minute. 

His hands dropped from your skin to his pants in an attempt to free his aching cock, but you were quicker, gathering his wrists in your palms and pinning them over his head. “Mm-mm. My turn, baby. Just… sit back and relax,” you mimicked, refusing to let him take the wheel. 

Mark let you have your way with him. Frankly, he would let you do whatever you pleased. 

You did the honor of unfastening Mark’s pants, pulling them and his underwear down his thighs just enough for his stiff cock to spring to attention. You licked your lips, salivating. The tension in your core got even tighter. 

Mark groaned when you pressed your lips to the head of his cock, kissing it tenderly. That understanding, patient guy was nowhere to be found when his dick was involved. Or at least when he wasn’t the giver. Instead, Mark was less than human, a voracious beast that longed to feed. 

Your tender kisses became delicate licks, neither of which provided Mark very much relief and you were aware. “Fuck. Baby,” he called out to you, hopeful that you’d quit the games soon. “Do something.”

“Something like… this?” you asked, gripping his hard cock and pumping him in your fist. Then, seconds later, you sucked him into your mouth, making all of the air flee Mark’s lungs. 

Mark immediately cursed loudly. His cock hadn’t known this amount of relief since he left you and he wasn’t ashamed to admit it. Little did you know, Mark hadn’t fucked anyone else since you, either. It would’ve felt like cheating, like a betrayal, even though he knew that you were over. 

Probably why Jodie had been throwing herself onto Johnny, hoping to get some dick, because the boy that brought her there only wanted to kiss her when you were there. 

“Fuck,” Mark groaned like it was the only word he knew. It probably was, all things considered. It wasn’t uncommon for his mind to go blank when your lips were airtight around his cock. His whole body shuddered in sensitivity, having been aroused since he started eating you out. 

And you were just sitting there, straddling him like a little devil, doing things to his cock that had him rethinking his whole life. Nobody had ever riled him up like this. Nobody instinctively knew how to get him off this quickly. Nobody, but you. 

Mark was looking at you with a certain darkness when he somehow summoned enough willpower to ask, “Don’t finish me yet. Please.”

You came up for air, but obeyed his request. You were well aware that you could finish him both ways, but there was no way of knowing how much time you had left before something inevitably demanded your attention, and you wanted to ride him so badly it made your head spin. 

Mark could finally breathe, but he should’ve known that it would’ve been short-lived. You didn’t waste a second to grab his cock and mount him, slowly but certainly sinking down to take it all. 

Your wet walls were quick to clamp down on his thick cock, drawing a deep, low swear out of Mark’s lips. Your nails gripped his shoulders for purchase, eyes winced closed, taking a minute to relish in the feeling of being full again contentedly. 

“Mark,” you whimpered, feeling yourself throb and tighten. You could’ve cried at the relief, so thrilled to be as close to Mark as your bodies could physically be again, and selfishly still aching for more. 

Mark blinked through the haze in his mind that you had single-handedly constructed, thrown back into the mist the second he heard you call out his name. His eyes closed, mind flickering with images of you, recalling all of those times you rode the soul out of his dick. 

You were an ethereal seductress, Mark was convinced, deceptively leading him to peril, rendering him helpless at the mercy of your enchanting charms. Your body did unspeakable things to him. With how tight you were around his cock, Mark would follow you to his demise. 

Was it fucked up to have sex while people were dying all around you? Yes. But that’s what you and Mark were. Two fucked up kids who never got healing.  

You felt healed when you were with each other, stripped to your truest forms, without fear of judgment. Mark taught you how to let go. You taught Mark how to let himself be loved. 

At least you made up before you fucked. In your opinion? That was progress. 

“Fuck, you ride me so good. I swear, you’re the best I’ve ever had,” Mark said, obsessed with your every motion as you rocked your hips down onto his cock, resuscitating all of those carnal sensations you woke up inside his soul. 

The best I’ve ever had. Your mind was spiraling, faint from the heat burning your bodies up a thousand degrees hotter. Your body was built to take him, or at least it felt that way. Like the satisfaction you got from each other could only exist between the two of you. 

Again, you grabbed Mark by his tie, pulling him in for another heart-stopping kiss. There was no hesitation. He kissed you back devilishly, getting a hold of your waist tightly, sucking on your tongue without bothering to be clean or slow about it. 

You could kiss Mark until the day you died. You never wanted to forget how he tasted in your mouth. How he felt pressed flush against your semi-naked skin, your soft lips. How he looked at you like you were the only woman he’d ever loved, ruined for any other girl.

Mark wanted to complain when you parted from his lips, but suddenly they were on his neck and he sensed a shiver run down his spine, shock and pleasure taking the sound before it dared to leave his mouth. Your teeth grazed his collarbone, finding his pulse and sucking at it. 

You watched Mark melt on the spot and giggled. Your friends and his friends were definitely going to clock the bright red marks on his throat, but neither of you could bring yourselves to care. If you wanted to suck and nibble at his neck, then by all means, Mark would let you do whatever you wanted. 

Mark’s guttural groans were your greatest vice, making you noticeably throb around him, which thus only yanked a mouth-watering hiss out of his lips. He was looking at you through fluttering eyes, the corners of his vision dark and reeling, watching you ruin him from below. 

To be fair, you already ruined him. All those days Mark spent waiting for you, waiting to hold you, were days of complete and total annihilation. Not only the ones after the breakup, but before it. Those days where he only watched you from afar, dwelling on you. Pining for you. 

You separated from his neck to say, “God fucking damn. I love your dick. I love the way you feel inside me.”

As if Mark wasn’t already fighting off his looking orgasm. “Yeah?”

“No one will ever feel as good as you. I just wanna keep you close to me like this, Mark. Forever. I don’t want anything to come between us ever again and I won’t let it.”

“Me, too,” Mark wheezed, his breaths barely enough to keep him alive, though he didn’t mind it because he had you. You were on top of him, killing him softly and giving him life all at the same time, and it was more than he could handle. 

You could tell from his tone of voice that he was dangling over the edge and was attempting to stave off his impending orgasm, holding himself at bay. Mark didn’t want this to end so soon. You just came back into his life and he wasn’t keen on letting go of those endorphins. 

It wasn’t like you were far from release yourself. You couldn’t resist it, not when Mark kept making those sexy fucking sounds and your bodies were exchanging warmth. You couldn’t wait to take him to bed properly, bones tensing with the very desire to do things to him that you sadly couldn’t do here. 

Mark felt the same way. He wished your clothes were completely off, but this would have to suffice for now and that was fine. This was enough to kill any man. Your soft sighs as you rolled your perfect hips, your bodies skin to skin, directly absorbing everything you did to each other. 

You were too good to be true, as Mark said. He oftentimes thought he was dreaming. It was unbelievable that a girl of your caliber could love him through each of his many flaws and proudly stake her claim to him, and in a way, that was what you were doing now. Telling the whole universe that you were Mark’s and you didn’t give a fuck who saw. 

Mark’s eyes tightened closed. You were making short work of him and he was minutes away from coming undone. Maybe seconds. 

Taking one look at you Mark was both relieved and shattered out of his goddamn mind. For one, you were obviously also standing at the very threshold of climax, though he could’ve pieced that together from how vigorously you were riding him. To say the least. 

But for two, you looked bewitching as hell with your face tensed in pleasure, and it was making the blood rush to Mark’s cock. 

“Fuck. Shit. Fuck,” Mark cursed, because they were the only words that would come to his head, other than the occasional, “Jesus Christ.” It was safe to say that you had him right where you wanted him; so far over the edge that there was no returning. No going back. 

You moaned his name, preparing to take him there. Mark was already gone. He blew his long blond hair out of his face so that he could take a better look at you, going to town like no other before you. 

Mark hoped that you wouldn’t finish him earlier than he needed, that you wouldn’t pull out all of your priceless tricks, but he would’ve been naive to truly believe that you would let him off that easily. No, you wanted to wreck him thoroughly. The same way that he had wrecked you. 

At long last it was time to reap what he’d sowed. And you absolutely did not intend to show him any mercy. You wanted to see him at his worst. 

Finally, you leaned into Mark’s ear like he feared that you would, whispering in the velvetest voice you could, “Come on, baby. I know that you’re close. Don’t you wanna finish inside me?”

You hit the jackpot. Mark’s brain faltered at the thought of releasing his load inches deep inside of you, imagining the sated noise that you would make when you sensed him empty his balls inside of you. “Fuck.” The temptation burned hotter than before, sending tingles through his limbs. 

“I’m gonna cum,” you told Mark in a shockingly level voice, though he could still hear a slight tremble in your tone. “And I want you to cum with me. Please?”

Mark bobbed his head. You were so deep in his head that he would do whatever you wanted, no matter how insane the request. Plus that sweet tone you were using on him was getting under his skin, making his face strain. 

You quickened your pace, pulling out all of the stops to get him to finish, knowing he was weak and defenseless against your methods. Mark started to shudder and it became obvious that his fight was over. It was a telltale hint. You were going to get him off. 

And then it hit him. It sped into him like a semi-truck on the interstate, a head-on collision that burst into an uncontrollable path of fire, setting him off. Mark cursed in the lowest tone he could make as he finally orgasmed, a steadfast grip on your hips. 

His hips bucked up into yours as he rode out his high, releasing every drop of semen into your hot vice-like pussy. You moaned like he knew you  would at the sensation, trembling with your second release, nails digging into his shoulders that were (thank fuck) safeguarded by his suit. 

After all was said and done, you collapsed onto his chest, panting for breath. Mark took a few blinks to try and clear the misty look out of his eyes. They were dark and soulless, thanks to you. For half a minute, he swore he couldn’t barely see a damn thing. 

Neither of you wanted to move for the longest time. You desperately wanted to remain there in Mark’s arms and he was content with just holding you there. Though in favor of looking presentable lest somebody caught you, you forced yourself to come up off his softening cock, grabbing a pool towel to clean up your mess. 

Mark stubbornly fixed his clothes, though with the look on his face, all you could liken him to was a heartbroken puppy that nobody wanted to play with. “Dude. It’s already over.”

You checked your phone and chuckled, “Mark, it’s been like an hour.”

Right as you were about to set your phone back down on the poolside table, it vibrated in your hand, your screen flashing brightly. You glanced at it again, noticing a message from Johnny. Living room. Now. 

You noticed Mark’s phone had also pinged when you flitted your gaze to him. “Johnny?”

“Yup,” Mark replied, suspicious. “What do you think? Set up?”

You huffed, “A hell of a smart one. Even if it is, we’ve got to go check it out.”

“Yeah, but I just wanna go home with you,” Mark grumbled under his breath. 

You frowned, patting his back. This night would be over eventually, whether the daylight came first or Johnny ceasing it brought it on. 

Mark stepped back, letting you tug your dress back down. You were wearing your thinking face again so it came to him as no shock when you asked, “Who do you think did it?”

“I don’t know. We’re all capable of the unspeakable.”

“That’s what scares me,” you whispered. 

Mark’s lips made a line. 

The two of you grabbed your weapons, tucking them back into their hiding spots. After making sure you looked presentable, you and Mark emerged from the pool area, not bothering to look like you weren’t together or you still loathed each other. 

You loved Mark and Mark loved you. Why should you hide? 

To your misfortune, you and Mark were the last to arrive, which inevitably gathered unwanted attention. Your attention, however, was on the gash on Jeno’s arm, and you came up to him to ask fretfully, “What the hell happened?”

“While you and Mark were obviously busy making babies, somebody attacked Jeno. At least we know it wasn’t you two,” Haechan said, the perfect balance of sweetness and venom in his tone. 

Johnny glared, but continued, “That, and I noticed something from my case was missing. My mother’s necklace was stolen.”

You and Mark knowingly glanced at each other. It was you that said, “Well, I’m not saying she did it, but Chungha’s been paying very close attention to your case lately.”

Jeno hissed, “Is that what you’re worried about right now? I need a doctor! Johnny, you can’t possibly think we’re staying here all fucking night so that you can play Benoit Blanc.”

“First of all, I didn’t steal anything. If I wanted something, I would just ask. But your mother’s necklace? Johnny, I’m your friend,” Chungha replied as if it was the most absurd accusation ever. 

Johnny hadn’t smiled in so long it was starting to become terrifying. And you honestly couldn’t blame him. First somebody tried to kill him, and now his dead mother’s necklace was stolen? You’d go ballistic, but Johnny was relatively level when he said, “I consider you all my friends. And yet one of you tried to shoot me dead.”

Chunga said nothing. Her lips were in a frown. 

“So we’re just going to ignore me?” Jeno asked bitterly. 

“It’s a light gash, not a bullet wound. If you don’t get an infection, you will be fine,” Jaehyun told him coolly. 

Jeno grumbled something under his breath incoherently. 

You patted his back compassionately. There was a lot going on and it was hard to divide your attention between Jeno’s cut and Johnny’s stolen items. “I don’t understand the purpose of this meeting. Awareness? What are we doing to figure out who’s behind all this bullshit?”

Jeno hummed in agreement. 

“I don’t understand the purpose of these parties,” Haechan huffed exasperatedly. “Nevermind. Yes, I do. I know exactly why we come together every fucking year. We don’t see each other to ‘keep the peace’ or ‘remember Doyoung.’ We do it to forget. Forget what happened.”

Johnny opened his mouth to say something, but Haechan didn’t let him. And for once, you weren’t complaining. 

Haechan glanced at Johnny’s glaring face and said, “Don’t look at me like that, man. We’ve all been thinking it. I’m just the only one with enough courage to admit it. We all committed a sin. Now that we have our fancy public lives, we wanna make sure the truth stays dead and buried.”

You glanced to your feet as Haechan went on this little tangent of his. It was supposed to make you uncomfortable. How could you live comfortably with what you’d done?

"Each of you come here to save your own fucking asses, because if the media finds out that you're killers, it makes Mom and Dad look bad. That's it. That's the purpose," he ranted, ending his tirade bluntly. 

Well, he sure didn't beat around the bush. But that was the Haechan that you'd always known, confident and outspoken. To his right, Yuta was standing there, nodding along at everything he said in approval.

Jeno clapped his hands together. "You know what? I can't stand this guy, but round of applause. He's right."

You couldn’t argue even if you’d wanted to. After graduation, the group was indefinitely separated into pieces, but the eight of you agreed to never speak of what happened again. Of course, all of you went on to have successful careers, mostly because of who your parents were. 

Mark was the only exception. Your relationship wasn’t only private to your friends, but to the whole world. And for a weird reason. In spite of his affluence, your mother would have a heart attack if she knew you were dating somebody that wasn’t born into his wealth. 

Once upon a time, Mark Lee was a regular boy from Toronto. Somebody you vouched for and let into your circle, assuring him your friends weren’t just stuck-up rich kids. And he happened to make a killing doing something he loved. 

You wished you could say the same. 

Johnny said nothing for a long time, standing there with his hands posed behind his frame, which made you question him. It made you recall what Jeno had told you in that elevator a couple of hours earlier. People always look at the guy with his hands dirty. No one ever suspects the guy with his hands behind his back.

You glanced at the boy you were holding. Jeno noticed, peering back at you, but there was something different about his stare. Like there was something paining him. Then again, he did take a knife to one of his arms. 

Your gaze flitted back to Johnny. But how could he be guilty? It would’ve taken an insane amount of self-assurance to think that he’d pull a stunt like this off. And Johnny had plenty, but it wasn’t in his nature. Instinctively, he was a protector. It was this man’s natural instinct to defend what he loved with his life. 

Johnny leaving Yuta in that shack to search for a weapon wasn’t the whole tale. He left him there, but the weapon he found was the same one he used to kill your tormentor. This man risked his own life to put an end to the most traumatic night of your lives. Like that, the fight was over. 

You narrowed your eyes. Somebody here was guilty. But it wasn’t Johnny.

“You’re all dismissed,” Johnny said after a long pause. 

There was something recognizably off in Johnny’s tone, but you didn’t get the chance to ask questions, because Mark tugged you away from Jeno and led you down the hallway for all to see. 

“Dude, what the hell?” you screeched. 

Mark put his finger on his lips and said, “Somebody sliced up Jeno and I think that same person is framing Chungha.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking,” you huffed, rubbing your head. “I hope it wasn’t Haechan. He’s such a cancer.”

“Actually, he’s a Gemini.”

“That’s not…,” you trailed. “Nevermind. I love you, Mark.”

Mark still wasn’t used to hearing those words leaving your mouth again and instinctively he drew you into him, kissing you against the closest fucking wall with all of the affection within his very bones. 

You were so happy that you forgot you were even there. That danger and death were sputtering and crepitating all around you, because none of it seemed to matter when you were with Mark. 

“You didn’t tell me you two were back together.” 

Jeno’s voice startled you back into brutal reality. You would recognize it anywhere, but the ferocity in it was foreign. And you quickly noticed the gun in his hand. 

Mark tensed, but hid you behind him. He went to draw his own weapon, but Jeno threatened, “Any sudden moves and I’ll shoot.”

Your heart was racing. Fear coursed through your veins, but it was washed over by unadulterated anger. You broke out of Mark’s grasp, hissing, “What is this?”

“Baby, don’t,” Mark told you. There was worry in his eyes, but none for himself. All of it was for you. 

Jeno laughed, but you could tell that deep down he was bristling. “No, let her. She just doesn’t fucking listen, does she? I told her that you were bad luck, and here she is with her tongue down your throat. You can’t save somebody that doesn’t want to be saved, Mark.”

Mark was irritated, but said nothing. Not with a gun pointed squarely at your chest. 

It was overwhelmingly obvious now that Mark and his friends had been right about Jeno, but you hadn’t realized until now, when it was far too late. “You’ve been jealous this whole time?”

“Everybody else noticed that I was in love with you,” Jeno said with total vitriol. “Never you. You’re too busy sulking over Mark to pay me a lick of fucking attention.”

If it weren’t for the weapon glaring you down, you would’ve been tempted to give him a piece of your goddamn mind. The sting of the betrayal sitting in your gut numbed you to most of your fear, but not all of it. 

An irrational, heartbroken man that felt entitled to your affection holding a gun? There was no telling what he would decide to do. 

Jeno was spiraling and it was obvious. He was at the end of his tether which made him all the more dangerous, because that meant anything was fair game. “You know, I thought I took care of us. I thought that having Doyoung out of the picture would give you no choice but to look at me, but I was wrong. First it was Johnny. Then, it was Mark. It's like I wasn't even an option.”

Fighting back the incoming threat of tears, you shook your head and tried to keep your voice level, “You killed Doyoung so that you could have me?”

Jeno answered smartly, “Nah. That was all you, babe. But I would’ve done it. I would’ve done anything for us.”

Mark wanted to pull you out of harm’s way, but Jeno cocking his gun at him made him still. Never in his life had he felt so helpless. His heart was thudding so violently, twisting in his chest, because the girl he loved was in danger and he couldn’t do a damn thing to help her. 

You couldn’t tell if he was addressing you or Mark when he said, “Love is a weakness. You want to, but you don’t want to. Your brain’s telling you this, but your heart’s telling you that. Who do you listen to? What’s good and what’s bad?”

Your head was spinning. Your muscles were tensing with the overpowering urge to attack, as were Mark’s, but you knew Jeno was a threat. You coaxed sweetly, “Jeno, put the gun down. You and I, we’re friends. We can talk this out like we always have.”

That only made Jeno’s rage worse and he snapped, “That right there is your fucking problem. You think I’m stupid. Don’t you know I can tell when you’re lying to me?”

You heaved a breath. If it weren’t for Mark’s body still pressed so closely to yours, you probably would’ve panicked. 

Jeno was mercurial in his feelings, switching from resentful to indifferent, to petulant like a newborn child. His voice was wounded as he confessed, “I’ve spent so long wishing that I could have you there with me. And every time it feels like I get close, there’s another guy. I’m back where I started. It’s always one step forward and three steps back with you.”

You shook your head, slipping your fingers through Mark’s. “What’s your endgame then, Jeno? You know I’ll never be yours.”

“I know,” Jeno said, glaring as his eyes dropped to your intertwined hands. “And that’s why if I can’t have you, nobody will.”

There was a loud crackling in the air, so loud your ears started to ring, but you thought it was out of shock. 

It was over before it even started. Mark shoved you out of the way, sending you barreling to the ground just in time for the gunshot to miss you, but pierce him through the shoulder. 

Jeno wasn’t none too pleased about the bullet missing his ultimate target, but because he’d already gotten started, there was no way that he was stopping anytime soon. The second he raised his hand to fire another bullet, a second shot echoed out behind his frame. 

You gasped when Jeno collapsed, a pool of blood peeking out from under him, but you crawled over to the body crouched beside him and shrieked, “Mark!”

Mark was leaning against the wall, taking inhale after exhale. You tried to reserve panic for later, taking off Mark’s coat and applying pressure to the wound. His eyes winced closed and he hissed, “Fuck! That hurts.”

“I know, baby. I know. But we’ve gotta stop the bleeding,” you replied, vision blurring from tears. You hoped to god the bullet missed his nerves. 

Jaehyun came rushing over as Johnny looked over Jeno’s body, making certain that he was no longer a threat. He took his gun and said to Jaehyun, “Call emergency services.”

Jaehyun bobbed his head, pulling his phone out of his pocket immediately and calling a number he had on speed dial. 

“Keep the pressure on him. I know it doesn’t look that serious in the movies, but a shoulder wound can kill him,” Johnny told you, intent on sitting there until an ambulance arrived. 

In the corner of your eye, you noticed him pull a chain from Jeno’s coat and mumble something under his breath. 

You briefly lifted one hand off Mark’s shoulder to wipe a tear away. Being with Mark again blinded you, tricking you into thinking that you’d finally be happy solely because you had Mark back, but this burst your bubble. It’d never be over. Days of living in unbroken fear would never stop. The internal warring would never end. It was a constant. 

“I hate that sound,” you mumbled under your breath. 

Mark’s voice was quiet, but he pressed his other hand to your forearm to let you know he was still there. “What sound?”

An invisible icy breeze crept over your shoulders, making you shudder as you replied, “Gunshots.”

“Then, we’ll go somewhere we’ll never have to hear them again. It’ll be just you and me. Maybe a family, if you want one.”

“I’d like that,” you whispered.

Mark smiled as wide as he could, squeezing your forearm. 

“And then what happened?” Maxine asked. 

Mark, holding your six-year-old daughter in his lap, answered, “I went to the hospital. Your mommy rode with me in the back of an ambulance.”

Turning the corner to your bedroom with cups of hot cocoa in your hands, you threw your husband a look and asked, “Is it a good idea to be telling our children about this, Mark?”

August swiftly begged, “Wait no. We want to hear the rest of the story about how Dad got his scar. Right, Maxi?”

Maxine bobbed her head. “Mommy, please?”

Mark’s bottom lip protruded, mimicking the cute pouts and puppy eyes of your shared children. “Please, Mama?”

You playfully rolled your eyes at your husband’s behavior, but he and your kids were too damn irresistible. “Oh, what the heck. Okay. Fine. Go on.”

Maxine stood on her father’s thighs, dancing excitedly in celebration. Mark watched her fondly, but kept a close eye to make sure she didn’t fall. August, on the other hand, simply smiled. He’d always been curious about you and his father’s life endeavors. 

You passed cups of hot cocoa to your two kids, both of whom gave you a sweet, “Thank you.”

August took a sip and asked, “So, what happened at the hospital?”

“I had to get a surgery on my shoulder,” Mark explained. “When I woke up and I could keep my eyes open for longer than a few minutes at a time, it wasn’t Christmas eve anymore. It was New Years.”

You bobbed your head. “I spent Christmas with your father in that hospital. I was supposed to go home to have dinner with my parents and a bunch of shareholders, but I couldn’t leave his side. Especially not without knowing if he was okay.”

The only time you left was when you literally had no other option. Bathroom breaks or the doctors kindly asking for you to leave. The others occasionally came to give him a visit as well, but as long as Mark was there, that hospital was your new home. 

Their company meant a lot back then. It helped not to be too lonely there from time to time. You half expected a huge, ‘I told you so’ or something from all of Mark’s friends, but they were surprisingly sympathetic. 

Imagine Mark’s surprise when he woke up for good and you told him that Haechan had even hugged you. 

Maxine’s eyes winced closed. “Ow! That’s hot,” she exclaimed, setting her mug on the nightstand. 

“Careful, sweetie. You’ll burn yourself,” Mark said, eyes flickering with care. 

Your lips curled into a grin. You liked watching Mark sometimes, like you weren’t even there. Here and there, you would peek around the corner after coming home, listening to the sounds of your husband fathering your kids. He was so attentive and patient with them. It meant everything to know your babies were in good hands. 

Mark showed Maxine how to blow her hot cocoa and she mimicked his actions with cautious sips, demanding politely in between, “Keep talking. I wanna hear the rest of the story. Please?”

You chuckled. This little girl would follow up the most aggressive demand with a sweet-sounding ‘please?’

“Your mommy had to enlighten me on what happened after I went to the hospital, because I was too out of it to see the mystery unfold in real time,” Mark replied. 

You nodded your head. You still remembered sitting there beside that hospital bed, ceaseless beeping fading into background noise after enough hours spent basically alone. You’d told Mark, “He tried to kill Johnny to throw off whatever investigation succeeded the shooting.”

Mark had blinked, processing. Thinking took entirely too much strength hooked to whatever equipment was keeping him alive in that damn hospital. “What about Jodie?”

“Jodie was collateral damage, maybe a surrogate. I was obviously the actual object of his rage. His endgame. It gives me chills, thinking about how he smiled in my face when he knew he wasn’t gonna leave that party till he or I was dead.”

The little flashback made you fight a sigh. People had betrayed you before, but none like that. You banished the thoughts away and kept entertaining your kids. Jeno was gone. In hell somewhere, hopefully. 

As you snuggled under the blankets beside your son, he questioned curiously, “Who stabbed Jeno?”

“The medical examiner looked at him. She said the wound was obviously self-inflicted to a trained eye,” you replied with a snicker. At first, you were outraged. Nowadays, all you could do was laugh. 

You weren’t even slightly worried about your kids comprehension skills as you regaled them on that ever so wonderful time in your life. Your kids were brilliant. Maybe it was all those books they liked to read, but you could have the most advanced back-and-forth conversation with those two and they would understand every single word. Sometimes it was frightening. 

“And to think, he had such a fit over an injury he made himself,” Mark added, shaking his head in astonishment. 

The thought made you want to roll your eyes, but another one made you want to burst into laughter. “God, do you remember his face when Jaehyun told him that he’d be fine? I think he and Johnny suspected Jeno was the killer.”

Maxine was beaming from ear to ear. “Uncle Johnny is so cool. Is he still coming over next weekend?”

You bobbed your head. “Yup. He said he has a surprise for you. And before you ask, I’m not telling.”

Maxine pouted. “Please?”

“Nope. Your cute tricks won’t work on me this time. I fortunately value my life and Uncle Johnny will kill me if I tell you,” you replied, crossing your arms. 

Maxine sighed sadly. You hated it when she did that. It made you want to give her the entire universe.  

Fortunately, Maxine forgot rather quickly, because she whipped around and asked her father, “Daddy, how long did it take you to heal?”

“I was all better the next day,” Mark lied through his teeth. 

You deadpanned, “He’s lying. He was in the hospital for a week and it took three months before he was even slightly normal again.”

Then, you moved here. Jaehyun and Chungha came over to help you with interior design. Imagine your shock when you found out the reason they were suspiciously walking around Johnny’s penthouse was because they were sneaking around to kiss and hook up. Apparently, they were taking a page out of your book. 

You glanced at the alarm clock on your nightstand. Noticing that it read eleven o’clock, you said enthusiastically, “Alright, kids. Who’s ready to open up their Christmas presents?”

There was a loud chorus of, “Me!” Your kids started to jump up and down on your bed in excitement, nearly crushing your legs, exactly as they had done when they woke you and your husband up a couple of hours ago. 

Mark chimed in, “First one there gets to open up their biggest present first.”

Immediately, Maxine and August hopped off your bed, racing each other to the living room as quickly as possible before the other could get there. 

You couldn’t help but giggle. Never in a billion years did you imagine having this future with Mark, but you were endlessly grateful. “Merry Christmas, love of my life.”

Mark leaned in to kiss your cheek. “Merry Christmas, baby. I’ve got a little surprise gift for you later.”

“Oh?”

Mark snickered at the mischief on your face. “It’s not what you’re thinking.”

“How do you know what I’m thinking?”

“Because you get that little look on your face,” Mark replied with a sly grin. 

You shook your head, but you were still smiling. “Okay. If it’s not that, then what is it?”

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

“Okay, fine. Have it your way. I don’t care,” you groaned. 

Mark was sporting the biggest smile ever. For what, you had absolutely no clue, until he pulled you for another kiss and confessed, “I’m so glad we made up that one Christmas.”

Your skin came alive against his. Your whole body was filled with bliss and wonder. You laid your head on his chest, feeling his heart race. “Me too, baby.”

[hbdttg]

Part 1 / tag list below the cut

“I’m quitting,” Eddie declares, “I’m out. Call me a tree, ‘cause I’m leaving. Call me a banana, ‘cause I’m splitting. T-t-t-t-that’s all, folks!” he adds, doing his best impression of Porky Pig’s signature stammering.

Chrissy’s laser focus doesn’t stray from her monitor, even when Eddie bodily throws himself into the chair across her desk with a long, strangled groan. Wordlessly, she raises her left index finger at him in a silencing gesture. With her brows furrowed in concentration, she drags her mouse around on its pad and double-clicks something on her screen before nodding decisively to herself. After another few clicks, she finally lowers her finger, raises her eyes, and meets Eddie’s gaze.

“Would you mind grabbing what I just printed? Please?” she asks, smiling at him imploringly.

Chrissy could ask Eddie to bleach his hair and shave off an eyebrow and he’d do it. She’s actually who he has to thank for landing such a cushy job with HHH—a referral from a trusted associate like her goes a long way in a place like this.

And despite Eddie’s many complaints about becoming a corporate sellout, he can’t deny that it certainly has its perks. The office is only a ten-minute commute from his apartment, the compensation agreement he signed amounted to more money than his last two jobs combined, his benefits package is frankly ridiculous, and he gets to work with one of his best friends in the world. Overall, not a bad gig.

Even so, he makes a show of sighing, loud and longsuffering, before doing as Chrissy asks, leaving her office to grab her job off the printer. Eddie knows she works in HR and some of her stuff can get pretty confidential, so he doesn’t even try to skim the contents of the page as he walks it back over to her.

“Here,” he says, thrusting the paper at Chrissy facedown.

“Thanks!” she says. She makes no moves to take it from him. “That’s for you, actually.”

Curious, Eddie takes the paper back and flips it over. In the center of the page is a graphic of safety sign one might find in a cartoon factory, though Chrissy had edited the original from “[___] Days Since Last Accident” to “[___] Days Since Eddie Last Threatened to Quit His Job”. There’s a big red zero in the counter box.

Eddie tries to glower down at Chrissy, but it’s sort of hard to maintain when she bursts into laughter. It’s been years, but the sound of Chrissy laughing like this, all bright and breathless and unrestrained, never fails to transport him back to his (third) senior year of high school, when they first became friends over a failed drug deal.

“Don’t be cute,” Eddie says with a laughable lack of authority, dropping heavily back down into the chair.

“Do you know who you’re talking to?” Chrissy counters, brow raised archly.

Eddie rolls his eyes, crumpling the page into a ball and lobbing it in between them.

Chrissy lets the ball land harmlessly on her desk before sweeping it into the trashcan by her feet.  “Just so you know, I’ve had that saved on my desktop since Monday—and I haven’t had to edit the days count a single time.”

Eddie scoffs, but it’s hard to defend himself when this current visit marks the fifth day in a row he’s floundered into her office, vainly announcing his resignation. “Yeah, well,” he says weakly, “printing it seems like a gross misuse of company resources.”

“What are you going to do, report me?” Chrissy says with a mischievous sparkle in her eyes.

“Let me guess: you’re the one who receives those reports?” Eddie says dryly.

“Yep!” she says cheerfully. “Now, go on and tell me about your latest trainwreck of an interaction with Steve Harrington.”

“Christ, Chris!” Eddie hisses, leaping to his feet and immediately spinning around to check if anyone was around to hear her damning words. The coast is clear, luckily, but he still scrambles to shut her office door before falling back into his chair. “You can’t just go around saying his name all willy-nilly.”

“He’s not gonna suddenly appear if you say his name three times, Eddie. See, watch. Steve. Steve. St—”

“Don’t risk it!” Eddie squawks loudly, cutting her off.

“You’re an absolute mess,” she says through a laugh, shaking her head at him.

And well, Chrissy’s not wrong.

Eddie’s been a mess since Monday morning, when he unknowingly produced, directed, and starred in The Roast of Steve Harrington. He blames his shitty memory for forgetting what floor his new office was on—if he’d known he was sharing the elevator with someone he could have potentially worked with (let alone someone whose surname made up a third of the company name), he wouldn’t have opened his big, fat mouth in the first place.

When he finally gathered the courage to make it back down to the fifty-second floor and show his face at the HHH office, he kicked off his onboarding with Chrissy with a strangled, “I know it’s my first day and I technically just started ten minutes ago, but I quit. Thank you for the opportunity and good-bye forever.”

Chrissy, the traitor, spent a full five minutes laughing in his face over his shamefully recounted story before patting him twice on the head and informing him he wasn’t allowed to quit for at least six months. The overly saccharine tone of her voice alone told Eddie there was no room for argument there.

Still, that didn’t stop him from following her into her office after the all-hands meeting on Tuesday, all the while whining in her ear, “I can’t thrive in these conditions, Chrissy. Please, I beg of you—accept my sincere and humble resignation from this cursed hellscape.”

‘These conditions’ consisted of any rooms and/or conversations that contained Steve Harrington. Eddie hadn’t been expecting to see the guy doting over the catering when he walked into the conference room that afternoon, and he certainly wasn’t expecting his supervisor and trainer, Murray, to lead him over to Steve to introduce the two of them (though that was likely just an excuse to head straight for the sandwiches that were laid out for the meeting).

While Eddie choked on his own tongue trying to spit out some generic, inoffensive greeting, Steve merely watched him with an amused smirk before thrusting his hand out and offering a perfectly friendly “It’s nice to meet you, Eddie, I’m Steve”, as if Eddie didn’t have Steve’s name and face (and stupidly fit body—who the fuck looks that good in a pair of khakis?!) burnt into his memory from the day prior.

Afterward, Murray, who most assuredly did not have a filter of any kind, bluntly commented on Eddie’s awkwardness, then spent the next five minutes trying to determine if it was normal, strangers-meeting-for-the-first time awkwardness, or something more sensational. Eddie stubbornly kept his mouth shut until the meeting started.

Wednesday followed a similar pattern, with Eddie flouncing into Chrissy’s office with a dramatic “I choose to break my blood oath. At this point I’d welcome the sweet release of death if it meant I didn’t have to work here anymore.”

Chrissy just corrected him, patiently explaining that he was employed at-will, rather than by blood oath, and that if he left before his sixth month, she’d personally skin him alive. Eddie had to pause and weigh the pros and cons of being skinless. Surely it couldn’t be worse than his latest exchange with Steve—via email this time, mercifully.

He’d just learned how to field helpdesk tickets and received one from Steve Harrington himself. It was a simple enough software request ticket, so he assigned it to himself and replied with next steps, asking Steve for a code so he could remote into his computer and install the program.

Steve replied back, asking where he was supposed to find the code. It was an innocuous enough question, but then Eddie noticed something a little off about his email signature: his last name was bolded.

Eddie ignored it, assuming it was a stylistic choice—nothing to read into, surely—but then Steve sent another email shortly after to let him know to disregard his last email; he’d found the right app and was just waiting for it to generate a code. This time, Harrington was bolded and at least two sizes bigger than his first name.

Then, in Steve’s third email, sent not a minute later with the requested code, Harrington was bolded, two sizes bigger than his first name, and highlighted yellow—a tactic Chrissy found so hilarious that she had to shoo Eddie out of her office with tears in her eyes so that she could compose herself and actually get some work done.

Thursday was a blessed reprieve from Steve’s unique brand of psychological warfare, but Eddie still somehow managed to royally humiliate himself in front of him. After he slunk into her office and silently pushed a scribbled-on napkin across her desk—

Please accept this letter as my formal resignation from my position as Systems Analyst II at HHH, effective immediately. Effective yesterday. In fact, I’ll pay you back the entirety of my wages earned if we just forget I ever worked here.

—Chrissy tutted at him sympathetically before taking the napkin and reaching over to dab it at the large wet stain on his shirt.

He’d been walking back to his desk from the breakroom when he rounded a corner and bumped into Steve in the hallway. Literally bumped into, bodily contact and surprised yelps and everything. And it probably wouldn’t have been such a big deal, really, if not for the fact that he had a newly refilled mug of coffee in his hand.

“Eddie, oh my god, are you okay?”

No, Eddie wasn’t okay, because he just splashed himself with hot fucking coffee and now Steve Harrington was worriedly fussing over him and tentatively trying to mop up the liquid with his own fucking hands for some reason, and he was embarrassed (and a little turned on?) and he had to get the fuck out of there now.

“I’m okay, sorry, it’s fine—” he managed to squeak before whirling around and scurrying to the bathroom.

So yes, Eddie’s been an absolute mess the past few days, and today is no different.

…Actually, scratch that. Today is different. Today is worse.

“Okay, now spill,” Chrissy says. “What happened?”

With another drawn-out, pitiful groan, Eddie sinks down in his seat and lets his neck hang off the backrest, blinking up at the ceiling.

“Talk to me, Eds,” Chrissy says, concern starting to bleed into her voice. “If he’s actually bullying you, you can file a complaint. I have a form here somewhere.”

Eddie hears her open one of her desk drawers and reluctantly sits up. “He’s not bullying me, Mom,” he says with a huff. “We actually…we talked.”

“You talked?” Chrissy asks, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah, about the elevator. Buried the hatchet and everything. I said sorry, we laughed about it, it’s over and done with.” Eddie’s gaze darts around Chrissy’s desk, searching for something to distract him from the warm and fuzzy feeling growing in his stomach at the memory of their conversation.

“That’s great, I’m so proud of you!” Chrissy says cheerfully. “But wait, if you two are good now…”

Eddie doesn’t want her to ask what she’s about to ask, because the answer might be more embarrassing than all of his other Steve stories combined.

“Why are you still going on about quitting?”

Eddie drops his face into his hands, feeling totally and utterly pathetic. “Um, because I think I’m sort of, kind of, just a little bit…in love with him?”

-------------------------------------

tbh I didn’t think I’d be writing a second part, but if strangers on the internet validate me enough, I guess I’ll do anything~

Y’ALL. I’m blown away by the response to part one of this silly lil au. I didn’t reply to any of the lovely comments or tags, but please know if you engaged in any way (or even if you just read the fic and snorted a little through your nose at a bit you found funny) I love you with my entire heart and you’ve made my entire life.

[Now for the tag list, which I’ve never done before. Sorry if you didn’t actually want to be on here! Or, sorry if you’re stumbling upon this post on your own after asking to be tagged and I missed you oops.]

@messrs-weasley @n0-1-important @bornonthesavage @thing-a-ling @eddiemunsonswife @changenamelater @ispyblu @thesuninyaface

@invisibleflame812 @4nemo1egend @ikolanatari @mavernanche @songbird-garden @trashpocket @original-cypher @over7joyed 

@commonxsenss @justdyingontheinside @mojowitchcraft @maya-custodios-dionach @justmiiriam @imzadidragonfly @lillemilly @gay-stranger-things @child-of-cthulhu @bleedingoptimism @lemanzanabizarra @melaniehere91

@iswearitsjustme @silver-snaffles @csinnamon-fox @paint-music-with-me @epicsteddieficrecs @sweetcreaturetm @hxneyfarms @bossyknow-it-all @vecnuthy @stevethehairington @anything-thats-rock-and-roll @nburkhardt

@gayngerthings @patchworkgargoyle @violetsteve @henderdads @2btheanswertothequestion

[marzipanandminutiae]

You don’t like 1920s, 1940s AND 1950s fashion? Damn what did the mid-century do to you lol. K but seriously why not the 50s? The skirts had volume and were long-ish (at least in high fashion) and blouses were well structured and fitted and often had embroidery or embellishments.

Obviously I don't hate ALL of it; no era is a monolith. But there are a few things these eras have in common that I hate:

The rise of synthetic fabrics, AKA Using Plastic To Make Clothing. We're now at a place in terms of clothing where its actively harder and more expensive to wear natural fibers than to wear clothing made entirely of a substance that leaches into our water, holds odors, makes us sweat more, doesn't generally last as long or admit as much repair over time as most natural textiles, and just Kind of Sucks all around except for a few very specific purposes. Synthetics weren't invented in the 1920s, and natural fibers were common in all of these eras than they are today, but it was definitely increasing amounts of "BUY THESE NEW EXCITING PROGRESSIVE MODERN FABRICS!!!" throughout the early and mid-20th century. Which pisses me off in principle.

Less practical garments unless you lived a very specific lifestyle- namely, access to washing machines and a willingness to launder clothing after just one wear. Modern clothing is just not great unless you have access to very frequent washing (see above re: holding odors more than many natural fibers) and barrier garments to keep sweat away from them and stretch the time between washes aren't a thing anymore for most people. In the eras mentioned, everyone was getting so excited about machine laundry capabilities- and who wouldn't? washing machines ARE a huge boon! no denying that! -that they shifted away from modes of dress designed to minimize the necessity of laundering outer clothes. Except now, with concerns about the aforementioned microplastic leaching from washing machines draining into municipal sewers and less mendable clothing- washing is a huge strain on garments, and wears them out faster if you do it too often -we need to be getting back to the system of having fewer but higher quality garments and washing them less often. Except we can't. Because some idiot in the 1920s said "whoopee nobody will ever need linen combinations or chemises that actually serve a purpose anymore!" and the subsequent decades continued it.

The silhouettes generally do not spark joy for me. 1920s actively makes me fly into a rage and scream into pillows, with the exception of robes de style MAYBE. 1940s...well, let's say there was a reason the New Look was so popular, and that's "no more boxy utility wartime clothes." I will give 1940s the hair prize here, though, because I like it better than any other decade 1920s-50s. I actually DO like the New Look! ...but not its combination with the bullet bra; yikes. This is highly subjective.

Some of the textiles, patterns, colors, and common embellishments used are just not my thing. I don't go in for Bold And Graphic And Geometric anything, usually. With a very very small number of exceptions. Polka dots and florals are also not my thing (unless the florals are on a dark background). Plastic jewelry? Hard pass. ~Fun~ motifs like fruit (except pomegranates which have Goth Appeal), the poodles on a poodle skirt, household objects, transportation, etc? No thank you; reads too Kindergarten Teacher for me. Again, not universal or exclusive to those eras- witness the 1880s chicken-print dress I saw an illustration of once -but more prevalent, to my eyes.

Hair. 1920s bobs make most people's heads look blocks. I love a good bob, but those are not Good in my opinion. 1920s Up Hair is usually meant to mimic a bob. 1930s was only a little bit better. 1940s, as I've said, was skirting the line for me and marginally acceptable. 1950s took us right back to a solid Nope with either short poodle cuts or pageboys as the main options for adult women. An occasional chignon maybe, but nothing else that appeals to me personally. just not great all around.

All of these eras were holier-than-thou about the Victorians and their fashion, which I love, so I'm petty about it. Yes please tell me more about how your plastic bullet bras or potato sack dresses are inherently superior to Grandma's elegant and comfortable long wool skirts with the perfect center back pleating. Oh, the 1860s were the ugliest fashion period ever in your opinion? Fascinating. I am setting your car on fire.

I actually DO like the New Look...which is heavily inspired by mid-19th century fashion, so that's not really any big surprise. Still has the issues with synthetic materials and the end of practical undergarments, though. Also, why stop at mid-calf for everyday skirts? Instep Or Bust You Cowards.

[natasha-in-space]

✦ In The Dark ✦

Pairing: Suit!Saeran/gn!reader.

Summary: Power outages are never a pleasant hurdle to deal with, especially in a thunderstorm. Having to keep an eye on an annoying toy like you on top of that is a disaster waiting to happen. But Saeran is stubborn, and so are you.

Notes: 'Realizing you've reached the point of no return' promt for anon! Some heavy kissing and lots of conflicting feelings involved. You and Saeran have a rocky dynamic.

AO3 Link - 4k words.

Credit: dividers by @/saradika-graphics.

"For God's sake, will you just shut the hell up already!?" 

Saeran's voice rang out harshly, the high-pitched tone bouncing off the walls of your room and hurting his own ears with its volume. The deafening rumble of thunder rattling the entirety of Magenta to its very foundation right after felt almost like a wordless retaliation of Mother Nature herself in response to his outburst. He certainly interpreted it that way. Right now, it felt like everything was purposefully trying to get under his skin. And it was working. 

Despite his full intention of hopefully scaring you off enough to finally make you go silent on him, his voice came out way harsher than he intended. Which only added to Saeran's steadily growing restlessness and frustration as he turned away from you, raking a hand through his tousled hair for the upten time already, his fingers shaky and his knees weak. 

He never liked rainstorms, and he especially did not like thunderstorms. No matter how old he got and how strong he grew, one boom of thunder would instantly send his heart flying up into his throat, making it hard to breathe. He wanted to curl up into a tiny ball and slither away into some faraway dark corner where it's safe. And that's no way for the strongest member of Mint Eye to think or feel. 

Saeran hated rainstorms because they were a cruel reminder of a weakness he couldn't overcome, no matter how hard he tried. 

He never liked you, either. Not one bit. In fact, he despised you. You were a damn thorn in his side, nothing but stubborn and infuriating since day one of his introduction to you. Always having way too much to say and refusing to back down no matter how hard he pushed. It was like the two of you were always at each other's throats, bickering and fighting over the smallest of things. And, really, that would be fine with him. Hell, that would be great, actually. Saeran would love nothing more than to laugh straight in Ray's face the moment his precious innocent angel turned out to be a wolf in sheep's clothing. 

No, what he hated the most about you, was how, despite all your senseless squabbling with him, you were never truly cruel to him. You would throw his harsh words and insults right back into his face, but you never put him down. You would get smart with him for the sake of nothing but getting on his nerves, but you never kicked him when he was down. He couldn't understand you. How you could be so damn assertive and cocky without having to be cruel like him.

Much like rainstorms, you were a constant glaring reminder of his weaknesses. It goes without saying that putting the two together would leave him on edge, to say the least. 

So the fact that he was now pretty much stuck alone with you in the cramped space of your room for God knows how long? With nothing but your annoying presence, your petty comments, the stupidly pink colors of your room, and your maddening scent to keep him company?

To say that Saeran was in a sour mood would be like saying nothing at all.

Of course, no one was making him stay here. But he wasn't naive enough to let you out of his sight during a power outage. Like hell he would. He just knew you'd try to do something stupid and annoying, as you always do. Like escaping. Or making him look bad in front of the Savior on purpose as revenge for everything he put you through. Or sabotaging their paradise by seeking out that cursed liar that was like a cockroach you couldn't kill no matter how much you stomp on it with the heel of your boot. Just because you never tried doing any of that before didn't mean he would let his guard down for you. He knew you'd take advantage of that as soon as you could.

Not on his watch, you won't. He was going to sit right here with you and watch over your every move until he could continue to do so from his cameras like usual. Even if the sight of you was as irritating as a fly buzzing in front of the screen. 

Though what he truly hated the most about this entire predicament was how you somehow managed to make him look like the more anxious one between the two of you. 

Because he wasn't anxious.

Not one bit. 

And the booming sounds of thunder rumbling through Magenta had no effect on him. 

Nor was he on edge because of the storm outside throwing long branches of surrounding trees against your window with every gust of wind.

It was you.

It was always you.

Everything was your fault.

“-No, I will not shut up,” you grumbled, pulling him out of his angry spiral. Your arms were crossed over your chest defiantly as you huffed and shifted in the chair you were seated in, your eyes following his every move as he paced around your room like a lion in a cage. The chair creaked and groaned under your weight, the sound only irritating him further. A small part of him thought of stealing that damn chair from you and making you stand just for the sake of it, but that was way too childish even for him. At least he could see that it was kind of uncomfortable for you. The back wasn't tall enough to reach your shoulders correctly, making your back a bit stiff. Or maybe it was his presence making you tense up so much. He could live with that. Though, that self-assured look you were giving him was really getting on his nerves. “It’s not my fault you guys forgot to schedule a thunderstorm into your plans. And I'm not forcing you to stay here, either. So quit yelling at me already.”

Did you have to always talk back to him like that?

"Well, it's not my damn fault either,” he snapped back at you as he moved away from the wall he was currently leaning against, stomping up to your bed, a heavy sigh escaping his lungs, betraying the exhaustion he was feeling on the inside. God, he hated how soft and inviting that bed of yours looked. Like a forbidden fruit calling out for him to give in and try a taste of its promise of rest. He hated how you could snuggle up under those plush bedsheets comfortably while he was left to sleep, sitting at his desk for thirty minutes at most. Suffering from nightmares more often than not on top of that. So, he falls back onto your bed unceremoniously, feeling the soft material welcome his added weight as it dips under him.

He was only able to lie back for a minute, though, your scent quickly assaulting him stronger than ever before, making him get up again and start pacing around your room, agitation rolling off of him in waves. His irritability was increasing by the second, and you were the only one he could turn his anger towards. As you often were.

“But you're still pissing me off.”

“-Oh, I’m pissing you off, am I?” 

His head snapped in your direction, watching you stand up from your seat, crossing your arms again. Deep down, he knew he was being unfair to you, really. Of course he knew that. Saeran wasn't an idiot, nor was he naive. In a way, that was the point of it all. And he sure hoped you would finally break and prove him right. Give him something he could throw back into Ray's stupid face next time he whines about you being this devoted and perfect angel that cares for them in a way no one else did. 

That was just a load of bullshit.

So, he let you walk up to him, a heated glare to your eyes that rivaled his own. Some part of him was expecting you to hit him, his muscles tightening up under his tight suit like a coiled spring, fully ready on jerking away and covering his face in a movement that was way too familiar to him. Instead, you simply leaned towards him, backing him up against the wall until his back gently bumped against the smooth surface, your hands now resting on both sides of his arms, caging him in. Though, there was still a significant distance between the two of you. You weren't necessarily looking down at him, nor were you trying to make him shrink away from you. 

A big part of him wished you did.

“You’re the one who came here, Saeran. I told you I wouldn't do anything. You just never listen to me." Your annoyed voice practically hissed into his ear, your breath fanning across his skin in warm puffs of air, contrasting against the anxious chill overtaking his body. He suppressed a shiver. He figured it was a shiver of disgust. It must have been. He sneers, his nose scrunching up in displeasure as he returns your heated glare with one of his own, his shoulders squared and his chin raised up high, refusing to show any weakness. 

“What, and listen to you? Don't make me laugh." Saeran mocked, pushing back against you, his eyes narrowing with simmering frustration that was just waiting to spill free, like a bubbling cauldron slowly coming to a boil. He leaned in so he could be eye-to-eye with you, not being intimidated in the slightest. Because that's what you were doing to him, surely. Trying to intimidate him. Scare him off. Break him. Well, he wouldn't let you. He tilted his head to look at you, his gaze filled with a silent challenge. “Forgive me for not taking orders from someone who's only good enough to be a helpless prince/ss and a useless toy."

A cocky smirk pulled at the corners of his lips as another teasing comment flew off the tip of his tongue with ease, fully intent on getting under your skin and riling you up further. Although his tone was mocking, his body was tense, his palms sweaty as he balled his hands up into tight fists. You backing him into a wall with your face so close to his didn't help at all with the rising tension in his muscles whatsoever. If anything, it made it worse. 

He was struggling to gather his thoughts, which only made him feel even more angry. Both with you and himself. He was usually very in charge of himself when he was in front of the other believers, but having you here—being pressed right up against him like this—left him completely unprepared. He had to struggle to stop himself from staring at your lips, a notion that scared and confused him all the same.

Much to his frustration, however, your lips only tugged upwards with a slight smirk of your own in response to his attempts at getting back at you. The fact that he almost had to look up at you in order to even glare at you properly pissed him off quite a bit. He did not like feeling small. He wanted you to think that he was big and imposing. Not someone who could be backed into a corner and looked down at. But you kept him firmly against the wall, preventing him from walking away without you directly letting him. It was supposed to be the other way around. And, in a way, he recognized that this was not the first time you were like this. Only your roles were reversed. And now it was you making him feel smaller than he really was. 

As his head tilted back, your own leaned in even closer to him, the smirk on your face only growing bigger. He'd like to say that it was cruel and mocking, but it was really more playful and amused. Which wasn't much better, considering the circumstances.

“...You sure have a sharp tongue, I'll give you that.”

He was making a genuine effort to ignore you now. He really was, but he felt his control slipping through his fingers like sand as your face got so impossibly close to his. He shifted against you, his jaw locked in place as he stubbornly looked away from you now instead of holding your gaze, not wanting to give you the satisfaction of seeing him break. In part, because he was breaking. His breathing was starting to get a little labored as he tensed, his arms twitching with the need to either pull you closer and pin you against this damn wall to show you who's really in charge here or grab you by the waist and shove you away so that his heart stopped beating so impossibly heavy in his chest. He didn't know which one of the two he would choose when push comes to shove, and that indecisiveness was making him more anxious than he was willing to admit. 

“And you're acting like you're in charge, stupid toy. Again.” His retort wasn't nearly as sharp of a response as he was hoping for, but his brain was far too jumbled to come up with anything more coherent. 

Your smirk faded and a frustrated frown took its place. Despite his initial glee at your annoyance with him, he really didn’t like it when you challenged him or disrespected him like this. Then again, he didn't like you no matter what you did. The main reason your presence was so damn infuriating to him. You looked like you really wanted him to shut up. A sentiment that was mutual on his part. But before he could muster up some other cold remark to crush that spirit of yours, you suddenly placed one of your hands down on his hip without giving him much of a warning. His breath stuttered slightly in his throat, his fingers twitching at his sides as he looked down at your face, eyes widening. The force with which he was clenching his jaw was causing it to ache slightly, but he refused to relax.

What were you getting at here? And why did your touch feel like hot iron being pressed up into his side? Or was it his body that was suddenly far too warm for comfort?

What were you doing to him...? 

You leaned in even further until your face was almost level with his, your breath mixing with his and fanning against his skin gently. 

“...Watch it. Or I might just shut that sharp mouth of yours up myself.” Your voice lowered into a low whisper as you spoke, a quiet warning. Or a promise. He couldn't really tell. Being so close to you made it more difficult to think clearly. He opened his mouth to say something, to protest against your audacity to speak to him in such a bold manner, yet nothing but a shaky exhale came out. His mind felt too empty and full at the same time, his eyes subconsciously darting down to your lips for the second time. A notion that you definitely took notice of, judging by how intently those eyes of yours were watching him. When the thick silence between the two of you remained unbroken for another long minute, you continued, your thigh now gently and slowly sliding between his legs to rest your knee against the wall behind him, bringing your body that much closer to him. Your scent hit his nostrils like a hurricane that made his head spin. "Or maybe... that's what you want me to do...? To make you stop thinking for a while?" 

He knew you wanted him to shut up and let you win this. But he was not going to let you. And this ploy of yours, whatever it was, was bound to fail. So, he was quick to open his mouth to retort with some sort of insult that would hopefully put you in your place. That’s when he saw it in your eyes. A sort of 'screw it' look, one you'd get when you felt like you had nothing to lose. And then you leaned forward just a tiny bit further and took hold of his chin with your free hand, making him look at you directly. He was prevented from doing or saying anything more by you practically slamming your lips against his, making him gasp sharply against your mouth.

It killed any words he had on his tongue. It took Saeran a second to process what you were-

Oh.

It was like a switch got flipped off inside his head. One part of him was utterly stunned and lost. The last thing he expected was for you to go and kiss him. Without him prompting for it or you pleading for your sweet Ray to return. Was this what you meant when you said you were going to shut him up? He knew of screaming at someone or hitting them to do that, but kissing? There must be something seriously wrong with you. 

And what's worse is that you were not kissing him like you kissed Ray out in the garden. This was rougher, more fervent, and raw. This was a memory being created between him and you. Not a recreation of something that already happened. And Saeran did not know how to deal with that. How to accept that you were kissing him. As Saeran. The same Saeran that did everything he possibly could to make you break, to hurt you, to use you to feel strong and invisible. 

Your lips were warm and soft against him, even as you pressed them against him with more force than he expected. There was no pain in this action. He didn't know much, if anything, about kissing. What to do, or how to reciprocate. But a big part of him expected you to sink your teeth into his lip and draw blood. You didn't. You were simply brushing your lips against his, the hot touch making his blood boil in his veins. You didn't go any further than that, starting to pull back from him all too soon. Maybe because he just stood there, frozen as a statue.

He didn't want that. 

He didn't want to confront what you just did or what it meant. 

He didn't want to admit to himself that he wanted more—to explore what this connection between you would bring. A connection between him and you. Between Saeran and you. He refused to admit that he wanted to know what it feels like to be Saeran, and not a tool or a shield.

That's a wish he couldn't allow himself to fulfill. And in some backwards streak of desperation to avoid dealing with all these feelings that were about to swallow him whole, he refused to let this end.

He switches immediately, his hand moving to the back of your head as he pulled your body flush against his and chased after your lips before you could pull back from him completely. He didn't give his action much thought. It was clumsy and desperate, his movements making it crystal clear he had no idea what he was doing, teeth clashing together and lips smacking at an awkward angle. He hated that you had the upper hand on him even here. You seemed surprised by his rather intense reciprocation, a muffled noise of surprise escaping you, but you don't push him away. You kissed him back, your own hand raising to cup his cheek, and he did his best to follow your movements, copying your motions the best he could. 

His hand on the back of your head grabbed a fistful of your hair, tugging on it slightly, making you emit a brief hiss into his mouth, one that he hungrily swallowed, his heart left stuttering in his chest for a completely different reason from before. It made him feel alive. He wanted more of it. More of you.  His other hand found your thigh on a primal whim, and he grabbed at it absentmindedly, to which you lifted it up to wrap it around his waist, the increased closeness between you two making him shudder against you, something between a whine and a growl rumbling at the back of his throat. He was not thinking clearly at all; he just knew he wanted you to be as close to him as possible right now.

To make the deafening thundering of his heart against his ribcage draw out the roaring of the storm outside that kept him so on edge in the first place. To stop him from thinking. He wanted his head blissfully empty for once in his miserable existence.

Only you.

Your touch.

Your warmth.

Your smell.

You.

He pushed you backwards, breaking the kiss for just long enough to stumble you both to the bed, pushing you down onto your back without a word being spoken, and climbing on top of you immediately.

You managed a quiet grunt, your eyes widening as he climbed on top of you. Feeling your shared weight dip the soft blankets and bedsheets of the bed, he let out a small noise of protest as you wordlessly rest your palms against his chest, preventing him from diving for another kiss with you. Your lips were parted as you finally regained your breathing a bit. Whether that was from the kiss itself or the sheer emotional intensity of what this all meant for you both from then on, he didn't know. A soft, slightly shaky exhale escaped you both almost in unison, and he was now left to stare down at you as your chest rises and falls slowly. Your expression was a mix of surprise and desire as you looked up at him, stunned and mesmerized. And that... scared him. It scared him because he hadn't expected you to like being close with him like that. He wasn't Ray right now. He wasn't even trying to pretend to be Ray for you. He was just... Saeran. In all his messiness and ugliness. 

And, most of all, it scared him because it felt so goddamn good. Because your warmth made all the buzzing thoughts that were constantly screaming at him at the back of his own skull quiet down. You were crumbling his fragile facade into a thousand pieces. And you were simultaneously making him feel more at ease with that than he ever felt.

He definitely was not expecting you to be so bold, either. It goes without saying that his goal of making you terrified of him has failed rather spectacularly. 

Your hand found its way to his waist again, resting just over his hip. Surely you could feel just how thin and boney he was under this tight-fitting suit. The truth of him being far weaker than he let on. But you didn't grab at him, nor did you push him off. Your fingers just squeezed him enough for him to feel the heat from your palm seeping through the multiple layers of clothing, soothing his cold skin.

“...What happened to the snarky comments? Feeling a little speechless now, are we?” you flirted, breaking through the silence, your voice coming out in a breathless murmur. The hand on his hip moved and settled over his stomach, with your thumb tracing a small circle against him. He shivered, his breath hitching sharply.

He had a hard time overlooking just how good you looked sprawled beneath him like him. The sight alone was making his suit feel a bit hotter than it should. You looked almost ethereal like this. Nothing but the faint light from the window eluminating your features, an occasional flash of lightning giving him just the briefest of glimpses of you as a whole. Your lips parted just slightly, reddened in color from the heated kiss you've just shared with him, your cheeks a noticeably deeper shade than they were before. Your eyes half-lidded and twinkling as they looked back at him. Seeing him. Not Ray. Him. 

He made you look like this. 

Saeran swallowed, his hands shaking as they rested against the plush mattress on either side of your head. He knew, in that singular moment, as he tried his damnest to even out his breathing, that there was no coming back from this. You saw his weakness, and he did nothing against it. 

And he liked it. 

"You... I hate you," he muttered, his voice hoarse and shaky, barely audible over the sound of rain drumming against the window.

"No, you don't," you simply responded, your free hand reaching up to cup his cheek, your thumb swiping just under his eye. He grabbed at your hand, keeping it there. He did not argue with you.

"...Kiss me again." 

[ss-skyearn]

Ketamine

❝Are you floating again?❞

PAIRING : Lee Felix x female reader.

WORD COUNT : 4.6k.

GENRE : Smut, Angst, Fluff.

WARNINGS/CONTENT : Felix freckles appreciation, substance abuse (mentioned; not too graphic), I can't write him without glorifying his cunty voice so there's that.

SMUT WARNINGS : Soft dom!felix, sub!reader, praise, gentle dirty talk, choking that's more of just throat holding, size kink for like a second, unprotected intercourse, some of the hottest and most explicit shit I've written in forever 🔞

Seizing kisses. Skin hot to the touch. Burning mouths. Blood ready to boil over.

There's not much it takes to be riled up all over again, not when it's him in question.

Mind growing soft with a single touch, numb with a single caress, blacking out with a single press, you wish you had time enough to find out if he could someday anaesthetise you better than ketamine.

You're pretty sure of the answer regardless.

The floor buzzes beneath feet thumping to the music, disoriented, uncoordinated, moving along to a rhythm all together different, hazy minds conjuring up varying interpretations of the EDM pulsating through the crowded nightclub, swarms of bodies lost in a world far off from reality.

But you are focused on just one. The one who happens to be in your arms. Lost in a world you so wish to be a part of— come to think of it, maybe you are, for his hold on you, your waist tightens a measure, pulling you into his frame, all lithe figure and lean muscles, no damn given to the sweat running down your backs.

"Hey, pretty," he grins. Mischievous. Risqué. Indecorous.

"Hey, pretty," you echo. Capitulating. Yielding. Succumbing.

It's been far too long of this already.

Wrapping arms around the long neck that's entirely too unmarked for your liking, you lean forward, press your mouth to the sweaty skin of his earlobe, let out a confession, soft and sultry, "Care to help get the bead off my bracelet?"

He chuckles, pulls back enough to fix you with a look so deep you feel you're drowning, smirking as your eyes linger on his lips which he then licks, slowly, as if savouring his own taste, "That's one hell of a unique preposition," voice a striking undertone to the bass of the jazz infiltrating the club, you wish the ketamine had been a little stronger.

You shrug, the leer to your mouth unrelenting, "What can I say, I'm full of surprises."

"How many?"

"Why don't you find out?"

He laughs again, this one high pitched, leaking delight. The contrast baffles you— the low baritone to his voice when he commands it, the joyous shrill when he lets go. The itch to uncover its various pitches, vibrations and frequencies runs rampant, deep to the bones, the urge far from being tamable by now, and really, you hold no desire to pursue such fruitless a task.

You encircle your palm around his wrist, secure, enough to let him know of your intentions, and he does— well, he thinks he does.

You tug him along, him following willingly, and breeze past the turn to the rooms—

"Where are we—"

—to stop right in front of the round table, barely visible in the darkness engulfing the space, if not for the neon paints and brushes thrown astrew, the wooden surface marked with streaks of neon.

"Let me paint you," you breathe, looking straight into his eyes, expression unreadable.

He laughs again, this one deep and low, and you resist the shiver that's already threatening to move up your spine, "Huh, full of surprises indeed," he says in lieu of an answer.

You'll assume it's a yes.

So you put your palms flat on his shoulders, forcing him down on the chair in an unexpected display of impatience, and he squeaks, "I don't think it's allowed. Only the artist can use the paints—"

A finger to his lips, his mouth sealing shut, the almost immediate obedience a cause to your smile turning saccharine, "Don't you worry about that. Stay here."

You make your way over to the artists behind the counter, a few feet away from the workstation Felix is sat at, and true to form, make your way back to him with a stamp in your hand.

His eyes widen in intrigued surprise and you smile, wordlessly tugging his wrist and pressing the bottom of the stamp, it leaving a blue hued clover leaf on his pale skin, indicative of the liberty you're both now allowed of indulging in the wide variety of the UV paints decorating the table top.

"How did you manage that?"

You shrug again, amused at his bafflement, "I just don't like hearing no."

"Good thing I didn't say it, then," he says, alluding to the conversation you had the day prior, on the wet sand, by the shore, under the moonlight.

"Good thing you didn't," you agree with a grin.

The brush calls out to you, drawing you in like a magnet would an iron nail. You dip it in the neon green colour squirted onto the pallet from earlier, swirling till the bristles saturate with tincture.

The first press of the tip of the brush to his cheek causes him to gasp, the cold paint a bright contrast against his overheated skin, one you try to ease with the moulding of your lips to the opposite cheek, planting a loud, wet kiss.

He sighs at that, hand reaching forward to rest on your bare thigh, a silent appreciation to your display of affection.

You smile against his skin, taking it as the cue to continue, repeating the process over and over— meeting just the tip of the brush to the skin on one side of his face, brushing your lips to the side opposite.

By the time you're done with him, his cheekbones are dusted pink, lips parted to give way for silent, laboured breaths, chest heaving, both hands now gripping onto the flesh of your thighs.

"There you are," you reward his patience with a kiss to his slightly open mouth, knowing the effect the temperature play had on him.

"Done?"

"Yeah, just—"

"Is it done or not?"

"Yeah, it is, just—"

You don't get to complete the sentence, for the second it makes its way past your lips, he's already hauling you up and away from the metal stools, weaving the way around sweaty bodies a little too precisely given his dazed state, and you attempt to stop yourself from letting out the endeared chortle tickling your throat.

You fail.

The laugh is genuine, a rarity for you as of late, "Don't you want to see the design on your face?"

Grip on your wrist tightening, he mutters something incoherent— and impatient, if your ears don't fail you— and your laugh only augments, the flutter to your heart almost as genuine as one a long time love would elicit.

That's cause enough for the laugh to die out, and there it is again, the voice in your head, the gaping to your heart— what if you don't see it through, what if it isn't enough, what if all the beads to your bracelet are gone but it still doesn't amount to anything, what if, what if—

"What is it, angel?" his voice is gentle to a degree of surprise, only further confirming of your apprehension of the outcome to this idea, this stupid idea you once thought would be the answer to all that is wrong with you, the mindless proposition you let sweep you off your feet, the scheme no longer seeming likely to be met with a satiating ending, after all.

Is there a way for it to be? Is there really such a thing as a satiating ending?

The graze of fingers against your cheek is grounding, clementing, nurturing in a way it's not allowed to be, you're sure, but you lean into it all the same, the urge to be taken care of encompassing all else.

"Look at me," the taste of his Martini breath in your mouth is what lets you know of his sudden proximity, for your mind has long since lost the ability to pick up on the ongoings of your surrounding, doing the only thing it's good for lately— turning and turning, overthinking, not thinking, processing, comprehending, giving up, crying out to be shut down.

"Angel," the word is lost between your mouths, the Martini flavour so much more prominent now that you feel in it straight on your taste buds, and maybe it's your brain playing tricks that it so loves to, but you swear it tastes better on his tongue than it did on the sugar coated rim of the lowball glass; enough to render you dizzy with a wet contact lasting no more than a few seconds, something seven glasses of watered down alcohol couldn't achieve.

The touch ends before you've had the opportunity to savour it for what it was, and you find Felix looking down at you with so tender a look, you almost wish it didn't have to end like this, that maybe, just maybe, you would've stood a chance, had fate not been so cruel, "Are you floating again?"

You smile, a bearing you've taken to displaying on occasions where emotions fail you, where your feelings are too complicated to be picked apart and be presented with a singular expression, and it's only with years of conditioning that you've trained yourself to perfect it, the reality of it being unalike from the humorous stretch of lips not something anyone is able to pick up on— not that they care enough to anyway.

But he does.

He does pick up. He does care.

You almost believe it.

"Mm," you hum in place of an answer, neither confirming nor refuting, and much like it's always been, you assume there's that, an open ending, a loose offer to mark the end of this discussion, for surely no one is interested in actually knowing you, not now at least, even if they once did, not when it's this close.

But he doesn't.

He doesn't ignore it. He does care.

"I told you not to do that when you're with me."

"Couldn't help it," you despise it, you hate it; the wobble to your voice, the wetness to your tone, the perspiration already forming around your orbs, you hate it all.

He thumbs the tears yet to be shed, wipes them before they have a chance to taint your skin with a wet trail, "That's why I'm here, aren't I? So that you don't float away from me?"

"Then make me stay," you say, without thinking much of the ambiguity of that which you just uttered, and you wouldn't, not if he didn't suddenly look so stricken, "I-I mean—"

"I know, angel, I know what you mean," understanding to a fault, he'd make for a good partner your betraying mind tells you, for all the act of non-functioning it put forth, it certainly has no problem coming up with this particular notion.

Your hand has a mind of its own, reaching forward to trace the specks of neon green dusting his cheekbones, and it's like he suddenly remembers they are there at all, "What did you draw on my face anyway?"

The smirk you sport is more endeared than anything, but it's reason enough for him to cock up an eyebrow nonetheless, "Angel. What did you draw?" there it is, the low baritone, the bass so low. Chill. Arousing.

"Just made you look prettier," you shrug, as though the sentiment was at all possible. Lee Felix looked like a heart attack at the worst of times, bad for the weak of heart, lethal for the thrill-seekers. Gorgeous. Deadly.

"Come on," the tug to your wrist isn't as tight at it once was, but you don't, for once, think about the fact that your stalling might have dampened the urgency of the affair, for as much as you despise yourself for doing just that, you'd despise him even more for tending to your needs so sincerely when it wasn't his care to give in the first place.

So you don't think about it. You let yourself be swept up in the thump of the track, the jostle of the bodies as you make your way to God knows where, the security of his hand wrapped around your wrist, just a tad above the bracelet left with a lone bead, the last one. Bright green, almost the same as the paint decorating his face.

The door collides with your back, closing with the impact of your body, and you barely register the click of the automated lock, as your mind is otherwise occupied with a swollen mouth, soft tongue, sticky lips, all over your own.

He kisses you like he's consuming you, licks you like he's tasting you, bites into you like he's considering cannibalism.

How do you know? Because you feel the same. Or maybe you're projecting. Maybe. It's hard to think when he's pressed up against you like this, the perfect moor to grip on to, the desired anchor to your ever floating mind.

Hands on either side of your head, he parts from you, the reluctance written all over the lines of his face, popping open the buttons to his silk shirt with no small amount of ungrace.

"Fuck," he utters as the third button pushes back into the slit he just so tiringly worked it out of, hands slick with a nonexistent lubricant, for surely getting a simple button undone isn't as tedious a task as he's making it out to be, the booze in his system not withstanding.

The thought gets a laugh out of you, genuine and happy, and the lust brewing up in his orbs dims just a little as he catches your gaze, hands slipping from the cursed button to find purchase on your waist, "Help a pretty boy out?"

You snort even as you reach forward to oblige, "Full of ourselves, are we?"

"It's hard not to be when the sexiest girl just spent almost an hour painting my face," he chuckles, as self assured as ever.

Was that really a whole hour?

"Your horny was showing, babe," he winks, cheeky and all sorts of suggestive.

You swat at his arm, only half trying to escape his grip on you, the subsequent sigh of defeat more for show than anything.

"Speaking of," he pulls back only from the waist up, his hips very distractingly still pressed into yours, "what did you even do up there for all that long?"

As his eyes latch onto something on the bedside wall, you see the playfulness drain from his face, lips parting into a silent gasp, eyes the widest they are able to go, "Holy shit."

You turn your head to catch sight of his reflection in the mirror, the way his eyes glide over the constellation of the varying dots and sparkle-shaped neon face paint scattered across his face, carefully marked exactly over each of his freckles.

One of his hands snakes its way up to his face, fingers hovering over each spot as he maps out the path trailed by the paint, as if himself paying attention to the position of the beauty spots marking his skin, "You drew my freckles," he whispers, voice sounding far away, as if emerging from somewhere deep under the water, muffled by the current of the flow, suppressed under the weight of the fauna, the food chain, crushed by the waterspout of emotions, knowing the futility of trying to voice out his feelings over the violent buzz of the storm, and so doesn't even try.

"I told you I made you look prettier. The prettiest," you fake nonchalance, trying to mask how much your heart wants to leap into a giddy dance at his reaction, trying so hard to not let it say : See, I told you. He sees it, sees it for what it is. Not a casual painting. He sees me in it, no matter how much you try to hide it.

You take his face in your hands, the shock and awe and whatever else that he's feeling having made him numb, soft, pliant, and guide him back to your mouth.

I cannot be hidden, your unforgiving heart echoes.

You push at his chest, willing for desire to overtake the ringing in your head, back him up until the back of his knees touch the edge of the bed, until he buckles under the momentum and falls on his back, one hand still lightly touching a painted heart on his left cheek, over the most prominent one of his freckles, one that stood out to you the most every time you tried to memorise the pattern the marks on his skin make, one you deemed fit to be assigned a different shape, a heart no less. He touches it softly, tenderly, as if afraid to smudge it away should the pressure at the pad of his finger be too much.

But it is too much. It's all too damn much.

"Let's not talk about it," before the sentiment could even make its way out of your mouth, you had known yourself to be a vile creature to even say it out loud, but the bile clogging up your throat is just the cherry on top. Great. Even your body agrees with how deplorable you really are.

But he smiles. Your heart breaks into a million little shards of ice, sticking into your soft organs, threatening to slit open your skin and fly out of your being.

It's not so bad, you think, at least the blood pumping beast is no longer there to echo how much it yearns for him anymore.

"Got it. Got you," he says, slipping into the role previously requested, taking the signals of start now when you don't even remember giving them away.

He flips the two of you over, bracing himself above you, bringing his mouth towards yours slowly, in a fashion completely opposed to the hungry way he lashes onto you awaiting lips.

He tastes as bitter as alcohol, as sweet as the cranberry juice mixed somewhere in the cocktail, as tart as the lemon he bit into not long after. He tastes like want, like ardour, like a mistake that's not a mistake if you don't let it be, like a regret waiting to be felt that doesn't need to be present at all, like everything that you could ever want, like everything you can't have, not in this lifetime.

Seizing kisses. Skin hot to the touch. Burning mouths. Blood ready to boil over.

There's not much it takes to be riled up all over again, not when it's him in question.

Mind growing soft with a single touch, numb with a single caress, blacking out with a single press, you wish you had time enough to find out if he could someday anaesthetise you better than ketamine.

You're pretty sure of the answer regardless.

Shucking off the rest of your clothes is a frenzy, one you don't remember amidst the clatter of teeth and clash of tongues, but you're elated that it's over all the same, and it's with barely controlled impatience that you manage to urge him to hurry along.

The sink stings a little, like it always does the first time, but you're not too proud to admit that his size might have something to do with it burning a little brighter than it has with past partners.

"That's it angel, nice and wet for me, that's it," he rasps from somewhere deep in his throat, deep voice turning down another octave, working you up even more, enough to allow him free access into your inviting heat, all restraints barred.

"That's it," he hums, hands grasping your waist, thumbs rounding gentle circles on your hip, letting you adjust.

Little does he know, you don't want to.

"Move, Felix—"

He chuckles, that throaty voice doing more for you than you care admit, leaning down to his elbows, swiping his nose left and right, across your own, "Is my angel impatient, hm?"

You whine, having had enough of his teasing, burning hot to the touch, and in this moment, it's all you can do to not snap.

"Felix, I swear to fucking god—"

He just laughs, apparently amused by your misery, head dropping down even lower, long platinum strands tickling your forehead.

In a momentary lapse of judgement, you wrap your legs around his waist, arms around neck, arching up, building the momentum to flip the two of you over, and you swear you're this close to having him on his back, so so close—

A click of tongue, a shove to your calves, and you're flat on your back again, caged in by his weight.

"None of that," he tsks, "you just lie there and look pretty for me, okay angel?"

You whine again, patience hanging onto the last fucking straw, "I don't think—" you gasp, the palladium of his rings cool against your neck. He applies no pressure at all, but the mere act of him wrapping his hand around your throat has you panting, eyes drooping with arousal, vision blurred even more.

"You were saying?" though unaffected at the surface, his fingers are burning hot on your neck, a sweet juxtaposition to the chill of the metal.

"Fuck—"

"That's what I thought," just like that, he's pulling out so far that you fear he's taking it all away from you, before gliding right back in with a loud slap of his pelvis to yours.

"Oh s-shit."

"This what you wanted?" he sounds cocky, painfully so, and if you were of a more sound mind, you might think of riding the attitude off of him, but as you continue to stare up at him and his stupid pretty eyes, accentuated by the stupid attractive face painting on even more stupid face, you just huff. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Aww," he coos, trails a single lean finger across your jaw, ghost touches over your front, down to your waist where he grips it, hard, "can't speak?"

Oh, this motherfucker.

"You know I could—"

"I know, I know. You could dom the hell out of me. But that's not what you want, is it?" he licks your lower lip, thrusts coming to a stop just to prove a point.

"N-no."

"There's a good girl," the haze to your mind from being handled this way might have something to do with it you assume, but you swear his thrusts are more controlled, more dominating, more demanding, "Just like that, baby. Just lie pretty for me. Just for me, right?"

"Fuck, babe—"

"Answer me. You're pretty just for me, aren't you?"

"I-I'm—"

The condescendance to his smile is something you never thought you'd end up liking, but when he's giving it to you so good, you doubt anything he does will be off putting at all, the power he holds reaching concerning heights, but in this moment, it's all you can do to not give in completely.

"I'm aware angel, it's difficult to talk, isn't it?" he coos, and the subsequent pout that settles on your lips is entirely involuntarily, "I'll help you, it's okay. I'm here, right?"

Your hands reach forward, clawing at his biceps that flex with every forward push of his lower half, forcing your body up with each motion, only to bring you back down with the unyielding grip on your waist, the bruises forming there something you look forward to cherishing, long after the lone bead to your bracelet is gone.

"Say 'I'm pretty. Just for you,' " each word is punctuated with a thrust unlike the ones he's given to you up until now, long and hard, unforgiving, not like you want to. Be forgiven, that is.

"I'm p-pretty—"

"Mhm, that you are."

"For.. f-for—"

"For who, princess?"

"Y-you. Fuck, you-"

"And who am I?"

Your eyes snap open, wide and glassy, and looking up at him, the knot to your tongue tightens, the words you were barely able to string together on the plastic rope now spilling out of it, the bracelet you so hoped to make now gone, leaving behind just the string hanging off from the eye of the metaphorical needle.

You whimper, a sound you barely recognise, the first tear rolling down your temple to find home in your already damp locks, only for another one to follow the wet trail it created.

"Easy, angel," he's a little late in thumbing away your tears this time, them having already marked the skin with their sticky essence, "You do know who I am, right?"

You do, you really do. How could you not? He's the one, the company to your last trip, the shoulder so generously offered, the warm body to your cold nights in the unknown city. The one.

But no matter how hard you try, how much you attempt to channel your thoughts, the name at the edge of your mouth, yet it fizzles out the second you try to force it out. It burns on your tongue, the familiar taste of it, and it's so close, you can feel the silky texture of the way it sounds, it's just there—

"Felix!"

Your body tightens, strains, then convulses with intensity more befitting a seizure, eyes barely coloured, for your irises have all but disappeared in their chase to roll as far back as is humanly possible, a string of nonsensical gibberish falling from your lips, his name suddenly tearing its way past your throat, and once it's said, it's the only thing your vocal chords are capable of vibrating out.

This seems to have awoken something in him, as he yanks at your wrist with unadulterated force, biting into the string of your bracelet, snapping the it with a fierce pull of his teeth, the single bead clattering onto the ground, the resounding bounces clear even amidst the sounds blanketing the room.

"Yes, that's right, that's me," he growls, claiming, animalistic, hips unrelenting in their chase to unmake you, pushing your body up with each stroke, "Say it again, say my name again."

"Fuck. Felix, Felix, Felix, fucking hell—"

"That's it, that's it. Keep calling me. I'm right here."

Your voice grows small, heart thumping loud enough to mask the sound of his body colliding with yours, all that wetness, all that want, all that ardour, it masks it all, "Felix," the name ends with a sob, your mouth parted, body arching up into his.

"You know me now? You know who I am?"

You're still shaking, your thighs trembling, high lasting longer than it ever has, and you are left to wonder if you've begun coming down at all. Indeed, the white hot pleasure has spread all around your field of vision, blending, merging, no longer distinguishable. You don't know where your pleasure ends and his begins, but you behold the scrunch of his face, the slack to his jaw, the shutting of his eyes, the deep moan he tries and fails to stifle with a sink of his teeth into the plush red carpet that is his lower lip.

He catches himself at the last moment as his elbows give out, face mere inches above you, long silver locks having been segregated into sweaty ropes to curtain his forehead and temples, and he looks down at you, panting hard, breath condensing onto your skin.

He's dishevelled. Far gone. Broken.

He still looks like a heart attack.

"Thank you," you whisper, nuzzle into his chest further, plant a grateful kiss to his pectoral.

Perhaps it'd be foolish to thank him for spending a night with you.

It would be, had it been that— a mere night, living on the edge of pleasure, with a warm body, never to meet again.

But it's not, and so it's not.

It's not a mere night. So it's not foolish.

He knows as much, it's reflective in the way his arms wind around you in a fashion that makes you fear he doesn't plan on letting go, and despite the alarms blaring in your head, you lie there, pliant and unmoving, blaming the fact on your exhaustion, "Will you be here when I wake up?" a kiss is pressed to the top of your head, an act somehow more intimate than the activities partaken in thus far.

If he thought that simple action might convince you to change your mind, you're afraid you'll have to let him down.

"You know the answer," you stay still, barely breathing.

"I do," he stays still, mimicking the stance you uphold.

Both still, wide awake, trying to commit the warmth of the other's body to memory, for the night is over, and so is your stay here.

[I plan on writing a spin off to this piece explaining all that's left unanswered; the bracelet, the reason for the main character's departure, why they can't be together, etc. Send an ask if you wish to be tagged when it drops. Meanwhile, you could send me your hypotheses and what you think could be the reasons for the aforementioned events, my ask box is always open to chat. ♡]

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[coltermorning]

Of Love and Loss Ch. 19 (RDR2 Fanfic, Arthur Morgan x F!Reader, 18+)

Summary: The owner of the barn returns, surprising you for unexpected reasons.

Author’s Notes: There is slight nudity in this chapter. Chapter nineteen of this one.

Tags: Arthur Morgan x reader, high honor Arthur Morgan, minor character death, loss of parents, blood and injury, grief/mourning, survivor guilt, strangers to lovers, slow burn, eventual smut, nudity, graphic depictions of violence

AO3 Link

~

Of Love and Loss

Nineteen: What Lies Ahead

Word count: 5750

He figured it would work. You slept easily, satisfied and dreamless if the state of you was any indication. You were laid out on your back now, a sliver of the bare skin of your stomach showing between the fur openings of his coat, chest rising and falling with every slow breath. What Arthur hadn’t figured for, however, was the state all of this would leave him in. The first and most devastating thing being that you’d never done anything close to that before, even yourself, and he had had the privilege to introduce it to you with his own hands. The second was the look on your face as you had let go. He would never forget that absolute surrender, the complete trust you had in him. The third was the feeling of you tightening around his finger and how his brain wouldn’t release its hold on that thought. He knew he wouldn’t be able to do this with you a second time and hold himself back. But it wasn’t for the reasons he expected—he wasn’t hell bent on feeling himself inside you. Instead, he wanted to kiss every inch of skin you’d let him see. He wanted to hold you in his arms. He wanted to return that trust you had given him, what he believed to be the most valuable thing he had to offer. And how goddamn dangerous all of that was.

Arthur had only ever been in love once. Even then, he was young and a fool who knew nothing of it. Not really. If it had been truer, he would likely still be with Mary. But he remembered that feeling that caught in his chest around her plain as day, because he was feeling it now—a fondness so strong he couldn’t get past it. He recognized it now because he was able to lie there next to you content as could be without ever finding his own release. If sex wasn’t what mattered to him about all this, then that left a big hole that only something stronger could fill. And it terrified him. It terrified him to let that feeling in again, knowing how this would all end. He had weeks left with you. Days. That wasn’t enough time. He wanted your trust, your sharp humor, your rare, loving gaze you sometimes gave him. He wanted the woman who had forfeited her own life for his without question, the one strong enough to match his grit and stare death in the face. He wanted a life he couldn’t have, because it would come at the cost of his gang. Always at the cost of his gang. Before, with Mary, it was obvious leaving them was the wrong choice. But this felt so much more aligned with who he was and perhaps who he could become that he worried it would be the wrong decision to leave you. That was what scared him most of all. In a few weeks time, he had absolutely no clue what he would do. At least there was one easy factor he could rely on: you. You could make that decision for him. Love like that had to be returned to be worth a damn, and he was happy to lay the decision in your hands. But for now, he would enjoy every moment with you. He would sit here and watch you sleep peacefully, knowing what it had taken to get you there but thinking only of how that act had grown his fondness for you more. Knowing that, above all else, you trusted him. And that meant more to him than anything ever had.

~

You were warm, a bit stuffy, when you woke. You could feel the sweat on your forehead before you opened your eyes, could smell fresh hay and hear a creaking barn surround you. You wondered, for all of a heartbeat, what you had done to warrant this—your parents making you sleep out in the barn like livestock. Then you realized how very far away your family barn was and all the circumstances that came with the notion. The thought ached.

You slowly opened your eyes, seeing shadowed rafters high above you, feeling that sweat turn to clamminess at the vision of your dead parents and a dead deputy. You took a moment to release the breath you were holding, like it was swollen with every regret you’d ever had. Letting it go was a bit undeserved, but you did it anyway. You didn’t have the strength to weather all that hurt right now.

Realizing what else was missing, you turned your head to find Arthur in the corner of the stall, sitting there working away in his journal. At least that brought a faint smile to your mouth. As did the thought of what had happened between you only hours ago. That was why you were so sweaty—in your nakedness, Arthur had given you his coat. It was like a furnace wrapped around your body, the bed’s fur blankets on top of it making for a cocoon of heat.

“Hey.”

Your shallow voice drew his attention. He smiled at you. “She lives.” He went back to writing in his journal. “No more nightmares then?”

“None.” You hadn’t dreamed one wearying thing. Hadn’t dreamt at all. “How did you know that would work?”

He smirked, the sight like a kiss of its own. “Get the body relaxed, and the mind tends to follow.” He folded up his journal, stowing it away with his pencil. “At least, that’s what I’ve found.”

“So you do that often yourself, then?”

His face blazed red, his hand finding the back of his neck. “That’s…not what I meant.”

“Right,” you teased. Your smile was growing. It was usually you with a face full of embarrassment.

“Anyway,” he said on a long breath, and you let it slide. For now. “You may as well get some more sleep. How dark it is, sun won’t be up for another few hours.”

“Have you slept at all?” you asked, already knowing the answer. His eyes were heavy with it.

He shook his head. “I’m good. Don’t you worry about me.”

“Maybe you need relaxing,” you taunted. His eyes snapped to yours. It was so easy to get a rise out of him. But he just shook his head and smiled again, the rare smile that wasn’t for show.

“Go back to sleep.”

You would have, but he was too interesting. You suddenly wanted to know everything there was to know about him.

“What are you writing? In your journal.”

You turned on your side, propping your head on your hand. With the motion, you could feel his coat fall open underneath the blanket. Naked as the day you were born, and that shyness in you was glad the blanket covered you.

He pondered your question a moment, likely deciding whether he wanted to tell you the truth or turn it into another joke of his. He finally caved. “Drawing.”

“What?”

“Drawing, not writing.” He just watched you, a bit of a challenge in his eye. You met it.

“Well, what are you drawing, then?”

Again, he took a moment to respond. “This barn.”

“Can I see?”

To your surprise, he reached in his satchel and pulled out the small, leather-bound book. He was awfully protective of it, never letting you near it before. Apart from when he had given you his satchel in that town, but you had been too preoccupied to think of snooping then. Now, you could feel excitement take hold as Arthur flipped to the proper page. You sat up, letting the blanket fall. Feeling excitement for another reason as his coat fell open, covering only parts of you but not the whole.

Arthur found his page and looked up at you, and his eyes caught and held. Moved down your body then back to your face.

“What?” you asked, smiling. You knew very well what.

He clenched his jaw and looked down at his journal. “This is…” He studied his drawing before letting out a bark of a laugh. “Ugly as shit now.” His eyes met your body again. “After a view like that.”

You could feel the heat in your cheeks but didn’t care. Not as you said without hesitation, “Draw me, then.”

That shook him. The eyes he almost never let widen met yours in surprise.

“It’s either this or me covered in dirt and blood and God knows what else.” You were still unusually clean from your recent bath and the trip to the launder. “Your choice.”

He clenched his jaw again. Then, dragging out his pencil from his satchel, “Lie back, then.” His voice was small but not weak. Like he was trying hard for control.

You did as he said, captivated by the sound of his voice, amazed you could have such an effect on a man.

“Like this?” You turned back on your side, letting the coat fall. You propped your head on your hand again, letting your other hand settle on your hip where it met the dip of your side.

Arthur eyed your body like it was a complicated thing to study, though there was an underlying softness in his gaze. He stood and moved to the right, sitting again when he found the viewpoint he was looking for. “Perfect.”

You smiled. He started drawing.

After a minute or two of pure captivation—on both your part and his—you spoke so as not to lose your nerve and write this off as a ridiculous idea. “Do you write at all or just draw?”

“Both,” he said, using the conversation as an excuse to look at you again. His eyes scaled down your upper body slowly, a smile forming in their wake.

“What do you write about?”

“Anything. Usually whatever shit predicament I’ve landed myself in.”

You couldn’t help but let out a laugh. “I bet you had some choice words on the day I showed up.”

He smirked and went back to sketching, a few loose strands of his hair falling over his forehead as he did. It was distracting in a way you’d never known a man’s hair to be, of all things.

“I’ll admit, I weren’t too happy to be going with you in the beginning.”

“You hid it well,” you offered. “It was hell getting you to leave, but you haven’t complained the first time since.”

He eyed you again, a familiar gleam in his eyes as they locked onto yours. “It was hard to find something to complain about once I saw the real you.” He chuckled, going back to drawing. And just when you thought he had paid you a rare compliment, “Since you did enough complaining for the both of us.”

You shook your head at him with a grin, not wanting to prove him more right. And besides that you were too distracted by where his eyes kept catching, by his pencil tracing the lines of your breasts, the curve between your legs. You couldn’t help but think how wildly inappropriate this was, but you didn’t care. You wanted his gaze, wanted him studying your body and learning every inch of it. You wanted to do the same to him. Even now, you ached with the need to see him without his clothes. You wore his coat, and all that remained on him was a tattered shirt and pair of pants that let you in on just how powerful his body was. You didn’t just want to see it either—you wanted to feel it. You wanted his skin beneath your fingertips like he had done to you.

Laying there studying him just as shamelessly as he was you, you made up your mind. You would get your due, even if you didn’t know where the act would lead. Soon. Maybe as soon as he finished that drawing and got back in bed with you.

“I ain’t even gonna ask.”

You didn’t realize your gaze was so revealing of your thoughts until he said that.

“Probably best,” you told him, loving the way his resulting smirk lacked all notion of innocence.

The time ticked on, and other than more talk about his drawings, there was nothing left to distract you from the need you had for Arthur. It was growing, untamable, likely because of the pleasure he had shown you only hours ago. You wanted him to do it again. And finally, when he folded up his journal and stowed it away, did you see your opportunity.

“You better show me.”

“Later,” he said.

You patted the bed, purposely not going to him. Purposely leaving yourself exposed to him in the hopes that your body would tempt him like his was tempting you. “Now. It’s only fair.”

He eyed you, his gaze hardening in that way that meant you’d snared him. You felt satisfaction blooming hot and heavy within you, especially when he slowly reached back into his satchel, his eyes never leaving you.

He hadn’t even opened the book before the barn door swung inward, letting in an almighty gust of wind. You went still as death on instinct, having half a mind that the wind had done it until you saw a figure separate itself from the dark of the night outside. And just like that, your panic was back. You threw yourself to the floor, wrapping up in Arthur’s coat just as he cursed and pulled his gun, shooting to his feet.

“Who’s there?” yelled two voices, one Arthur’s, the other belonging to the newcomer. It was oddly feminine, enough that you raised your cowering head to see the person better. You still couldn’t see them well enough to tell their gender, and Arthur was pointing his gun with so much determination you quickly ducked back down again, not needing to see anymore death.

A barking laugh echoed through the barn. “Some nerve you got. I’m the owner of this barn. Who the hell are you?”

“We don’t mean no harm,” Arthur answered, the sound of his revolver being stowed filling you with relief. “Just passing through.”

Again, a snort of a laugh. “Passing through, huh?” You heard footsteps approach, oddly muffled. “It don’t look like you’re passing through. Looks like you gone and made yourselves at home.” The footsteps got so close you knew you were in plain sight. You turned your head to see—sure enough—a woman staring down at you, face tinged with mild curiosity in the lantern light. Though she was holding a gun, and you were willing to bet she knew how to use it based on the state of her—animal skins for clothes, even her fox hide boots. Her face was rough and worn like she hadn’t seen civilization in years.

“What you hiding down there for?”

Arthur stepped between you. “We were just leaving. Unless we got a problem here?”

The woman looked back to him, looking up so far you realized then how very small she was. But she must not have been intimidated by him, as she smiled with a toothy grin and said, “Not unless you want to start one.”

“No,” Arthur said, that commanding, protective voice of his back in place.

“Well, shit. I ain’t had company in years.” The woman let out a wild cackle and strapped her gun over her shoulder. “Years! A sight for sore eyes, you two!”

Knowing there wasn’t much danger apart from her strangeness, especially not with Arthur standing there like he would take her down at a moment’s notice, you made sure the bulky coat covered you completely and sat up. The woman eyed your clothes—or lack thereof—then the nearby end of the bed and all the clothing piled up at its foot. She let out another cackle of laughter. “Just leaving, were you?” She cocked an accusatory eyebrow at Arthur. “Don’t look like you were leaving. Looks like you were just getting started.”

Your face burned at that, but Arthur was quickly moving a step into the woman’s space, towering over her. “I need to repeat myself?”

Something about the way his pointed words made her frown at him had you standing. “Excuse him,” you said, stepping to his side. “We’ve been traveling a long time and haven’t met many hospitable folks along the way. He’s just being cautious.”

The woman eyed you, then sized Arthur up in a way that made you proud to call him your…yours.

“All right, then,” she answered. “But if he don’t mind his manners, I’m not letting him in on the fresh kill waiting for me outside.”

“I told you, we’re-”

You put a hand on Arthur’s arm to quiet him, looking to the woman with a small smile. “He’ll mind.”

Arthur’s head whipped to you, and you didn’t even have to look at him to know how offended he was by that. You reined in your smile.

“Good. Well, you can start by helping me with that deer out there,” she said to Arthur. “Goddamn giant, he is.”

The woman was already turning back, looking for something as she went when you finally caved to Arthur’s stare. You shrugged at him. He rolled his eyes. “Unbelievable.”

That made your smile appear. “Go help the lady. Don’t be rude.”

He grumbled something but relented. That left you to turn back to the pile of clothes on the floor, the one that was filling you with such giddiness you felt the urge to laugh.

“Name’s Beth,” the woman called out. You peeked over to watch Arthur join her, begrudgingly offering his name in return. But he did take the gambrel from her that she had seemingly come in here for, at least willing to help her hoist up the deer outside. You knew he was helpful, had been since the day you met him, but watching him do so with a pout made it ten times more satisfying. And before you knew it, they were out the door together, leaving you to get redressed.

Normally, a new stranger would have you on edge. But as you donned your chemise and pants, buttoning your shirt back up, you couldn’t help but feel that this wouldn’t go badly. The woman—Beth—was strange but amusing. She knew how to fend for herself but hadn’t tried to do so against you. In fact, her first instinct was to be friendly, or as friendly as a person in this circumstance could be considered. So you let that as well as the familiarity of the barn lend themselves to your comfort that everything would be okay this time. It had to be. There had to be some decent people left in this country. You only hoped that Arthur wouldn’t get annoyed and spoil the visit—something he was very liable to do.

After donning hat and gloves, you joined the others outside. You were met with a biting wind that promised more snow, so you hustled over to the barn’s overhang where Arthur stood coatless.

“Here.” You handed him his coat back. The last thing you needed was him falling ill because you were too busy parading around in his coat. Which you had, just a little.

He thanked you and shrugged it on, going back to helping Beth skin the deer. She was right—the thing was massive. The animal sported one of the more beautiful racks of antlers you’d ever seen.

“Hell of a buck,” you offered.

“Ain’t he?” she said, looking up at you but still skinning, like she was so deft with the knife she didn’t have to watch what she was doing. “Been tracking this one for two years now. First time I saw him, I knew he’d be something special. So I let him grow a bit, made sure he stuck around. Turns out, he weren’t quite as smart as that big head could account for. Either that or he got cocky ‘round me. Didn’t even spook when he spotted me aiming for him.”

“Lucky,” Arthur said.

“Mhm,” she hummed proudly, looking back to you. “What’s your name, then?”

Your breath caught a moment before you remembered the last time someone other than Arthur had asked you that. “Frances.”

She nodded, going back to skinning. “Nice to meet you two. I don’t get many travelers out this way. Too far off the path.”

“What’s it like?” you found yourself asking, suddenly realizing why all of this was nagging at you—it was the life you had wanted for yourself in Montana. Alone and living off land your parents had given you. “Living out here, I mean.” You felt Arthur’s eyes on you but ignored him.

“Oh, it ain’t so bad. A good spot, really. Plenty of food and water. The barn I happened upon, but I’ve been fixing it up for years. Feels like I rebuilt the whole damn thing myself at this point.”

“It’s nice,” you said without thinking, admiring the structure looming beside you. Beth looked at you curiously but didn’t respond. It was more than you’d offered any stranger apart from Arthur.

You let the moment go, letting the barn continue to comfort you for its constant presence at your side.

After Beth and Arthur finished skinning, Arthur hoisted the animal up on the gambrel, letting it hang for Beth to harvest as she pleased.

“Thank you kindly,” she said, stepping around him. “Why don’t you two go back inside, take my horse and get him out of this cold a while? It’ll take me some time to finish this.”

“Sure,” Arthur offered.

“Thank you,” you added. “For letting us stay.”

She smirked, the expression much like that of an animal’s. “I know two lovers when I see ‘em.” You couldn’t hold her eye over those words and wondered wholly whether Arthur could. “The thing about lovers is,” she went on, turning back to the hulking deer. “They’re always too distracted by each other to cause much damage. Least, that’s the way it was for me.” She let out that wild laugh again, and you took that as your dismissal. You turned and passed Arthur by without looking at him, suddenly embarrassed for having your feelings laid out so bare like that. It was obvious you favored him, but to have it so easily recognized by a total stranger was…you didn’t know what it was. Real, somehow. Much more so.

You grabbed Beth’s horse by the reins on the way inside and led him in, letting Arthur shut the door behind you. The animal immediately tugged on your grip, tempted by the hay in the nearby corner. You let him be and led him over, taking his bridle and saddle off before giving him a pat and letting him eat. It was only then that you turned and saw Arthur meandering off, a cigarette between his lips. Nervous, then. You had to fight off the happiness that curled within you at the thought of him being nervous around you. Because of you.

You watched him walk over to your mounts, entering the stall and placing a fond hand on Boadicea. There were suddenly so many endearing things about him culminating together that you turned away and went back to keeping an eye on Beth’s horse.

Two lovers indeed—an entire barn apart and too nervous to put to words what was passing between you. Because something was definitely forming, something you nor he had a mind to confront, but neither seemed to want to stop it either. So it grew and grew in that barn, forming into stolen glances and, if it weren’t for the woman outside, the desire to come together again like you had just hours ago. You knew he felt it too, written in that small flame of a lit cigarette that was giving him away. You could only hope the feeling would last a little while longer, that this barn would keep you longer than necessary. A girl could dream.

After a while, Beth came inside on another gust of wind, like she was made of nature herself and bent it to her will.

“Ah,” she said, again in that unnecessarily loud manner. “I see the fat bastard’s already found the haystack.” She was smiling fondly at her horse despite the nickname, taking her gloves off as she approached.

“I think he was already going for it before we made it through the door,” you told her.

“‘Course he was. I think he’d go to that corner blind and deaf and out of a working nose.”

You laughed, the feeling a little unfamiliar. Especially around a stranger. But Beth was soon waving you and Arthur over to her wood stove, asking you to join her for a meal, and you didn’t hesitate to agree. There wasn’t much in the way of seating, but you settled nonetheless, Arthur’s arm brushing yours as he settled beside you. It filled you to the brim with contentment.

The three of you soon got to talking, you and Arthur telling Beth of your travels and the unfortunate circumstances along the way. Arthur left out the bit about the lawmen being after you and all the damage the two of you had caused in the last town. You were glad for it. You weren’t about to bring it up either. This small respite was something you needed after all the hardship, and you didn’t want it taken away over something as small as a stranger’s suspicion.

Beth talked about her childhood and what had led her to a life like this, never once questioning too much, seemingly pleased to talk about herself instead. You were grateful enough for that but even more so for her conversation. She was a fascinating woman. Most definitely out of her mind, but fascinating. And when she offered a bit of the deer meat she had just cooked and it turned out to be delicious, you thought that maybe all the turmoil you had been through leading up to this was worth it for the glimpse into a life like this. It was freeing in a way you had always desired for yourself. It left you wondering, for the hundredth time, why your parents hadn’t wanted this for you. Anyone would want this life if they had the ability to sustain it. Hell, your parents had left Nebraska for the very same reason. But that kind of thinking was doused every time you looked at Arthur, finding his gaze already on you. You never would have concerned yourself with loneliness before. But now, having him was enough to make the thought of his absence ache. And it had taken you all this time to realize why your parents had wanted you with family, why they had wanted marriage to be on the table for you. They had known what that companionship felt like, yet you’d been all alone in those mountains. You just couldn’t see it until you’d felt it yourself with Arthur.

When darkness finally gave way to light creeping in through the barn doors and after doing most of the talking herself, Beth finally gave it up. You’d left her bed just as you found it upon arrival and, without hesitation, she made for it without a scrap of concern for her safety around two strangers. You couldn’t decide if it was because she deemed you unthreatening or because she was truly that out of her mind, but it didn’t matter. It left you and Arthur relatively alone again. And you were on the verge of wondering just what that would entail, busy thinking of his drawing of you earlier, when he spoke.

“We’ll need to be getting on soon.” His voice was low so as not to carry.

You met his gaze from where you sat against a beaten up wagon, noting the exhaustion in his eyes. “You never got to sleep.”

He scoffed a laugh. “Sleep’s hard to come by in my line of work.”

You gave him a chiding glare, one that made him shrug.

“You need to rest, Arthur. I can’t have a half-sane guide when we’re back out there, back on the run.”

He shook his head. “Can’t sleep here.” He mumbled it, like it was tough for him to admit. And it hit you then, how much he would exhaust himself to keep you safe. He wouldn’t risk sleeping with a stranger around, unable to help at the drop of a hat if the need arose. He was too protective over you. And that was wholly comforting but just as unwise.

“How about I make a deal with you?” you offered, standing. He watched you closely in a way that had your mind wandering, your words tumbling out. “I stay up and keep my gun on me. Watch over you.”

His gaze broke away then, embarrassment reaching his fidgeting hands and half smile. “I don’t need you watching over me,” he said on a laugh, like the very thought was ridiculous. But you knew him well enough to know the laugh was to hide what he wouldn’t say—that you had caught on to his protectiveness over you. And the distance between how you felt and what you wouldn’t admit to each other stretched farther.

“Well, I’m not leaving here until we can say goodbye to Beth,” you quipped. “And you look like you’re about to drop dead, so it’s either sleep now or don’t get the chance for who knows how long.”

He snorted a laugh. “Stubborn.”

“I’m stubborn?”

His face reddened, but he said, “I know why you want to stay, and it ain’t ‘cause of any goodbye.”

You crossed your arms. “Oh really?”

“You been admiring this place the minute we stepped foot in it, and I know how you think—you want to carve out a little life for yourself just like this, don’t you?”

He’d pinned you dead to rights, damn him. “Maybe, but that doesn’t much matter, does it? It’s not like we can stay here,” you said, gesturing to Beth across the barn.

“No, we can’t,” he said smugly. Like he was trying to get that fact through to you. But you already knew that.

“So you want to what, leave now? Find another place to set up camp and-”

He held up a hand to silence you, grinning as he did. “Save it. I didn’t mean to pick a fight with you. We’ll stay.”

That surprised you. He seemed to always want to rile you as much as he could, and him giving up like that was…not as satisfying as you thought it would be.

“What do you mean we’ll stay?”

He was outright snickering now. “You just can’t resist, can you? Got to be on me about something.”

“You’re being stubborn and…confusing. I can’t help it.”

He flashed a smile at you that immediately branded into your memory. So unfairly attractive.

“Just get some rest and leave me be, Beth Jr. I can handle myself just fine.”

The nickname had you seeing red. “Not Beth Jr.”

“No?” The smile in that word was not helping his case.

“What’s with you and nicknames that make me want to strangle you?”

“Oh, you have a preference?” he teased. “‘Cause I seem to recall that you loved sweetheart.”

You were shaking your head, turning away, doing your best to keep to yourself. Because you would strangle him for that one. He just laughed, the sound like spun gold, and it took everything in you to block out any further thought of him. On the plus side, this was very far off topic from how much you liked it here and why. You weren’t ready to breach that subject yet, probably because he would make you see sense you didn’t want to see. And it took you until that moment to realize that was why he was teasing you—he saw how much it meant to you and had changed tracks. It was kind enough to have you finally meeting his eye again, an inevitable smile crossing your face. “Shut the hell up,” you chided.

He laughed still, and for once, you joined him in it.

There was no further talk of Beth and her barn and her strange life, no more talk of anything for a while. Instead, you and Arthur fell into comfortable silence for the remainder of the time Beth slept. He looked over his journal and you looked over your father’s ledger, both content for the time being. How he wasn’t falling over asleep, you didn’t know, but there would be time for that later. Now, it seemed each of you enjoyed being around each other for multiple reasons, the most obvious being the comfort of shared company. Just being with him felt good, even without words or touch. Friendship, you realized, deep and profound. And it wouldn’t be long until you were without it, so you soaked it in. You soaked it in while you sat there together. You soaked it in when Beth finally stirred and you said your goodbyes, thanking her again for letting you stay. You soaked it in when your mind was on Arthur rather than the retreating barn at your back, on the present instead of the past or the future for once. And you finally, for the first time since beginning this journey, found the key to contentment in the man at your side. It was about living each moment as it came. Harder said than done, but he made it easy. He made everything easy.

You pitched canvas within a few short hours and watched as sleep stole over him quickly, leaving him peaceful like only sleep could. But, you recalled, there was one other thing that brought him that peace, as you had seen it just yesterday before falling asleep yourself. You did. You had never seen him content like that until his eyes wouldn’t leave you, until his expression was calm like it never had been in his waking hours. And maybe, just maybe, the feeling that brought him was enough to match the feeling it brought you.

Watching him sleep and basking in the moment with him, you had one solitary thought that wouldn’t leave you be, circling and circling. Maybe now, that feeling of peace you brought him would be enough to make him stay.

_________

Chapter twenty is here.

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[lostfracturess]

【 ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇʀɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ 】 ch. 03

"i hate this—i hate that i still need you, satoru." his arms tensed around you. "i know," he whispered. "but i'll always be here, even if you end up hating me for it."

x pairing gojo x f!reader (main), fushiguro x f!reader (jjk universe)

x summary you never wanted to become part of the world of jujutsu sorcerers, yet fate had other plans when the one and only satoru gojo took you under his wing at jujutsu high. but as the lines between student and teacher begin to blur, hidden powers surge to life, and a deadly target is set on your head.

x wc 13.9 k

x warnings [18+] this story contains abusive/possessive behavior, (rough) smut, mature themes, self-destructive behavior, (heavy) angst, graphic depictions of violence/injury/combat, character death, suicidal thoughts. reader discretion is advised.

x author's note alright, here's the latest chapter! i'm always curious to hear your reactions—let me know what you think! (likes and reblogs are always appreciated!) ♡

series masterlist + ao3 + wattpad

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Being friends with Satoru was fucking hard. 

His mere presence had the power to crumble the walls that protected your composure. Every encounter became a silent war—an inner struggle to choose distance over the alluring closeness his aura naturally demanded.

But keeping distance? 

Oh, it was a fierce, bitter, and relentless battle.

"Just a few more!" Satoru's voice, melodiously carefree, pierced through the chilly air. You forced your muscles into another agonizing push-up as your body teetered on the brink of collapse.

"Oh, how I adore him," Nobara whispered, her voice lingering beside you.

Autumn has subtly introduced itself. It bathed the world in warm amber and russet hues, gently wrapping the fading memories of summer's vibrancy under its soft blanket. The days began to cool. You could feel a gentle breeze on your skin.

"How much more?" You asked, your voice barely hiding the treacherous trembling of your arms.

"I'm going to throw up," Yuji declared. His face twisted in a strange mixture of effort and rebellion against his stomach's agenda. 

Nobara quietly muttered a series of creative curses.

"Hmmm," Satoru peered over his sunglasses. "—just another easy 50."

"Ha. Ha. Haaa?" Yuji's voice scaled up with each syllable.

"You're joking, right?" Nobara asked, her voice a sweet poison. 

You glanced over to Megumi for a split second. He seemed to suffer in silence.

The insidious muscle burn has found its way to your core. Ah, the betrayal of one's own body. You hate push-ups. And Satoru. But mostly push-ups, you thought.

And maybe, just maybe, you hated the way your heart still skipped a beat whenever he was near.

"Come on, only a few more. Push through it," Satoru cheered.

Meanwhile, Yuji, now completely horizontal on the ground, announced with dramatic flair, "Go on without me. Save yourselves. Remember me as I was—," his voice fading into an exaggerated death rattle.

Your visible exhale, clouds of warmth dissolving into the crisp air, as you exchanges a quick glance with Satoru. Your heart, that traitorous organ, fluttered at the unexpected sight. 

Damn it all.

—49—49—50—Your arms gave way, surrendering to the undeniable pull of the earth below. Your face hit the slightly damp grass, allowing yourself a moment to enjoy the earthy scent and the cool sensation on your overheated skin.

Perhaps this was where you would remain for the rest of eternity—a monument to the fallen, struck down in the prime of life by Satoru's cruel push-up regime.

A shadow fell upon you. You knew who it was without looking. "If you've come to gloat," you began, your voice muffled by the grass beneath, "know that I've already drawn up my revenge plan."

Instead of a witty retort, Satoru's voice was softer, flirtatious, closer, as he said, "You did well."

Friends, Satoru. Remember?

"I highly doubt that," you rolled your eyes, catching sight of Megumi, already rebounding to his feet, seemingly unfazed. "Are you even human?" you asked him, half-joking, half-awe.

A nonchalant shrug and a lean stretch were his only responses, further fueling your suspicions about his humanity.

"What was today's hellish training even for?" Yuji lamented.

"Do I need a reason to torment my students?" Satoru teased.

Nobara's expression crafted a visual soliloquy of disdain.

"Actually," Satoru corrected, "—you have a new mission tomorrow." His tone grew more serious. "There have been disturbing incidents reported from an abandoned hospital near Shizuoka."

Megumi interjected, "Don't they have their own sorcerers?"

"Not strong enough, it seems." Satoru's gaze hardened for a moment. "But I assure you, it will be an exciting adventure!"

You lifted your face from the grass, strands of green clinging to your cheeks. You cast a skeptical glance at Satoru. "Exciting adventure, he says," you murmured. "—last time it was a 'minor inconvenience' and we fought a special curse that almost made a snack out of Yuji."

Yuji, still stretched out beside you, nodded solemnly. "I still have nightmares about those teeth."

"Your definition of fun, Gojo, seriously needs a revision," Nobara added.

Satoru lowered himself to your level. His eyes met yours as a grin played around the corners of his lips. "You'll love this one, I promise."

Yuji mustered the strength to sit up. "What's so 'exciting' about this mission anyway?"

Satoru tilted his head slightly, silver strands of hair capturing the last rays of the day, shimmering in the receding sunlight. "That abandoned hospital in Shizuoka—it's notorious. Local sorcerers have been trying to deal with the anomalies there for months, but last week two of them went in and never came out."

Nobara perked up. "So you're sending us to a place where sorcerers have gone missing?"

Satoru nodded. "Exactly. The hospital was a place of pain, suffering and numerous unexplained deaths even before it was abandoned. Now, it seems to have become a breeding ground for curses. The incidents are escalating and they can't contain it anymore. We must find out what's going on there, save the sorcerers, and cleanse the place."

Your heart raced. You pulled yourself up into a sitting position, grass and soil clinging to your sweat-soaked shirt. "Sounds more dangerous than exciting."

"Sure, there's a risk, but we've got this. As long as we stick together," Megumi said.

"The power of friendship saves the day, huh?" you reply, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

Satoru stood up and held out a hand to help you to your feet. As you accepted the gesture, a familiar electric charge ran through you. He pulled you up with ease, his voice a soft whisper meant only for you, "Be careful. I'd hate to lose my favorite student."

FRIENDS, SATORU. REMEMBER?

****

"Wasn't this supposed to be fun?" Nobara hollered. 

Her voice sliced through the eerie silence of the abandoned hospital's hauntingly empty hallways, as all four of you sprinted, hearts thundering in your chests.

The distant, hollow groans of curses echoed through the deserted corridors. Each groan sent shivers down your spine and fueled your legs to push you forward with even greater urgency.

Megumi summoned his divine dog. It charged forward, fighting the cascade of curses that flowed like a nightmarish tide through the crumbling, cavernous passageways to buy you more time to escape.

"That's Gojo's version of fun, remember?" Yuji retorted, his words punctuated by ragged breaths. 

Shadows seemed to reach for you, elongating as the dimming twilight outside filtered through the cracked windows, creating unsettling, contorting forms upon the walls. 

Skidding around a corner, Nobara sent a cascade of cursed nails spiraling into an oncoming threat. The curses dissipated upon impact. But the brief respite was soon shattered by the oppressive feeling of more malevolent presences converging upon your location.

The hospital itself seemed to warp and twist with cursed energy. Halls elongated, and rooms reshaped into grotesque shapes. The walls themselves seemed to breathe, inhaling and exhaling a suffocating, eerie energy that enveloped everything within.

"How the fuck did we end up in this creepy horror show all of a sudden?" You yelled as you sprinted ahead.

"We must find the core of this energy—destroy it or we'll be overrun," Megumi shouted.

The scene was a total mess, no way around it. 

The chaotic atmosphere, swirling with malevolent energy and the agonized screams of curses, pressed in from all sides. Shadows reached out and twisted around the group, the outlines of lurking creatures barely discernible in the pitch-black darkness, as an immense curse appeared, radiating an aura of fear so deep it seemed to suck the life from its surroundings.

Shadows reached out and twisted around the group, stopping you in your tracks. Then curses appeared, their outlines barely visible in the pitch-black darkness. Agonized screams echoed from all sides. 

Suddenly, a massive curse appeared, radiating an aura of fear so deep it seemed to suck the life from its surroundings.

Satoru's voice crackled over your communicators, his voice tense. "I sense a tremendous amount of cursed energy. Get out of there now!"

But his warning came too late. With a bone-rattling roar, the curse lunged forward. 

Everything fell into chaos.

Megumi's shikigami dimmed and flickered as the curse descended upon you all. Nobara and Yuji tried their best to fight back, but the monstrous creature effortlessly tossed them aside as if they were nothing. Their battered forms crashed to the debris-strewn ground with a sickening thud.

Satoru's voice again. "Everyone, retreat, now!"

Shit. Shit. Shit.

You were paralyzed.

Move, you yelled at your own muscles. 

Move, goddamn it. But they refused your command.

The curse twisted its grotesque form towards you. Its eyes completely devoid of light or life. Your heart raced as it advanced.

You had to do something.

In an instant, the curse closed in on you, its dark, oily fingers stretching towards you. Time appeared to crawl as its hand loomed closer. Your heart froze. Then an inexplicable sensation surged from deep within you, like a taut thread snapping.

The air shifted around you. The curse stopped.

Its grotesque form convulsed as the cursed energy surrounding it twisted and contorted. Its scream echoed through the cavernous decay of the hospital as its own malevolent aura recoiled upon it.

The curse transformed, changed into something else entirely.

Something you wanted it to be.

You could feel the curse, feel its fear, feel its evil. All of it.

With a trembling hand, you reached out, deflecting the cursed energy of the curse onto itself. The curse convulsed and writhed. Its form disintegrated under the crushing weight of its own malevolent energy. Then it simply dissolved into nothingness.

But it didn't stop. The fear didn't stop. You still felt its fear. Its evil. Everything.

It coursed through you, too overwhelming to bear. It threatened to consume you entirely as your own cursed energy spiralled out of control, creating a maelstrom of chaos around you. 

Suddenly, Satoru's voice cut through the chaos. "Suppress it! You must suppress your cursed energy!"

But your consciousness was adrift in the maelstrom. The uncontrolled energy threatened to consume your very being. Then, for a fleeting moment, you saw Satoru's face as he ran towards you. Time stood still for a moment as your gaze locked with his. 

Satoru.

In that moment, you found yourself ensnared in the depths of his terror-stricken eyes. All noise ceased, and sensations dulled. The chaos that had enveloped the surroundings was quelled, its frenetic energy pulled back, forcibly contained within.

Silence replaced the chaotic energy that had suffocated the room, and the swirling vortex of curses collapsed into a singularity within you. 

An explosion of blinding light illuminated the decimated hospital before it was once again plunged into an unsettling silence, now without the oppressive presence of the curses.

You crumpled to your knees. A sudden sensation of decay washed over you. You leaned forward and coughed up a painful spurt of blood. Satoru ran towards your crumpling form. His arms carefully enveloped you, before you hit the ground.

"You're such a stubborn woman," he whispered. His voice barely audible, eyes locked with yours, shining with a depth that spoke volumes.

Friends, Satoru... Remember?

****

"Do you have any idea how damn reckless that was?" Satoru's voice now a sharpened blade slicing through the thick air.

"I did what I had to, Satoru. We're all still standing here, ain't we?"

He took a step closer, his voice low and lethal. "You gambled with something you don't understand, something you can't control. Next time, you might not be so lucky."

A bitter laugh escaped you. "Concern, is it? You're a fine one to talk about understanding and control!"

His jaw clenched, a battle raged in his eyes.

Nobara chimed in. "Both of you, maybe we should talk about this when—"

"No," Satoru interrupted, his eyes never leaving yours. "You can't just run around and do shit that might kill you."

"And you think I want to die?" Your voice cracked, "Satoru, I felt that power. I felt it trying to consume me! But would you rather I did nothing and let us all die instead?"

A pained silence followed your words, interrupted only by the strained breathing shared between you and Satoru. 

"She's right. She saved us back then." Megumi pushed himself off the wall he was leaning against. "—wouldn't the better question be, what the hell this cursed technique was?"

You took a deep breath. "I don't know what that was—it just came all of the sudden."

Satoru's expression shifted and he let out a frustrated exhale. The silence that followed even more painful than the arguing.

After a beat, Megumi chimed in. "That cursed technique you unleashed back there? It's like nothing I've ever seen before." His gaze darted between you and Satoru, assessing the situation. "It kinda reminded me of Mahito's Idle Transfiguration, but it's not quite the same. Yours is more like—"

"—manipulating the very essence of the cursed energy, changing its nature, its intent," Satoru claimed in. "It's massively powerful."

"—and dangerous," Nobara added.

Satoru turned to you again. "You need to learn to control it. You hear me?"

"Oh, you think I don't know that?"

He stepped closer, his voice a whisper yet charged with intensity. "You know nothing."

Your gaze locked with his. Behind the layer of frustration and anger, there was a palpable fear in his eyes—a fear of losing something precious. But the stubborn part of you pushed forward, your voice tense. "What's your problem, Gojo?"

He raised an eyebrow as you called him Gojo. He was silenced. 

"It's more than just control over her cursed technique. It's also about the consequences of that power," Megumi interjected cautiously midst of the strained silence. His eyes carried a grave seriousness that flickered between you and Satoru.

"I know," Satoru murmured, his stance still rigid, his gaze never leaving yours.

"Explaining for the ones, that don't get it?" Yuji said.

"Think about it. If this power can manipulate cursed energy to such a degree, it's going to draw attention. Not just from curses, but potentially from other jujutsu sorcerers as well," Megumi continued. "If it's that powerful, it's likely that others want to exploit it—or eliminate it."

You flinched at his words. 

Eliminate?

Yuji's eyes widened. "So what do we do now? We can't just wait for someone—or something—to come after her, right?"

"No. We protect her, we train her, and we figure this out. Together. But for now it might be safest to keep a low profile," Megumi said.

Satoru inched dangerously close as he towered over you. "I won't leave your side," he declared, "—not until you can control it."

"What?"

"I will not let anything happen to you."

"You can't shadow me every single second of the day!"

His lips curved into a wry smile. "You'd be surprised by what I can do." 

Did he even hear himself?

The room seemed to pulse with a charged silence as you stood your ground, anger glinting in your eyes. Then, a small smirk played on your lips. "Megumi can do this as well," you threw in, surprising not only Satoru but also Megumi, whose eyes widened slightly.

Caught off guard but still managing to maintain a calm exterior, Megumi shifted, opening his mouth to possibly rebuff or agree. But he was cut off by Yuji's enthusiastic, "Count me in, I'll protect her too!"

"Alright, Megumi it is," Nobara said with a playful wave of her hand.

"You're not even giving me a chance!"

The atmosphere shifted just enough to give space for easier breaths and softened expressions. But Satoru didn't let his guard down. He leaned in close, his voice low and hoarse. The words were for your ears only. "You're really pushing my limits, love."

Your pulse quickened. There was a hint of flirtation in his tone, but the fury in his eyes as they met yours stole your breath. You might regret this later, you thought.

****

Your fingers moved with gentle precision.

You maneuvered the sterilized cloth, dipping it in antiseptic before turning to Megumi. Positioned on the edge of the hospital bed, he offered a silent profile. His eyes deliberately avoided yours. 

The scent of antiseptic lingered in the air. In the distance you could hear the echoes of footsteps and muffled conversations from the corridor beyond.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, subtly luring his eyes to meet yours, "—,for earlier. I shouldn't have put you in that position—with Satoru."

His eyes met yours briefly. "It's alright."

"It's just—," you leaned in closer, the distance between the two of you closing as your fingers gently dabbed at his wound. He flinched slightly. "—Satoru's arrogance is wearing me thin."

He was silent for a breath, his gaze lingering on the way your fingers delicately tended to his injury. "He wants to keep you safe."

"We all do," he added.

You looked up to him, and somehow you thought he wanted to say more. But the words were trapped.

"I know I am safe with you," you whispered.

For a split second, Megumi's face turned red. He quickly averted his gaze.

"Where did you learn to treat such wounds?" He asked after a while.

A heavy exhale escaped your lips. "Before Satoru found me, I was on my own—fighting curses and all." You paused. "I had to learn self-preservation, in every sense."

You guided the needle through Megumi's skin to close his wound, an unwavering focus narrowing your gaze. The sterile light of the hospital room cast a soft glow over the surgical instruments nearby, your fingers skillfully dancing between them with learned grace.

He watched, the slightest flinch barely revealing the sting of each pass of the needle. "You're quite good at this."

"Survival breeds skill, sometimes," you replied, carefully threading the needle despite the close proximity, "I suppose most sorcerers have a troubled past." 

A faint smile played on your lips. "It's probably that struggle that pushes us into this dangerous career path, don't you think?"

"I wish circumstances were different for you—that your path wasn't so hard."

Your breath caught. You had to stop stitching him up for a second as you processed his words.

"Perhaps," you replied, gently placing the needle down and giving him your full attention. "But it's that path that led me here—so I'm glad it was."

Yes. Your past has been one of scars and bruises.

But it also led you to this very point. Even in the wreckage left by Satoru's heartbreak, there was a light, a silver lining. You'd found something unique, something precious—a home among friends who felt like family.

As your eyes lingered on Megumi's, an unspoken understanding bridged the space between you. In that quiet moment, between the antiseptic scent and the distant hum of other people, you found a trace of calm, a whisper of what might be amidst the remnants of what once was.

But reality, as it often does, shattered the serenity with a sharp crack.

****

Your whole body ached.

Every muscle screamed in rebellion. Frozen tendrils of breath dissolved into the frigid air as you fought to catch your breath. You were on the ground. Drenched in sweat. Shrouded in fatigue. You had reached your limits. Every sense was screaming at you to stop. 

But as you looked up to meet Satoru's gaze, you knew he wouldn't let you stop. His face was a fortress of stern determination. It made the cold autumn air seem almost warm in comparison.

"Again," he demanded sharply, the word cutting through the silence that enveloped the training grounds.

You exhaled shakily, fists clenched. Weary limbs pushed you to your feet. You had to stifle a cry of pain as you did so. You couldn't fail. You had to do this. So you forced yourself into another attempt to control the unbridled surge of your cursed energy.

It lashed out rebelliously, ignoring your feeble attempts at containment. The result was a frustrated growl that escaped between your clenched teeth.

"They're not concentrating. Again. Channel your energy. Don't let it control you."

He acted like you weren't even trying. Like you hadn't been giving it your all to get a grip on this fucking cursed energy of yours. Like you weren't on the verge of tears because of your own failure.

"I am trying, Satoru!"

"Trying isn't enough!" His distance decreased as he approached you, his voice rising, "—trying will get you killed!" 

Somehow, all fatigue was suddenly replaced by fury.

"You think I don't know that that?"

"If you truly understood, your efforts would show it!"

You parted your lips, ready to fight back, but he wasn't done yet. 

"You can't always rely on physical strength alone," he continued. "You have to control your cursed technique, or die in vain."

The audacity.

Your fists clenched at your sides. "Not everyone can be a miracle child like you, you arrogant—"

All of a sudden, he appeared, standing so close before you that it sent a jolt of electricity through you. Your heart raced, beating violently against your chest, you were sure he must have heard it.

"You're leaving yourself exposed here," Satoru's voice, barely above a whisper, sank into the cold air as his finger traced a gentle, almost teasing path along your side, pointing to a flaw in your guard. Your skin burned under the subtle touch, a heat that consumed your resolve, already shaky with fatigue and frustration.

He stepped around you, his movements predatory, eyes meticulously scanned you, evaluating—appraising. Fingers brushed upward, caressing the line of your arm with a touch so light it was almost torturous. "And here, your energy leaks, untamed and wasteful."

His proximity was a palpable pressure, both comforting and intensely unsettling, wrapping around you like an impenetrable fog. His eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that bordered on intrusive. Yet you found yourself unwilling—unable—to break away.

He circled you. His footsteps silent against the training ground's cold earth. "Every point of weakness, an invitation."

When he circled to your front, those blazing blue eyes, locked onto yours. And then, ever so subtly, his gaze drifted downward, lingering on your lips, parted ever so slightly. 

The air between you crackled, charged with a different kind of energy, intensifying the trembling of your cursed energy as it flailed uncontrollably in the ether around you.

"Every weakness is a door begging to be opened." He cupped your chin, forcing your gaze to lift and meet his. "But you, you've always been a fortress, haven't you? Yet even the sturdiest walls find themselves crumbling under the right—pressure."

"You're testing your limits, Satoru." 

Friends. Satoru.

He leaned infinitely closer. His eyes glowed with seductive danger. "Am I?"

"I won't crumble, Satoru. Not under your touch." 

"I guess we'll see." 

THE AUDACITY.

The confrontation, the exhaustion, it all came together in a violent burst of cursed energy. It rippled through the air and made the surrounding vegetation tremble. 

Satoru didn't flinch an inch. His eyes locked on yours.

You gritted your teeth. "We're done for today," you said and turned on your heel.

But he was faster In one fluid motion, he seized your arm, forcing you to face him once more. "Running from your problems now? That doesn't sound like you."

RUNNING?

Your blood began to boil. Jerking your arm away, you met his gaze with fiery defiance, "I'm not running. But maybe you should rethink your teaching strategy, Satoru."

His expression flickered for a moment before an amused grin touched his lips, "And what, pray tell, would your enlightened approach be, oh wise student?"

"For starters, a bit of faith would be nice," you shot back, "—and maybe some actual constructive guidance instead of theatrical yelling?"

"Faith, you say?"

"And maybe throw in a 'good job' once in a while. Positive reinforcement, ever heard of it?"

A reluctant smirk twitched at the corners of his mouth. "I'll take it under advisement."

"Somehow, I find that hard to believe."

He shrugged nonchalantly. "Enough theory, then. How about we find a curse and test your control in a practical scenario?"

You blinked, aghast. "What?"

****

The crisp autumn air rustled through the vibrant foliage above as you as Satoru ventured deeper into the dense forest. Leaves of fiery reds and vibrant oranges fell gently, creating a colorful carpet beneath your feet. A slight chill whispered through the trees, accompanied by the sound of leaves crunching underfoot.

Satoru's hand was clenched around a mysterious, shivering object. His sharp eyes glanced your way, reflecting the cascade of autumn colors around, yet somehow colder. 

Without warning, he unfolded his hand, revealing a squirming curse bound skillfully within his grasp. "Well then, let's see if my 'crappy' training has paid off at all, shall we?"

Huh?

"Think fast," he stated, almost too casually, unleashing the curse before you could voice a protest.

A nauseating squelch perforated the silence of the secluded woodlands. Emerging from the ooze, a curse materialized, its form an unsettling amalgamation of rot and despair. Its flesh, a sickly purulent yellow, hung grotesquely from its misshapen skeleton, numerous bulbous eyes blinking asynchronously from various points on its body.

Appendages, far too numerous and articulated in ways that defied logical anatomy, clawed at the air while a cacophony of guttural moans and shrieks emanated from a mouth that stretched far too far across its form.

You're kidding right?

As it lunged towards you, the sickening stench of decay overwhelmed your senses. Your cursed energy pulsated, thrashing wildly as you sought to harness it, direct it. Yet, the memory of previous failures and the haunting echo of Satoru's reprimands hindered your resolve.

The curse's limbs crashed against the barrier you'd mustered, shuddering vibrations rippling through you as it strained, contorted, and assailed your defenses. Its grotesque features contorted further, if possible, in malevolent delight. With a piercing shriek, it shattered through, the collision sending you sprawling amidst the dead leaves.

Trembling amidst the fallen leaves, you forcefully pulled yourself to your feet, icy resolve coating your veins as you stared down the grotesque curse once more.

You closed your eyes momentarily, attempting to steady the maelstrom of cursed energy swirling chaotically within you, sought to envision the energy as a tangible entity, something you could mold, control, and wield as your own.

Yet, as you opened your eyes, meeting the myriad of malevolent gazes affixed upon you, the cursed energy spiked wildly, lashing out without form or direction. It seared through your veins like molten metal, scorching from the inside, its potency overwhelming yet infuriatingly insubordinate.

"Focus!" Satoru's voice, distant yet piercing.

Your palms slick with a cold sweat, a sharp breath in, and your focus narrowed, eyes locked onto the pulsating monstrosity of the curse. Its form, a mangled amalgamation of despair and hatred, seethed under your gaze, eyes like voids staring back, challenging, defying.

Drawing from deep within, you reached out with your own cursed energy, a delicate thread connecting to the roiling mass before you. In that instant, a cacophony of emotions—fear, anger, sorrow—cascaded through the link, the curse's chaotic energy surging against your influence.

Within your mind's eye, you visualized the flow of its cursed energy, a violent torrent that you sought to redirect. Subtle adjustments, gentle nudges—that was all it should take. Your intention was to invert the energy back upon the curse itself, turning its own power into its undoing.

However, the energy resisted, reflecting and amplifying back through the conduit you'd created. The feedback was instantaneous and brutal, your own cursed energy rebelling against you, a visceral explosion that sent shockwaves through your being.

Pain seared through your veins, a scream tearing from your throat as your knees buckled, the earth rushing up to meet you. Yet even as darkness flirted with the edges of your consciousness, you could sense it—the curse, despite the misdirection, had been affected, its energy convulsing wildly, a grotesque dance of agony mirroring your own.

"Enough!" Satoru's voice cut through the maelstrom, his technique dissolving, sending the curse, now a writhing, shrieking mass, hurtling into the abyss from whence it came.

"Again!"

In the waning light of the chilly autumn day, the scene played out again and again—a cyclic nightmare. The curse, a vile creature of misshapen limbs and hollow, gouged-out eyes, was repeatedly brought forth by Satoru, its guttural roars clawing at the peaceful serenity of the woods.

Attempt after attempt, your technique faltered. Energy recoiled, backfiring with a vengeance that physically pained you.

"Again," your voice, once firm, now trembled with the strain.

Satoru nodded silently, releasing the curse yet again. His eyes, however, betrayed a flicker of something akin to anguish, watching you struggle, witnessing the physical toll each failed attempt exacted upon you.

Energy surged, collided, and once more rejected your influence, the backlash sending tremors of pain through your being. Collapsing to your knees, a pained cry escaped your lips, yet stubbornly, you rose again, your gaze meeting Satoru's, a silent plea for another chance.

"That's enough for today."

Your legs gave way beneath you. Your form, crumpled upon the forest floor, was eerily still, save for the shallow breaths that whispered through clenched teeth. "No—again!" A rancid taste clawed its way up your throat, your body convulsing forward as you retched, the aftereffects of the curses' chaotic energy polluting your being. 

Hunched over the damp forest floor, each spasm was a brutal reminder of your failure, haunting every recess of your mind—Weak—ghostly whispers of failure that entwined the very air around you.

"I'm too weak," your voice barely pierced through, a low, despairing murmur, interspersed with harsh, ragged breaths. "I can't—I can't control it, Satoru. What use am I if I can't even master my own cursed technique?"

Satoru crouched down beside you, his fingers gently tipping your chin up, silently begging your eyes to find solace in his. "Don't."

"I'm still too weak, Satoru," your voice, raw, broken, shattered the haunting silence.

Weak. So pitifully weak. Never, ever enough. It twisted through your thoughts, an insidious vine, ensnaring every hope, every fragment of self-assurance that dared to surface.

Weak. Weak. Weak.

"You're not." Satoru's voice pierced the enveloping darkness.

"I can't save anyone like this," you choked out, near a scream, desperation snaking through every word.

"That's not true, and you know it. You've saved others many times!"

Weak. Weak. Weak. Weak. Weak. Weak. Weak. Weak. Weak. Weak.

"I'm not enough, Satoru!" It was a scream this time, a raw, visceral sound that erupted from the core of your being and tore through the silence of the surrounding forest.

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close to his chest. "Enough," he said firmly.

Within the secure embrace of Satoru's arms, a war waged within you. The sound of your ragged breaths and the rhythmic thumping of his heart formed a painful symphony, an agonizing reminder of what had been lost. It was in that moment, amidst the chaos of your emotions and the haunting echoes of your insecurities, that you truly crumbled.

Salty trails ran down your cheeks, mingling with the dirt and sweat from the torment you'd endured, as sobs shook your entire being.

You didn't want to be just friends. Damn it. You needed him desperately. You cursed yourself for it. All you wanted was for him to take the weightoff your shoulders, if only for a moment—you didn't want to be yourself. Just his.

"I hate this," you managed to say between trembling breaths, "—I hate that I still need you, Satoru."

His arms tensed around you. "I know," he whispered, voice scarcely audible amidst the rustling leaves. "But I'll always be here, even if you end up hating me for it."

His breath, warm and steady, grazed the crown of your head, igniting a bittersweet ache deep within. But in that moment, you allowed yourself to be enveloped in the memory of his warmth, the safety that once lay in the curve of his arm. Cruel. It was a cruel reminder of a time where love and pain were not such closely intertwined companions.

His arms became both sanctuary and prison.

****

The sound of shallow, fraught breaths filled the empty training room, your form collapsed on the mat, eyes shimmering with unshed tears and resolve broken under the weight of your own failure. This pattern was all too familiar, a rhythm that played out predictably, yet agonizingly. Megumi, a silent witness to your struggle, observing the relentless cycle unfold time and time again.

Fall. Rise. Inhale. Exhale. Rise. Fall. Silence. Scream.

It was a torturous play, a ceaseless descent into a seemingly impenetrable abyss. Your body, a silhouette strained to the brink, collapses, only to be compelled upward again by a tenacity that is both heartbreaking and awe-inspiring.

Fall. Rise. Scream. Silence. Rise. Fall. Silence. Cry.

Megumi watched as your eyes, once filled with unwavering determination, flickered between determination and a desolation that threatens to consume their fire. Your form, a vessel visibly marred by the incessant tempests of your trials, convulses with exertion and a despair that seems to claw insidiously from within.

Rise. Fall. Scream. Silence. Scream. Silence. Cry.

With each descent, Megumi felt a physical ache. Each scream from your lips, each shudder that wracked your body, kindled an impotent anger within him, simmering beneath the surface of silent solidarity. Your torment became his own.

"Gojo, we need to talk. Now," Megumi's voice broke the silence, marking the shattering of his observation. In his words linger the ghosts of your silent cries, your whispered pleas to the unyielding darkness, beckoning a reckoning long festering.

Satoru, perpetually enigmatic behind his blindfold, managed to maintain his typical composed exterior, but an almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw was visible. Without uttering a word, he simply tilted his head slightly, silently inviting the brewing tempest. The moment the door slid shut behind them, Megumi whirled around, his eyes ablaze with fury.

"What the hell do you think you're doing to her in there, Gojo?!"

"Training her." Satoru's blindfolded eyes giving away nothing of his thoughts.

"That's not training!" Megumi snapped, his voice echoing through the empty hall, "You're not training her, Satoru—you're breaking her!"

"She's strong. She can handle it."

"She doesn't! You're pushing her beyond her limits and for what, Satoru?! For your own damn peace of mind?" Megumi's words were sharp, the blade of protective rage slicing through the tense air.

"You of all people should understand, Fushiguro. Our world doesn't pull punches. Neither can we."

"How can you, of all people, not see that you're breaking her?"

"Think I don't know that? I'm damn aware. I know she might hate me for it. But I can't—" His voice trailed off, a momentary lapse that unmasked a shadow of vulnerability.

Satoru's silence was telling.

Megumi's eyes, fixed upon Satoru, discerning the unsaid. "It's because she reminds you of him, is it?"

Satoru's voice, when it surfaced, was barely more than a whisper yet laden with the echoes of past specters. "I can't let her—."

"—she's not Geto."

A visible tension cinched Satoru's features as the name hovered between them, evoking entombed memories and spectral pain.

"Your fear, Satoru—it's blinding you. You're gonna hate yourself if you don't stop now."

Taking a breath, Megumi continued, adamant, "I'm taking over her training, Gojo. I won't stand by while you tear her down."

A prolonged silence stretched, before Satoru, his voice nearly lost amidst the echoes, conceded, "You're right—Maybe I'm not what she needs right now."

****

The subtle rustle of pages being turned was the only sound that dared to pierce the stillness of the library in the midnight silence. Illuminated only by the gentle glow of a solitary lamp, you sat there, shoulders hunched, eyes scanning line after line of ancient texts and forgotten lore, desperately seeking something, anything, that might offer a glimmer of understanding regarding your elusive cursed technique.

Your eyes burned, flickering over words that began to blur and merge. The subtle creaking of the library door echoed through the vast chamber, heralding the arrival of another. Your weary gaze lifted, landing upon Megumi, his silhouette framed by the soft light filtering through the doorway. He approached, steps soundless, yet your tired eyes tracked him until he stood before you.

"You're overdoing it."

A bitter laugh escaped your parched lips, your gaze returning to the open book before you. "Overdoing it is all I've got left, Megumi."

He gently closed the book, forcing your eyes upward to meet his concern. "When was the last time you slept?"

"I know what you're trying to do." Your hand deflected his, reopening the tome with a determined flick.

"You look like shit."

"Oh, charming."

Choosing a chair, Megumi straddled it backward, facing you with an unyielding gaze.

A sigh, wearied and long, drifted from your lips. "What did you say to Satoru earlier?" You flipped a page, eyes scanning yet not truly absorbing the words.

"Do you really want to know?"

You looked up to him for a fleeting moment. "Probably not." You flipped a page, eyes scanning yet not truly absorbing the words "But I know you don't agree with his methods."

"That's putting it mildly," Megumi's exhale carried a weight of restrained emotion. "—Satoru might be okay with throwing you into the abyss in hopes you'll learn to climb out, but I'm not."

"That's not what he's doing."

"It's exactly that. You're just turning a blind eye to it."

Megumi's words hung suspended in the library's age-old air, intertwining with the scent of dusty pages and bound leather. Silence stretched between you two.

"Remember what you said to me? That I would be the one to protect you until you figured it all out?" For a moment, a sheer vulnerability flickered in Megumi's eyes, barely perceptible, yet achingly palpable, before it was sheathed again behind a veil of stoic resolve. "Let me be that person."

A lump formed in your throat, stubborn and obstructive. Despite the desperate tug of fatigue on your senses, Megumi's words seemed to pierce through the haze, demanding to be heard, felt, and acknowledged.

You stared at him, the intensity in his dark eyes sending shivers down your spine. The silent library, now seeming more like an observer, awaited your response, its shelves heavy with knowledge and stories of epochs gone by, of struggles and victories, losses and finds.

"Megumi—" Your voice was barely audible.

He leaned in, the space between you shrinking until it was a blur.

"Let me help you."

The simplicity of his request, his words echoed in your mind, honest and unembellished. Your heart raced as you felt his unwavering gaze upon you, his pure presence so close, and in that moment a heat wave cascaded through your body. Maybe it was time to release the grip on your pride, to accept that vulnerability did not equate to weakness. 

For so long, you had carried the weight of your burdens alone, believing that independence was your only salvation. But now, as you gazed into his eyes, you saw something different—a genuine offer of support and understanding.

"Ok, but don't complain later," you said, a smile gracing your features.

Megumi nodded solemnly, though his eyes twinkled with gentle amusement. "I won't. I promise."

"But you know, there's one condition."

Your eyebrows arched upwards. "Condition?"

He straightened, adopting a stern expression that seemed almost comically out of place given his generally reserved demeanor. "You have to promise to stop sneaking out to the library in the middle of the night and depriving yourself of sleep. That's non-negotiable."

"What if I find a different place to sneak off to? Like the kitchen?"

Megumi's stern façade cracked, revealing a soft chuckle that warmed the room with its genuine timbre. "Well, at least in the kitchen, you might be compelled to eat something, so it's a step in the right direction."

"Ok, deal!"

Leaning back in your chair, you stretched your arms, attempting to ease the stiffness that clung to your weary muscles. A slight smile lingered on your lips, basking in the gentle relationship that had subtly unfolded between you.

You hadn't realised how much you'd needed it—this connection, his support, always unwavering no matter what, ease amidst the chaos. It was a gentle reminder that you weren't alone on this journey, and perhaps, accepting help wasn't a concession of defeat, but rather a brave step.

Wait

"—but you have to tell Satoru."

Megumi's expression changed to an unusually mischievous grin. "I think we will be fine."

****

In the hushed azure glow of early dawn, a veil of calmess blanketed the training grounds. Megumi and you stood amidst this tranquility, the silence punctuated only by the soft rustling of leaves under a gentle breeze, and your synchronized breaths, clouding in the brisk morning air. At this early hour, you were far from prying eyes and the scrutinising gaze of Satoru.

"Ready?"

You nodded slightly, your hand tightly gripping the hilt of a katana, its blade gleaming faintly in the dim light. Megumi, standing at a cautious distance, observed intently, his demeanour radiating a reassuring calm.

You took a deep, stabilising breath, centering yourself amidst the tumultuous tide of cursed energy within you. The katana served not as a weapon in this moment, but as a conduit, an extension of your being through which you sought to channel and regulate the wild stream of your power.

Your eyes fluttered shut, focusing inward on the tempestuous sea of cursed energy, feeling it churn and rage against your control. Subtly, you began to coax it, guiding it gently towards your arm and into the blade of the katana. The metal seemed to hum softly, vibrating faintly under the influx of energy. Beads of sweat formed on your forehead as you tried to control the flow of your cursed energy.

Megumi, his eyes reflecting the quiet strength that always seemed to surround him, spoke in a soft, steady tone, "Breathe. Let it flow through you, not against you."

Your breath hitched, then steadied, aligning with the subtle ebb and flow of the energy as it streamed through you, into the katana. The blade quivered slightly, resonating with the pulsations of your power. 

The connection held—a gleaming conduit of cursed energy seamlessly bridging you and the weapon, steadfast and enduring. With an exhale, eyelids fluttered open, and your gaze met Megumi's, his eyes shimmering with unvoiced encouragement and proudness.

Triumph, at long last! 

The preceding days had been a tapestry of rigorous trials, but control just out of reach, until now. Your attempts to master your cursed technique had always resulted in being consumed by its overwhelming surge, until Megumi proposed a theory that a cursed object might facilitate in channeling your erratic power. And indeed, it had.

Today marked the culmination of countless early morning training sessions with Megumi, where sweat and perseverance were your constant companions. Adrenaline coursed through you as your eyes flickered.

With a fluid, decisive motion, you elevated the katana, allowing it to slice through the air before it cascaded down, severing the scarecrow before you with an effortless ease. A shockwave rippled through the training ground, emanating from the blade with a tangible ferocity. It disrupted the stillness of the early morning, causing the foliage to shudder and the very earth beneath to quiver in its wake. 

Megumi's eyes widened, astonishment flashing through them. Not only had the scarecrow been cut in half—but the wall behind it and the earthbeneath it bore the undeniable marks of your strike. An indomitable rush of cursed energy coursed through you, yet, it did not seek to devour you as it once did. Instead, it yielded to your will, becoming an instrument of your focused intent.

"You did it!" Megumi hastened toward you, his hand tenderly encompassing yours on the katana, signalling a gentle reassurance to relax your taut grip, which had whitened your knuckles.

You nodded, a cascade of fatigue intertwining with the residual adrenaline. "Thanks to you."

He gently shook his head, a soft smile blooming upon his features. "This was all you. Your strength. Your determination."

Megumi, his fingers still gently encircling yours, guided your trembling hands—and the katana they clutched—downwards with tender care, allowing you to disengage from the weapon, both metaphorically and physically.

As the blade met the ground with a melodic chime, its reverberation through the still air was nearly drowned by the frantic beating of your heart. The tangible warmth from his touch enveloped your hand, contradicting the chill of the metal beneath your fingers and soothing the quivers that shuddered through you.

"I couldn't have done it without you."

Indeed. Megumi, with his unwavering gaze and constant support, had become an unwavering pillar during your tumultuous journey. He embodied a home in the midst of chaos. Your soul ached with the longing for him to see you in a similar light, to recognise in you the same home and friendship he so generously gave you.

He countered softly, "I merely observed. You did the effort."

"Will you just accept a compliment for once, Megumi?"

A genuine chuckle bubbled from your lips, a lightness that you hadn't felt in so long time. And then, Yuji and Nobara entered, dressed in their school uniforms, and broke the serenity with their cheerful urgency. "Time's ticking, let's roll!"

Their gazes flickered to the subtle intertwinement of your hands with Megumi's, before being irresistibly drawn to the pronounced remnants of destruction adorning the training area. Nobara's mouth agape, she mustered, "I'm guessing you got the hang of it?"

"It seems so!" you beamed.

Yuji's eyes, alight with unbridled admiration and shimmering like distant stars, gazed upon you as if you had adorned a cape and mask, emerging as a beloved superhero from a realm of dreams and tales. "I need to hear all about this!"

"Class first," Megumi interjected.

But your only contribution to the day's class was the harmonious symphony of your steady breathing, intertwined with Megumi's, as slumber swiftly claimed you both. Sitting side by side, shoulders nearly touching, you allowed the gentle cadence of his breaths, subtly syncing with yours, to lull you into a well-deserved rest amidst the crowded classroom. 

Megumi, despite the stoic facade he often wore, succumbed to the fatigue as well, his proximity providing a sense of tranquility that allowed the both of you a moment of peaceful respite. The rest of the class might be whispering, speculating, but in this shared tranquility, the world outside ceased to matter.

****

Sunlight dappled through the leaves overhead, casting a mottled shadow upon the café table where you all sat. The air was animated with the pleasant hum of conversation and the occasional clink of cutlery against plates.

A gentle breeze wafted through, carrying with it the sweet scent of autumn, an easy familiarity enveloping the group as you all enjoyed a brief respite from the rigours of your responsibilities as Jujutsu sorcerers—a rare moment of peace away from curses and training.

Yuji's hands fluttered about as he spoke, acting out the scene for added dramatic effect. "Picture this: I spot an old lady, seemingly distressed, and I'm thinking—convinced—that she's being plagued by a curse. I was all geared up, ready for a tussle," he paused, eyes gleaming with a mischievous, yet slightly embarrassed twinkle, "—only to discover it was just a super ugly dog!"

Nobara's laughter exploded in the tranquil outdoor space, a hand hastily dabbing at the laughter-induced tear meandering down her cheek. "Yuji, seriously? Only you could get into such a mess!"

Chuckling, you playfully chided him, "Of all the crazy things you've done, Yuji, mistaking a dog for a curse might top the list."

"In my defense—," he began, puffing his chest out with a brazen grin painted across his face, "—it was gigantic and emanated this bizarre, sorta eerie aura, okay?"

Megumi fought back a burgeoning grin. "None of that explains why you're 20 minutes late though, does it?"

"It does!" Yuji insisted, nodding vehemently. "I was primed to attack, right? But the grandma thought I was a mugger or something, and started assaulting me with her purse!"

Nobara nearly spit out her drink, gasping between her laughter. "She did what? Yuji, you're an absolute catastrophe!"

Yuji shrugged, unabashed. "You have no idea—I was legitimately fighting for my life out there!"

You leaned back in your chair, your laughter mingling with that of your friends, relishing the lightness of the moment. It was these times—times when you could forget the darkness, the curses, and the constant looming threat that shadowed your existence as Jujutsu sorcerers—that felt like a balm to your weary soul.

In the midst of the lively chatter and laughter, your phone vibrated subtly against the tabletop. Unnoticed by the others, its screen lit up, an unread message blinking in the upper corner. Satoru.

Your eyes flicked down, momentarily drawn away from Yuji's animated recounting, but you resisted the urge to pick up the device. The moment was too precious, too infused with a rare lightness that you were reluctant to shatter with the encroachment of him.

So, you allowed yourself to be swept back into the narratives of bizarre encounters and near-miss adventures your friends so lively shared.

Several minutes ticked by, but eventually, curiosity coerced your attention back to the device. Your fingers hesitated, then gently swiped the message open.

"Pack your bags. We leave in an hour".

HA?

Indignation flickered through you, a spark of rebellion against his presumptive demand. Why, exactly, should you jump at his command? Satoru was hardly one to require assistance, a point he'd demonstrated time and again. Thus, you opted to dismiss his message, submerging yourself back into the cheerful flow of your friends' banter.

However, your screen flickered once more.

"Playing hard to get, are we?"

HAAA?

Your jaw tightened. His audacity, it seemed, knew no bounds. Your fingers danced across the display with a fierce intensity. "Handle it yourself, you jerk."

The digital space enveloped in silence, your bold words lingered unanswered, suspended in a virtual abyss for an agonizingly elongated thirty minutes. Then, starkly and without warning, a shadow—imposing and uninvited—unfolded across the table.

"Time to go." Satoru's voice cut through the chatter, his eyes lingering on yours.

You must be kidding me.

Your eyes narrowed, a rebellion burning in your gaze. "I told you, Satoru, I'm not—"

But before the sentence could fully form on your lips, a swift, well-practiced movement from him had you lifted over his shoulder, the world tilting as you were hoisted over his broad shoulder with a grace that belied his strength.

"SATORU!" Your voice came out as an outraged scream, flustered and completely confused by the audacious maneuver. Your hands beat against his back in a futile protest, legs kicking air as he strolled—all too casually—toward his car.

"Feisty as ever, my love," he retorted, a playful smirk curling along his lips, entirely undisturbed by your vehement protestations.

"Put me down, you asshole!"

Satoru's voice, low and for your ears only, murmured against your skin, "You have a unique talent for testing my patience with your stubbornness, you know".

****

Your fingers glided across your phone's screen, crafting a brief message to Megumi: "I'm okay. Probably." Exhaling deeply, you could feel your shoulders gently relent their tension, sinking a little more into the car seat.

Your eyes wandered towards Satoru, stopping at his unexpected, but undeniably attractive, casual attire. The fabric of his white shirt, unexpectedly sheer against his skin, clung to the sculpted curves of his muscular arms, the sleeves mischievously forced upwards, stopping just below his elbows.

Dark, meticulously tailored dress trousers adorned his legs, providing a stark contrast and a subtle edge to the otherwise relaxed ensemble. It was such a departure from his typical attire that it was enough to make your stomach clench.

Your thoughts fluttered, curiously picking at the threads of his unexpected choice of clothing. Sensing your silent scrutiny, a flicker of mischief flashed in Satoru's eyes.

"Not gonna ask?"

"Is there a way out if I do?"

With an amused curve of his mouth, he simply said, "Nope."

You sank even deeper into your seat. "Alright, guess I'll just roll with it."

Your gaze lingered on him a moment longer, silently tracing the contours of his frame. Watching him drive was an unfamiliar sight. His control over the vehicle, his hand steady on the wheel. You didn't even know he had a licence.

Your fingers unconsciously moved to your mouth, nibbling lightly on your nails. "Logically, there's no reason I should accompany you on a mission."

His response was almost too nonchalant, "Maybe I get lonely without you."

"We both know that's far from the truth."

"Is it?" His eyes lingered on you, perhaps a tad too long for your comfort. Silence sprawled out between you, a tangible tension weaving through it.

"I told you I wouldn't leave your side," he spoke, his jaw visibly tightening, "—so, if I must leave for a mission, you're coming with me."

"That's ridiculous, Satoru. I've been doing just fine these past few weeks without your protection."

His tone carried a weight that feathered across your skin. "You really have no idea, do you?"

Your brow quirked. "Huh?"

His voice dropped, low and sore. "You think I wasn't watching your every step these last weeks? Observing every early morning training with Megumi, every single time his hands dared to graze your skin, every dinner you had in town, and every second you slept soundly through the night?"

And then, it hit you—Satoru looked tired. Not the usual 'I've had a long day' kind of tired, but something deeper, something that maybe only you could spot in that moment. His eyes flickered with a subtle fatigue that crinkled softly at their edges. A kind of weariness you hadn't seen before, tiredness that made your heart ache.

His defenses momentarily quelled, Satoru, for once, was laid bare before you—not as the unassailable figure he perennially projected, but simply as a man who wanted to protect the one he loved.

"I didn't ask you to."

His muscles tensed, eyes hard yet a flicker of something softer lingered within them. "You don't have to. I'm protecting what's mine."

The atmosphere thickened, tension hanging palpable between you, your senses acutely aware of every detail: the slightly too tight grip of his fingers on the steering wheel, the subtle frown marking his brows, the rhythm of his breath, even the pulsing of his steady heartbeat. Your own, meanwhile, stuttered erratically.

Your response was a mere breath, barely trespassing upon the charged air. "We're friends, Satoru."

He glanced at you, a slow, deliberate move, his eyes, in that brief, fleeting moment, bared a vulnerability that you'd never seen—or perhaps never noticed—before.

"Yes, Friends," he murmured, turning his focus back to the road, a subtle shiver threading through his words.

The remainder of the drive was bathed in an uncomfortable silence. Each passing mile seemed to stretch on indefinitely, the only accompaniment being the low hum of the car's engine and the gentle rhythm of tires rolling over the asphalt.

The landscape outside shifted, transitioning from urban sprawl to open countryside, yet its beauty went largely unnoticed. For your part, you gazed out of the window, eyes unfocused, taking in the world without truly seeing it.

Every so often, you'd steel yourself to steal a glance in Satoru's direction. But each time, you were met with that same guarded expression, that same set jawline that spoke of a man grappling with thoughts. The defeated look in his eyes behind the glasses unbearable.

It hurt. Even after all this time.

****

The car eased into a secluded area, obscured by looming trees and doused in the tranquil blanket of the nighttime. The destination, it seemed, was far removed from the bustling life and inherent dangers that typically accompanied Satoru's missions.

As the engine hummed to a stop, a tranquil silence enveloped the surroundings, providing a stark contrast to the tempest of emotions swirling within the car's confines.

You exhaled, a slow release of breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding, as you unbuckled the seatbelt and gently pushed the car door open, the night's cool air softly caressing your skin.

Satoru exited the car, opened the trunk, revealing an array of bags and equipment. Drawn closer, your eyes were captured by a bag distinctly familiar—indubitably yours. "You packed for me?" You blinked in veiled surprise, a playful undertone weaving through your words, "And you ventured into my room?"

His eyes met yours, a boyish grin playing effortlessly on his lips. "Nothing I haven't seen before".

Privacy—a potential discussion, yet now shelved for a later debrief. Your intent to claim the bag was thwarted by his swift procurement of both yours and his own, fluidly securing them as he shut the trunk. His form began its progression towards the lodge, barely visible in the shadows of this remote area.

"Satoru?" Your voice gently perforated the night as you followed him. "What the hell is this mission all about?"

He exhaled, the faintest hint of hesitation coloring his admission. "They needed someone strong for this curse," his words, though hushed and contemplative, held an edge, "—it's a bit more complex than the usual."

Alarm flickered through you, eyes instinctively darting towards him. "So, is it really smart for me to be here, especially with a strong curse floating around?"

He paused, swiveling toward you, the stupid smile still lingering on his lips. "With me around, you'll probably be fine."

"Your God Complex is showing, Satoru."

You approached the lodge, a cozy albeit slightly worn-down building nestled in the heart of the remote area. As they stepped inside the lodge, the decor screamed of a charmingly rustic aesthetic, making you chuckle.

There was a quaint charm in its dated wallpaper and the creaky wooden floors beneath your feet. You glanced around, noting the relatively vacant environment, save for an elderly gentleman behind the counter.

Satoru approached the front desk. "Reservation for Gojo," he declared, a confident smirk etched onto his features.

The elderly man peered at you both over his spectacles, a curious twinkle in his eyes, before glancing down at the reservation book. "Ah, yes. The honeymoon suite. Quite a popular choice for young couples."

You choked on the air, "Honeymoon what?"

Satoru simply flashed a dazzling smile your way, ignoring the disbelief painted across your face. "That's right."

"But we're not—" you began, only to be cut off by Satoru's arm snaking around your waist, pulling you slightly closer.

He leaned in, his voice taking on a saccharine-sweet tone, "Love, you know it's silly to book separate rooms now that we're married."

"Married?!" You barely managed to keep your voice steady, throwing him a mock glare. "In what universe, Satoru?"

"In this one, apparently," he whispered, mischief lighting up his eyes.

What's wrong with his man.

As the gentleman handed Satoru a key with an approving nod, you turned to the gentleman, offering an apologetic smile. "I'm so sorry about him. We're not really—"

"Sweetheart, don't apologize. Let's not make a scene," Satoru interjected, shooting you a sly wink as he gently tugged you away from the counter, key in hand.

Finding yourself weaving through a corridor, guided by his assertive yet gentle touch on your back. Satoru's fingers enveloped the quaint, antique key, turning it in the lock with a soft click. The door gently swung open, revealing a room awash in the gentle glow of ambient lighting, the delicate scent of roses permeating the air.

You blinked at the sight that unfolded before you. The room, undeniably beautiful, was adorned in what could only be described as quintessential honeymoon décor. A lavish bed, blanketed in delicate rose petals, stood as the room's focal point, while a scattering of softly flickering candles cast a gentle, romantic light across the space.

You could only stare, a combination of disbelief and amusement dancing in your eyes as you took in the careful, romantic arrangement that had clearly been made with a newlywed couple in mind.

Turning toward Satoru, you caught the barely-contained chuckle in his throat, his eyes shimmering with an undeniable joy.

"Satoru, what on earth—"

Carelessly, he strolled into the room, carefully setting down the bags before theatrically collapsing onto the petal-strewn bed with a contented sigh. "I know what you're thinking," he began, his words slightly muffled by the plush bedding, "but this was the best room they had."

"And it didn't occur to you to mention that we aren't married?"

He propped himself up on his elbows, a smirk curling at his lips. "The look on your face? Absolutely worth it."

"You're ridiculous, you know that?" you parried, leaning against the doorframe, "Didn't it cross your mind to book two rooms?"

He sat up, meeting your gaze steadily. "You think I'd let you sleep alone in another room when there's a strong curse lurking around?"

Your eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You didn't have any ulterior motives in mind?"

He raised a hand, palm facing forward in a gesture of innocence. "I swear."

Sure.

But it was there—a subtle flicker in his eyes, and you found yourself inexorably drawn towards him despite your resolve. Your heart pulsed with a gentle yearning, fluttering softly against the protective walls you'd so carefully built. To be drawn to him, to be seduced by his unspoken words, and at the same time to fight to protect yourself from his potential pain—that was torture.

His allure was not simply physical but an emotional, magnetic pull that tugged at something deep within you, something that perhaps, you weren't entirely ready to acknowledge or explore. Every soft smile he shared, every lingering look, they pricked at your defenses, causing minuscule fractures in the fortress safeguarding your heart.

"We're friends, Satoru."

His expression sobered, the playful gleam now subdued, "I'm trying my best to remember that."

You stepped into the room, your footsteps soft against the lush carpet. Rose petals were scattered across the white duvet, and a bottle of champagne chilled in a silver bucket beside a small bouquet of flowers on a table near the window.

Struggling to maintain a serious demeanor amidst the clearly romantic setup, a playful smirk teased at your lips.

"Should I start calling you 'husband' then, if we're playing the part?"

But the levity of your comment seemed to falter in the air, as you noticed the subtle catch in his throat and the way his jaw clenched for a moment. "Forget it," you quickly amended, reaching for the champagne, eager to introduce a new focus. "We should get this open."

He offered a half-smile, a shadow of his earlier mischief lingering. "I'm not much of a drinker."

"Fantastic," you returned, easing the cork from the bottle, "more for me, then."

Oh, it was going to take a fair amount of alcohol to get through this night.

****

The gentle hum of inebriation softened the edges of the world around you as you lounged languidly in an armchair, a half-empty bottle of champagne cradled in your hand. Satoru, with all his languorous grace, sprawled across the bed, an inscrutable gaze fastened intently upon you.

"And then—then, Yuji, he—he looked at this giant poodle, right? And he was so sure, Satoru, so sure that it was a curse!"

A guffaw erupted from Satoru, his form undulating with the force of his laughter, the sound a warm, vibrant echo in the romantically adorned room. But his eyes, oh, those eyes, never veered from you. A simmering intensity, an emotion undefinable yet visceral, lingered within them, caressing you with a tenderness that teetered on the brink of too much.

In your tipsy state, the narrative continued to weave through flares of hilarity and absurdity, "—he was so ready to exorcise that poor dog! Had his stance and everything!"

But even amid the mirth, you were wholly aware of Satoru's gaze, the steady beam of his attention, undeterred and unyielding. It was almost too potent, the way his eyes seared into you, both exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure.

As the echoes of your laughter dwindled, replaced by the palpable silence burgeoning with unspoken words, you shifted in your seat, a meek defense against the onslaught of his unrelenting gaze.

Heart raced, yet you found your voice, albeit wobbly, "Don't—don't look at me like that, Satoru."

He propped himself up on his elbows, the soft glow of the room's ambient lighting gilding his form with a tender, almost magical aura. His voice, smooth and laced with a sincerity that pierced through the alcoholic haze. "Like what?"

"Like—," a pause lingered, a fragile thing suspended amidst the serenity and the storm both threatening and promising to engulf you, "—like I'm your everything."

His eyes softened, yet the intensity within them did not wane, merely transmuting into something even more intense.

"You are—," he whispered, a simple confession, yet laced with an undertone of bitterness, "You are everything to me."

And there it lingered, suspended amidst the petals and the soft glow of the room.

"Don't say that."

"Don't ask then."

"That's not fair."

"Maybe." He began to stand, each deliberate step towards you echoing in the charged silence, "But here, we don't have to hide," he murmured, closing the diminishing gap between you, "—here, we're just a man and a woman, a married couple far from Tokyo."

"I hate you," the words, a tender contradiction, drifted into the delicate space separating your lips from his.

"I know," he breathed, his arms coming to rest on either side of your chair, imprisoning yet protective, "—I can accept that, as long as you'resafe."

His proximity was a furnace igniting every nerve ending into a frenzied state of awareness. Retreat was a tempting illusion, his nearness a siren's call inviting surrender, stirring a turmoil of restrained desires. He lingered on the precipice, an intricate dance of restraint and desire reflected in eyes that quietly pleaded and promised all in a single glance.

"We should get some rest," though his voice was steady, his eyes, drowning in restrained longing, told an entirely different story.

"Satoru—," your voice wavered, trembling against the temptation mere breaths away. Your neck arched so sharply to maintain that intoxicating proximity to his lips, you almost winced. Every exhale of his brushed warmly against your lips, every shaky inhale felt like it was drawing you in further, until you were both just teetering on that razor-sharp edge between giving in and holding back.

"I know," his breath, shaky, warm, against your lips, "I hate it too."

Your whole body was practically screaming under the strain, your neck pulled tight in a delicate arch to stay that close to him, muscles trembling with the effort. Your breaths mingled in the tiny space between you, hitched and ragged, a testament to the sheer restraint being exercised in maintaining that fragile distance.

It was like an invisible force field held you apart, despite the fact your entire being seemed to magnetically pull towards him.

In his gaze, the world beyond seemed to dissolve, its warnings rendered moot, every ounce of attention fixed on the gentle caress of breath against skin, and eyes that held worlds of silent pleas and promises. And there you lingered, a breath away from falling, from surrender, lost in a gaze that bore the weight of emotions unvoiced, yet palpably felt in every charged particle of the air around you.

With a shuddering breath, Satoru turned away, creating an immediate, almost tangible void where the warmth of his proximity once lingered. The room seemed to shrink around you, every rose petal, every softly glowing light now feeling impossibly distant and blurred by the sudden pain in your veins.

In that instant, a bitter realization came, more profound and cutting than any epiphany before—there wasn't a place on this Earth where you could flee to escape him, the deep-seated pain that his mere presence elicited within you.

Inside you, longing wove a tapestry of pain, wrapping tightly around every thought and emotion until you were bound by it, held captive by the silent cries of a heart pushed to its limit.

****

A harsh splash of water against tiles jolted you from your precarious perch between wakefulness and the somber sanctuary of sleep. Dazed, you blinked into the semi-darkness, the remnants of last night's melancholy wrapping itself around you like a shroud, heavy and all too familiar.

Your head throbbed, the remnants of alcohol-induced haze still coursing through your veins and the fragmented memories of the night before slowly knitting themselves back together in your consciousness. Satoru. The tenderness in his eyes, the tangible yearning that hovered in the space between you, and the impassable wall that came crashing down.

You pushed yourself into a sitting position, a hand gently massaging your temple as you tried to steady the world that seemed to be insisting on tipping off its axis.

The romantic ambiance was gone, every candle extinguished, every rose petal swept away.

Moments later, the bathroom door creaked open, unleashing a waft of steam that lazily swirled into the bedroom. Satoru emerged, a single towel slung low around his hips, droplets of water tracing paths down his defined torso.

His hair, darker when wet, clung to his forehead in damp tendrils. His eyes shining as always as they met yours, without sunglasses or a blindfold clouding them.

"Good morning."

Satoru's voice broke through your haze, his signature cockiness more comforting than you'd like to admit. Your eyes narrowed slightly, though the effect was somewhat lost given your state.

"Is it?" you replied, groaning as you held a hand to your aching head.

Without a word, he flipped an aspirin in your direction. "—for the headache."

One won't be enough, probably.

Your eyes tracked him, watching as he ambled around the room, gathering his clothes. The low-slung towel from earlier had been replaced, but the image remained, and you couldn't help but sneak a glance or two.

"That's sexual harassment, you know?"

You smirked, echoing his words from the night before. "Nothing I haven't seen before."

Swinging your legs over the edge of the bed, you padded over to your bag, sifting through for something to wear after your impending shower.

From the bathroom, his voice echoed slightly, muffled by the walls. "What do you want for breakfast?"

The thought of food made your stomach flip. "Just coffee."

He reappeared in the doorway, now fully dressed, shooting you an incredulous look. "Coffee isn't breakfast."

"It is."

"You're something else, you know that?"

"I'll take that as a compliment."

Navigating the space, you drew closer to him. The room felt smaller, charged. As you reached the bathroom door, he made way for you. There was a moment, a fleeting brush of shoulders, a shared breath. The memories of last night heavily in the air.

Not now, you thought, not today. But in the depths of your heart, you wondered if there'd ever be a day when he wouldn't affect you quite this way.

Chilled air grazed your bare skin as you exited the bathroom, a cascade of water trailing down from your damp hair. Clad only in underwear and pants, you aimed an exasperated yell into the calm ambiance of the room, "Satoru, where did you put all my tops?!"

He barely glanced up from his phone, unbothered by the urgency in your voice, or the semi-exposed state he found you in. "Maybe I put them in my bag," he responded, a casual lilt to his voice that only slightly betrayed his intrigue.

Your feet padded softly on the floor, moving towards his bag. The brief journey across the room felt extensive under his subtle scrutiny.

"Here they are," you mumbled, mostly to yourself, feeling a strange twinge in your stomach at the unintentional intimacy of mingled belongings.

Retreating back to the bathroom, a soft inquiry tethered you in place. "Does it still hurt?"

You paused, instinctually knowing his eyes traced the rugged line of the scar that blazed a path down your back. "It doesn't."

"You know Shoko could fix that."

Facing him, your eyes locked onto his. "I don't want her to fix it. It's a reminder that this world is not fair."

"You're just torturing yourself."

Sardonic laughter barely crept into your voice as you met his accusation, "Takes one to know one, huh?"

Silence settled between you, perforated only by the soft drips of water from your hair to the floor. He averted his eyes from yours as he rose, a newfound stiffness in his posture. "I'll wait outside," he mumbled, sidestepping the invisible barrier that had grown between you. Wrapping yourself in a top, you exhaled a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding, the fabric gently brushing against the scar.

Heading Downstairs, the murmur of the morning crowd in the dining room was a soothing hum, the scent of freshly brewed coffee wafting through the air, providing a semblance of normalcy. Through the window, Satoru's form etched against the emerging light of the day on the terrace.

The crisp breeze kissed your skin with its autumn chill as you stepped outside, hastily pulling on your jacket. His eyes lifted to meet yours, his wet hair grazing his forehead, providing a fleeting distraction from the intensity of his gaze.

"Black coffee, your 'breakfast'," he said softly, a warm cup extending towards you.

Accepting the cup, your fingers fluttered momentarily against his. "Thank you."

His eyes, devoid of their usual shield, met yours with a nakedness that was almost too raw to behold. "Skipping the sunglasses today?"

A part of you missed the familiar shield that his sunglasses provided, granting you a reprieve from the depth of his gaze, that seemed to always see too much, feel too much.

He sighed, eyes briefly diverting towards the distant horizon, "Something's amiss today."

"What do you mean?"

"I can't place it," he mused, bringing the cup to his lips, "—but I want to be prepared, especially with you here."

Satoru. Stop.

"And the curse we're hunting?"

A momentary stillness enveloped him before he spoke, "It's already here." His stance subtly shifted as he eased away from the railing.

Huh?

"Stay back," his eyebrows knitting together even as a cynical smile played upon his lips. "—we're dealing with a special grade cursed spirit."

HUH?

Satoru's piercing eyes flickered a mere second before chaos erupted, an immense force shattering the serenity of the morning. With an almost imperceptible movement, he was before you, his shimmering, vast, cursed energy unfolding with devastating beauty. The cursed spirit, grotesque and dripping with malevolent energy, lunged with astonishing speed, aiming directly at you.

Just as the malevolent force was about to collide, Satoru parried, an invisible barrier of his own cursed energy deflecting most of the blow. Still, the residual shockwave was devastating, bursting outward, a storm of shattered timber and screaming metal splitting the once-silent dawn.

The lodge behind you was violently engulfed, splinters of wood and shards of glass scattered, suspended as if time itself had been torn apart. For a second you stood, frozen in the midst of the devastation, a stage set of wreckage all around you.

"Help the people escape!" His voice, amidst the chaos, was an unwavering command.

Your limbs, though trembling, pushed you backward, the adrenaline sharpening your senses. As you pulled away, the fight between Satoru and the cursed spirit intensified, their movements almost too fast and brutal to discern, intertwined flashes of cursed energy colliding and recoiling with devastating effect.

Panic. Chaos.

Sirens wail in the depths of your ears as shrapnel from the once idyllic lodge sprays across the landscape, razor sharp and merciless. No time. No time to process the hellish scene as your body moved on an instinctive impulse, hurtling through the carnage.

Smoke and dust clogged your lungs, your eyes, and yet through the sting you saw them—a huddled mass of terrified faces, trapped beneath a grotesque sculpture of shattered wood and twisted metal.

Adrenaline drove you forward, hands working with feverish precision, tossing aside the wreckage, clutching desperately at the shivering bodies beneath. The child's tear-streaked face is etched in your memory, wide eyes piercing through the chaos, seeing salvation in your outstretched hand.

"Move!" you shouted, your voice a whip that cut through the chaos, sending the child sprinting towards the tree line.

Behind you, an unholy thunder, a tempest of cursed energy and malevolence that blackened the sky, twisted and turned, the battle between specters and the spectral, unseen but felt in every thunderous crash, every shockwave that rattled through the splintering earth. 

The child—stumbling, crying—disappeared into the embrace of the forest, its safety a cold comfort against the war raging behind you. A fleeting glance towards Satoru, you saw him, a symphony of power and finesse, every strike, every dodge a testament to his immense skill.

But the cursed spirit was relentless, an embodiment of pure malevolence, unleashing wave after wave of harrowing attacks, each one threatening to dismantle the very earth on which they fought.

Why doesn't he lure the curse away? If he continues to fight so close they will kill these people here. But there was no time to think.

Another trapped, another to save.

In the rubble, a man cried out, blood streaking down his face, his leg trapped by a massive beam, splintered and impaled on the shattered floor. The acrid stench of charred wood burned your nostrils as you rushed toward him, dodging the remains of a once sturdy structure now reduced to a death trap.

You grabbed the beam, muscles screaming, splinters embedded in your palms as you heaved with every ounce of your strength. The wood groaned but stubbornly held, the man's screams growing louder, cutting through the din of the ongoing battle.

"Hang on!" You screamed through clenched teeth, your veins pulsing as your eyes desperately scanned the wreckage for something, anything, to use as leverage.

The man's hand gripped your ankle, his eyes, wide and terrified, locked with yours, a silent plea etched into every crease of his pain-stricken face. A fresh explosion detonated behind you, a sinister crescendo of cursed energy that sent shadows dancing wildly through the chaos.

Debris, relentless and indiscriminate, rained down as the remains of the lodge groaned ominously, threatening imminent collapse. In this perilous moment, the bitter taste of despair clawed at your throat, every second a taunt against the relentless march of time.

Weak. Weak. Weak. Weak.

Swallowing hard, your eyes traced the cruel angle of the beam, down to where it impaled flesh and bone, understanding, reluctant and horrified, blooming in your chest. Your hands, slick with sweat and stained with his blood, trembled.

"We have to," you began, voice barely a whisper, your words choked by a thick knot in your throat, "I have to—your leg, I..."

His eyes, already dulling with agony, flickered with an understanding just as terrible. "Do it," he breathed, a single tear escaping to trail down his cheek, "please."

Shuddering, you reached to your side, your fingers closing around the hilt of your blade. Its familiar, cool touch offered no comfort as you lifted it, the steel glinting ominously amidst the wreckage. You steadied your hand, whispered a hoarse apology into the desperate silence, and lowered the blade.

A scream, raw and soul-shattering, tore through the air, intertwining with a sound you hadn't realized was your own sobbing until your vision blurred with tears. You turned away, the sight of his newly freed, mutilated form too much, but the haunting echo of his agony remained, an indelible stain on your conscience.

Adrenaline coursed through your veins as you tightly wrapped your jacket around the man's bleeding stump, trying to staunch the flow.

"Stay with me," you whispered, voice barely steady, hands shaking as you worked, nothing left of your usual surgical precision.

Then a sudden, intense presence emerged behind you. "Found you."

Panic struck as the malevolent presence loomed, its aura sickeningly oppressive, instantly suffocating the area. Your heart raced, pulsing violently against your ribs as the enormous curse lunged forward, a sinister grin distorting its hideous features.

Your hand wrapped around the hilt of your blade, instinctively positioning your body between the injured man and the approaching curse.

No time. No options.

You thrust your katana up, deflecting his hideous blow with a guttural scream, the impact reverberating violently through your bones. Your name, a tortured scream, echoed from afar—Satoru, fighting, reaching, his eyes burning with fear.

But he was bound, more curses leaping into his path, sneering, cackling, weaving a sinister barricade between you. His blows were deadly, precise, but for every curse he struck, another rose, an endless tide of malevolence keeping him at bay.

It was a trap.

But you would not fall here.

Not today.

The wind screamed through broken windows, carrying shards of splintered wood and glass. The hollow, menacing gaze of the curse pierced into you, an abyss of malevolence that saw you, saw through you. With a swift, voracious energy, it lunged again. 

Your legs tensed, foot slammed forward. The curse was sent sliding back across a minefield of shattered remains. Without hesitation, your katana was a silver flash, striking, aiming to extinguish the threat in an instant.

The curse howled, agony and rage intertwining in its grotesque features. Yet, in a mere heartbeat, the curse was back on its feet, lunging into another assault.

Your breath hitched as the curse's claws barely missed your torso, grazing your arm instead. Blood, vivid and scarlet, sprayed into the cold air, staining your clothing and grounding the pain in reality. Stumbling backwards, you fought against the fog of agony that tried to cloud your vision, gritting your teeth to keep a scream behind them. Memories, ghosts of Satoru's words, haunted the chaos of your mind.

You can't always rely on physical strength alone.

Sweat trickled down your forehead and mingled with the blood that now traced a warm path down your limb. Fingers, slick with your own blood, clenched around your katana as you forced coherence through the throbbing pain.

You can't always rely on physical strength alone.

Again. And again. Every muscle screamed, echoing the haunting refrain.

You can't always rely on physical strength alone.

Another slash. Another barely dodged blow from the curse as your muscles began to betray you, weakening with each passing moment. All that remained through the chaos was the distant, pained echo of your name, haunting your ears.

You can't always rely on physical strength alone.

The curse unleashed a assault, nearly driving you to your knees. With every ounce of your remaining strength, you parried its vicious claws with your blade, barely preventing your own beheading.

You can't always rely on physical strength alone.

I will not fall here.

You can't always rely on physical strength alone.

Not today.

You can't always rely on physical strength alone.

Satoru's distant screams, calling your name, echoed through the chaos.

You can't always rely on physical strength alone.

You can't always rely on physical strength alone.

You can't always rely on physical strength alone.

NOT TODAY.

Cursed energy. Your own cursed energy. Dark, powerful, consuming, it tore through you, an infernal storm that threatened to swallow you whole. Fury and pain. Your katana sank into the curse, this dark, roiling energy rippling outward, contaminating everything it touched with devastating precision. But even as the creature before you disintegrated into the abyss, the torrent of cursed power refused to dissipate.

Your whole being throbbed with it, wild, uncontrolled, an explosion held back only by the fragile remnants of your sanity. It screamed through your veins, a cataclysmic tide that threatened to pull you under and tear apart everything left in its wake.

"Suppress it!" Satoru's voice, once a distant echo, now pierced through the chaos, frighteningly close, yet muffled beneath the tumult.

Satoru was there, appearing like a ghost through the remaining mist of the extinguished curse, his eyes wide, reflecting the chaos that enveloped you. His voice cracked with rawness as he shouted your name, fear running through every syllable.

"Stop it! It's over!" His words pierced the howling in your ears, desperate, pleading. But the maelstrom within resisted, rebelled against the confines of control, searing through you with a malevolence that burned every nerve, every fiber of your being.

Satoru, despair etched into every line of his face, lunged forward, arms wrapping you in a protective shell as the cursed energy writhed, seeking escape, seeking destruction. His voice, a soothing sound amidst the chaos, whispered pleas in your ear. "It's over."

And there, wrapped within the sanctuary of his arms, something inside you quivered, flickered beneath the storm. His warmth seeped through, a sharp contrast against the biting cold of the cursed power that still surged around you.

But the cursed energy of yours, began to snake through him, his infinity struggling, wavering beneath its cruel, insidious touch. You could feel it, hear the choked gasp that escaped him as it clawed at his defenses, his body tensing against the unexpected assault.

He didn't release you, didn't retreat from the danger that now bled through you into him. Instead, he clung tighter, his words a lighthouse in the tempest's fury. "It's over. You can let it go."

And in that moment, with the scent of him surrounding you, his voice a desperate lifeline, something within you clenched, teetering on the precipice between control and catastrophe. The tidal wave of energy trembled, hanging suspended in that eternal instant, its devastating potential balanced against the fragile thread of your regained composure.

Suddenly, the torrent of cursed energy ceased as abruptly as it had been unleashed, as if snuffed out by some unseen force. It was a sudden silence, an eerie calm that replaced the maelstrom that had threatened to engulf everything in its path only moments before.

Your body, deprived of the storm that had raged through it, faded, all strength drained in the aftermath of the catastrophic tide.

Satoru, still holding you in the fortress of his arms, staggered slightly under your sudden weight, the exhale that escaped him something between relief and lingering fear. Your body was a limp entity in his embrace, your consciousness flickering.

Gently, carefully, he lowered you to the ground, his hands cupping your head, fingers brushing away strands of hair that clung to your sweat-soaked forehead. His voice, though calmer now, still trembled with the remnants of terror, his words a soft murmur against the silence that now pervaded the scene.

"Stay with me, love."

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[floral-force]

Of Brown Eyes and Desert Skies

cowboy!din djarin x f!reader - old west/western au oneshot

summary: When a new man storms into the saloon you work at, you're instantly terrified--and captivated. But as he lingers in town and stirs up trouble with every step, you question who the brown-eyed man is underneath the poncho, and if he really is just a bounty killer at his core.

words: 10.7k+

warnings/tags: EXPLICIT. 18+ ONLY. smut (rough, fingering, oral, riding, doggy style, spitting, spanking), period-typical violence (not graphic) and sexism (not from din), the helmet hat comes off, din is morally gray and not always nice, barmaid!reader

a/n: This is heavily inspired by Sergio Leone's Dollars Trilogy and the Man with No Name. Please mind the tags.

read on ao3 | masterlist

When he stormed into the saloon, you knew he was trouble. You had an eye for these things, a sixth sense for danger. 

A hush fell over the crowd of people when the swinging doors opened. The stranger’s eyes narrowed under his black Stetson hat, and a cloth covered his face below them, the plain beige fabric laying over the earthy green poncho draped over broad shoulders. The brim of his hat cast a shadow over the few inches of exposed skin. You nearly dropped the glass you were drying when he started to walk over to you in those stiff, dark denim pants, the bottom of a brown leather holster bouncing on his thick right thigh, heavy with a hidden weight. 

Something within you stirred, scorching your skin. He sat down on a stool right in front of where you worked and conversation within the saloon picked up again. His severe gaze burned a hole through you, and you took a step back, suddenly conscious of the sweat on the back of your neck and the heat coiling low in your gut. The sweat starting to dot your forehead certainly wasn’t from the heat of high noon, the sun hanging in a cloudless blue sky.

“Can I get you somethin’, sir?”

“Whiskey,” he said, his voice gravelly but smooth at the same time. Seductive and sultry. 

You nodded and turned around, pulling a bottle of amber liquid off the bar shelf and grabbing a low glass. You could feel him staring at you as you poured, heat prickling your ears. You told him the price and he shifted to the side, digging money out of his pocket. 

“Keep the change.” 

“Thank you, sir.”

You gave him a smile and walked over to the register, entering the sale. You stashed the change in the jar you kept next to it, happy to see it slowly getting filled to the brim. You didn’t make too much here, but you had no other choice. It wasn’t a bad job, but it came with its problems—drunk men getting handsy or bold being the overwhelming one. When you’d arrived here all those years ago, it was either working as a barmaid or a laundress. You chose the former, and you didn’t regret it. It just meant you ran into interesting people, and this man was no exception—he’d made that clear when his brown boots stomped across the old wooden floor.

“‘Scuse me, miss?” 

The man called out to you, and you quickly walked over to him, spreading your arms out and leaning forward. He was swirling his glass in a lightly tanned hand, a blue cuff settled over his wrist. You wondered if his hands felt rough, how they’d feel on the soft skin of your waist. 

You swallowed thickly. “Yes, sir?”

“You know if the sheriff here has any bounties out?”

Oh, shit. He was one of them. “Mm-mm.” You shook your head. “I haven’t heard or seen anythin’.”

He nodded and set his glass down, leaning forward and staring into your eyes, his brow set. He was close enough for you to see the sweat under his eyes, staring you down, making your heart thrum in your chest and throat go dry. The chestnut eyes gave you a once-over, slowly trailing down your body and stopping where the bar top hid the rest of you from sight. They jumped back up to your widened ones, and the corners crinkled with a hidden smirk. 

“That’s a damn shame, ‘cause suddenly, I find myself wantin’ to stay a bit longer,” he husked, pulling the cloth away from his face and slugging the rest of the whiskey back. You caught a glimpse of his jawline as he tilted his head back and noticed the scruff covering it. 

You raised an eyebrow and innocently asked, “Oh, really? How come?” 

“Found myself somethin’ a bit better than a money,” he said, tipping his hat back slightly. “And she’s standin’ right in front’a me.”

His smooth compliment nearly made you forget he was a bounty hunter. The way he eyed you up and down almost covered up and dulled what your head was telling you. This man was trouble through and through, and you’d known it from the moment he swaggered through the doors. He’d caught your eye like no other man just passing through ever had. You wanted desperately to comb your fingers through the dark brown curls peeking out under his hat, to kiss the lips hidden under the cloth, to know him like nobody ever had. 

You must’ve been staring a bit too long because you heard a low chuckle and felt a finger tap your forearm. You shook your head and chuckled nervously. 

“I’m sorry, sir, just thinkin’ too much.” 

He hummed. “I like a woman who thinks too much. Makes it even better when I make her go quiet.”

The purred innuendo made your lips part and eyes go wide. You wanted that. And he knew it. The clever cowboy was already playing you and pressing all the right keys; it was as if he’d already snuck under your skirt and made you go limp. 

He looked over his shoulder at the stairs climbing up the back wall facing the doors. “You stay around here?”

“Up-upstairs,” you stuttered. “I got my own room.”

“Good.”

“It-it doesn’t hide noise all that well.”

He stared at you and snickered. “Darlin’, you really think I give a shit?”

And he really didn’t. He had you howling as he rammed into you, completely unforgiving as his cock filled you to the brim. The man growled and grunted your name as he fucked you from behind, rough hands gripping your ass and spreading your round cheeks. He burned like sand at noon, more punishing than the summer heat. You gave in to him, letting him burn you as much as he wanted. 

You were drooling into your worn mattress with tears in your eyes. The man held your wrists behind your back in one large hand. The other was kneading the fat on your hip as it recoiled with each slam of his hips. 

“This th’best pussy I ever had, darlin’, god damn,” he rasped.

“G-good,” you panted between his brutal thrusts.

“Listen t’yourself.” He laughed, the sound mirthful and deadly. “Can barely fuckin’ speak. Told you I’d fuck ya til you couldn’t speak, darlin’.” 

Your eyes squeezed shut and you moaned at his dirty words. You should have never doubted that he’d have your mouth going dry, feeling his cock dig deep inside of you and choke something in your throat. He humbled and punished you for doubting him with his unforgiving pace. His tongue lavished you with dirty praise and raspy groans, the sounds making your cunt throb and suck him in deeper even as your walls started to get raw from his roughness. 

He’d proven his tongue was filthy only moments ago as he licked circles around the sensitive bud between your legs. You were entirely naked—garments in a heap on the floor—but he still wore all his clothes except for the poncho and cloth. Even his worn denim shirt was still on, only the first four buttons undone—his hands were too busy yanking your clothes off to be bothered with his. The man was impatient and hungry, and you didn’t dare deny him. 

He still wore the black hat as he worked his mouth on your sex, tonguing between your folds and teasing your slick hole. But you didn’t mind it, not when he moaned into your cunt with each broad lick of his tongue. He gave in to your whiny pleas for his thick fingers, obliging you with two right away. The digits stretched you open, made you throw your head back and clamp your legs around his head, the brim of his hat bending into your shins. 

He clicked his tongue and placed his free hand on one of your knees, gently pushing it down as he muttered, “Spread those legs for me, baby. Need ‘em open for me.” You did as told and he hummed in approval. “Atta girl.”

He praised you by sucking your clit and rubbing his fingers against a soft spot within you. You were twitching and mumbling nonsense, an utter mess for the scoundrel between your shaking thighs. Your cunt pulsed around him, your peak suddenly rising with the motion.

“That’s it, darlin’,” he’d coaxed as you panted and gripped the sheets. “Need to get you nice’n ready for my cock.”

It only took a few more moments before you came with a sharp cry, legs shaking and a foot twitching. A fire blazed within you, one he had started and intended to keep burning. He worked you through it, sucking in a breath as he felt you pulse around his fingers. 

“Good fuckin’ girl,” he crooned. Then, he flipped you over, not even giving you time to recover from your high. 

He’d barely tugged his pants down, only undoing his belt and dropping his holster to the floor. He growled and grabbed your ass, lifting it into the air and forcing you to arch your back. When he pushed into you with a groan, you felt the fabric scratch against you as he sheathed himself in your still-sensitive cunt. 

You hissed and squirmed and cried out “Fuck, I’m—I’m still sens—”

“Don’ care,” he grunted. “I fuckin’ need you, darlin’.”

You nodded and moaned at his harsh affection. You were ashamed that you loved it, that it made you throb. A sharp slap on your ass made you jump, the tingling sensation left behind sent your head spinning. He rubbed it and soothed the tender skin, rough hands suddenly soft. 

And now, he fucked you without mercy. Any trace of tenderness was gone with the wind. The man with brown eyes filled you more than anyone ever had, made you see stars when others had only made you see specks. When you begged him to spit on himself, that your cunt was getting raw, he pressed his sweaty chest against your back and gently tapped your cheek with his knuckles. 

You opened your eyes and saw his open hand in front of them. 

“Spit.”

Your pussy ached at his demand and you opened your mouth for the brown-eyed man, lifting your head as much as you could. Saliva dripped off your tongue and landed on his calloused palm. He took his hand back and you set your head back down, taking a deep breath when he pulled himself out of you to stroke his cock. His free hand grabbed the meat of one of your cheeks, his thumb kneading close to the tight ring of muscle hidden between them. The wet sound of him stroking his cock with your spit made you smile and shudder. 

There was something satisfying about this cowboy using you. All rough edges and dry desert heat. He was as ruthless and unyielding as the western terrain you called home. You nearly screamed when he rammed himself back inside of your aching hole, silencing yourself by burying your face into the mattress. The man carved a canyon through you with brute, relentless force and praised your wild howls and whines with a slap on your ass and one slow rock of his hips. He teased you over and over, quickly learning where to drag the fat head of his cock to make you shiver and shake.

“P-please,” you begged, your eyes squeezed shut. “Don’t fuckin’ stop!”

The man chuckled at your desperate cry. You felt yourself shiver when he ran his hands up your thighs before kneading your plump cheeks again. Any pride you felt at hypnotizing him with your ass was quickly washed away when he landed a sharp smack against your right cheek, immediately following it with one on your left, another landing back on your right. You arched your back even more for him and wiggled one of your hands down to rub sloppy circles on your clit. The thick member filling you to the brim was driving you to the edge, and the added sparks of pleasure from your sensitive nub was pushing you even closer.

He started fucking you with something even more feral than before, his groans loud and strained. Your moans melted into his with each burning stroke and every needy rub against your clit.

“God, I can feel you fuckin’ pulsin’ around me, baby,” he growled. 

“Y-you feel so fucking good,” you answered, mouth open so your hoarse moans could slip into the air.

“Yeah? This th’best cock you ever had?” 

He stole your answer with a punishing slam of his hips. Your free hand clawed at the sheets, and you tried to squirm up away from him. There was a low growl as you were yanked back, his fingers digging into the fat of your hips. The man chuckled mirthfully when you gasped, impaled on his cock yet again.

“Don’t try to run from a bounty killer, darlin’,” he rasped, his thrusts getting needier, reaching deeper and lingering longer within your quivering hole. “’Specially when your cunt feels this fuckin’ good.” 

His breathing began to match your frenzied pants, the pace of his thrusts as frantic as your fingers on your sensitive clit.

“I’ll ask ya again,” he gave you a sharp thrust, keeping you in place with his strong hands. “Is this the best cock you ever fuckin’ had?”

“Fuck—yes, baby, yes!” You howled into the mattress as you felt your walls start to spasm, a sudden heat starting to take over you. 

“C’mon, darlin’, that’s—fuck—that’s it.” The brown-eyed man’s hips slapped against your ass, the sound echoing, and he started growling—the feral and primal bounty killer finally taking over. “Fuckin’ c-come for me—fuck, I feel it—good fuckin’ girl—”

You came around his length with a scream, your legs shaking with the force of your orgasm. A white-hot fire burned from your aching, quivering hole to your fuck-drunk head. You couldn’t feel anything other than your walls clenching around his cock, couldn’t hear anything other than your desperate whines.

“F-fuckin’ come for me, you fuckin’ scoundrel,” you growled, voice shaking as you continued to ride the crest of your climax. You drunkenly smiled when you heard a low groan and whined when the head of his cock kissed something deep within you, leaving its mark on you forever, guaranteeing you’d never feel this good ever again.

“Fuckin’ God—darlin’, I could bury m’self in your delicious cunt forever—fuck!”

The brown-eyed man gave your spent hole one final, cruel thrust. He pulled out of you with a groan, and you hissed at the feel of him leaving you; he left you raw and empty and gaping. You quickly forgave him when you heard the squelch of his fist jerking himself to completion with your juices. You smiled and sighed as he covered your ass in hot ropes of his seed, reveling in how fucking needy he sounded when he reached his peak. He sucked in air through his teeth, slowly loosening his grip on your hip. You jumped when he slapped your ass, shaking your head when he smugly chuckled.

You scooted forward and dropped your aching legs to the mattress with a groan. You didn’t care about the cum he left behind; right now, you needed to catch your breath after the divine beating he’d just given your pussy. The floor creaked under his boots as he started rustling around—probably putting that poncho back on—and humming to himself. You jumped when something wet stroked across your painted ass, quieted by a low hush.

“Just cleanin’ up my mess,” he rumbled. “I may be a scoundrel—” he mocked your voice— "but my mama taught me manners.”

You chuckled and turned your head to the side, eyes fluttering open to stare at the wall and your two measly pillows. “You’re a true gentleman.”

He shrugged, then gave the tender spots on your cheeks a soft massage with his fingers and then tapped your hips and helped you roll onto your back. You melted into the mattress with a blissful sigh, not bothering to think too long about how someone so brutal could be so tender.

“I wouldn’ call myself that, darlin’.” 

His eyes met yours and you bit your lip. Even though the cloth was covering his face again, you had a hunch that what hid underneath it was handsome. You could see the corners of his eyes gently crease with the whisper of a smile as he stared down at you, running a warm, calloused hand up and down your sweaty skin.

“I’m just as rotten as the rest of ‘em.”

The next day, the owner was with you, standing behind the bar all the way down on your left and chatting with an old regular. Mr. Daniels was middle-aged, stout and balding, with skin as leathery as a saddlebag and always dressed in a white shirt. He was constantly mentioning his wife and daughters and boasted about them to anyone who would listen; he seemed to extend that fatherly protection your way sometimes. He was a kind enough man—letting you live in the attic above the saloon for free, paying you a decent wage—and you had no complaints. 

You weren’t surprised to see the brown-eyed man slamming into the saloon the next day, the patrons a little less rattled by his presence than they were yesterday. When he stomped over to where you stood, Mr. Daniels gave you a quick glance, and you responded with a smile and tilt of your head—I’m alright.

“What’ll it be, sir?” you asked. 

You could feel your sore hole throb when he looked up at you under that wide-brimmed hat, a ray of sun lighting up his golden skin and making his chestnut eyes glow. He leaned against the bar, resting a bent arm on it. Relaxed and certain of his place in the small saloon, not a hint of fear in his posture. 

“I think you already know, darlin’.”

He winked at you, and you felt heat rush to your cheeks. You turned and grabbed the whiskey you’d poured him yesterday with a nod. His eyes looked you up and down as you grabbed a glass and poured out his drink with a coy smile on your face. 

He handed you money for the drink and said, “Thanks, darlin’. Keep the change.”

You smiled. “You’re too kind, sir.”

He tipped his hat. You walked over to the register, entered the sale, and dropped the change into your jar. As you moved back to where you’d been standing, the man straightened and walked down the bar to where Mr. Daniels and the old man were talking. You watched as he pulled a scroll of yellowed parchment out from under his poncho and spread it on the dark wood counter. Out of curiosity, you took a few small steps in that direction, acting busy with organizing the liquor shelves.

“You seen this man?” he inquired.

“No, ‘fraid not,” the old man replied with a smack of his lips.

You turned around and picked up a glass and a cloth, drying it and looking around the saloon. At table in the far corner, two men sat playing cards, smoke curling out of their mouths, the brims of their hats tipped down and hiding their faces from prying eyes. A few other tables were scattered around the small saloon, more hatted men nursing their drinks at them. Their soft chatter filled the air and was speckled with the occasional sounds of a horse trotting down the road. It was a slow afternoon, but you didn’t mind if it meant you kept yourself occupied with eavesdropping.

“And you?”

“Can’t say I have,” Mr. Daniels responded.

The man hummed and started to roll the yellowed paper up. You squinted, trying to see what was printed on it. You swallowed when you read the word “WANTED” in big black letters before he rolled the edge back up. The man leaned back and shoved it back under the poncho, nodding. He knocked the rest of his drink back and set the glass on the bar top and turned to look at you with narrowed eyes before pushing it down your way. Something vicious lurked within those brown eyes, keeping itself hidden under the brim of his hat and only revealed now that the afternoon sun didn’t reach them.

You extended your arm to reach and pick the glass up, immediately bending over and dunking it in the bucket of soapy water at your feet. You bit your cheek, ashamed that you felt heat pulse between your legs at his darkened stare. Being the target of his gaze was either thrilling or terrifying; right now, you weren’t sure what it was for you. It made you wonder how he had looked at you while he was ramming his cock into you. Ultimately, whatever his gaze was didn’t matter if it made you burn just from the thought of it.

The sound of someone cursing and a stool being pushed across the floor made you snap up to stand again; your eyes widened when you saw the man’s fist wrapped in the fabric of Mr. Daniels’ shirt, pulling him against the bar with only one arm. The old man was standing back a few feet away on the poncho-clad man’s right, his long gray eyebrows knitted together. 

“You sure?” He growled.

The cantina had gone silent, all eyes focused on the man and his hold on Mr. Daniels. You were staring too, your heart racing in your chest and threatening to break your ribs.

“Even if I did,” Mr. Daniels said through gritted teeth, “I wouldn’t know where to find him.”

He glanced over at you, eyes lingering before meeting the man’s stare again. 

The man tilted his head. “You wouldn’t know?”

Mr. Daniels shook his head again. “I told you, I just wouldn’t—” his eyes landed on you— “know where—” back to the man—“to look.”

You took a step back when Mr. Daniels looked at you one last time, then back at the man. His brow was set, but you glanced down and saw his hand shaking below the bar. The man let go of him with a push and conversation in the saloon resumed as he started to stalk towards you. His dark eyes were stormy as he set his sights on you and squinted, the spurs on his boots jingling menacingly with each step. You braced yourself for impact; muscles tensing, heart racing, teeth sinking into your bottom lip, fingers curling into your palms and nails digging in. 

The collision never came. His poncho swept past you and he came to stand at one of the two small square windows at the front of the saloon. You doubted he could see much with how dirty the glass was; the sun must’ve scorched the dust and grime into the aged panes before you’d even blown into town. Frankly, you were relieved that you weren’t on the receiving end of his threatening, squinting stare. 

However, you couldn’t deny the way something in your gut fluttered when you thought you’d be the one pulled against the bar by his leather-rough hands, his fingers catching the low neckline of your blouse and skimming over your hot skin, your shallow pants gently waving his bandana. But you reckoned that the haunting flutters were probably just lusty leftovers from your tryst the other night.

He looked over his shoulder at you, still squinting and heavy with frustration. Your lips parted when he held your wide eyes with his stare, the flutters growing into a rumble and shaking you from within. Or maybe that sensation was just his heavy footfalls across the floor echoing under your skin as he turned to the left and stomped out the doors. You watched him with eager eyes as he walked to the inn across the street, beige dust kicked up with every sinister step. Before he unleashed his storm on the inn, he turned over his shoulder to look at the saloon.

You squinted, moving closer to peer out of the windows. No, he wasn’t looking at the weather-worn building—he had his burning gaze focused on you.

With a tip of his hat, he slid inside, and you leaned back. You placed a hand on your chest and felt your heart beating hard and fast underneath it. 

Mr. Daniels clicked his tongue, announcing his arrival at your side. You looked back at him, the man’s stare set on the inn.

“Some fuckin’ fella,” he grumbled, ivory face red with anger.

You nodded slowly and walked back to the soap water bucket, picking up the forgotten whiskey glass and shaking it off before drying it with a rag. You pursed your lips and tried to forget how his suntanned hands had dwarfed the glass, and tried to wipe away the memory of them digging into the meat of your thighs as he slurped up your juices with a deep moan. Despite your best efforts, they didn’t fade away, and neither did a smudge on the glass.

Everything in this town was filthy, you figured, shoving the glass to the very back of the cupboard so it could be forgotten. Even the drifters that passed through were coated in grime.

The brown-eyed man was lucky your boss needed business, because the look Mr. Daniels gave him when he walked into the saloon the next evening could scorch anything within ten miles. He skulked through the doors at dusk, eyeing up the loud crowd before making a path to where you stood pouring out four shots of whiskey. Of course you’d instantly noticed him—you’d felt the air become charged as if it were about to storm as soon as he’d arrived. The men you served paid you with paper bills and winks, knocking back the shots as you walked over to where the man stood. Without a word, you turned and grabbed a glass; you didn’t need to ask what he or any other man in a hat wanted to drink tonight. As you avoided his eyes, he stared you down. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed a golden hand already pushing coins and a paper bill your way as the amber liquid gurgled into the glass. 

You finished and gave him a practiced smile, scooping the money into your hand as he told you to keep the change yet again. The bottle was nearly empty, but you still placed it back on the shelf before walking to the register. You avoided looking in his direction at all costs; the most you allowed yourself to see was the brim of his hat and the poncho fabric that fell over his left arm. Instead, you gave your best performance to the other patrons—chatting with the town regulars and smiling at the men passing through—and got caught up in the large crowd, the early purple of the night still settling over town.

You heard a few raps on the wood above the chatter and lively piano. When you looked up at the man, you choked on your breath. 

“Long time, no see, sweet thing,” he drawled, a cigarillo in the corner of his leering mouth. Blue eyes pierced you and his fair cheeks were tinted with a whiskey-induced blush.

You cleared your throat, smoothing your plain black skirt. “Can I get you somethin’?”

“Other than your ass in my bed? Whiskey.”

You brushed off the lewd remark, thankful there was a clean glass and whiskey on the bartender’s counter you’d must’ve forgotten to put back earlier. John, your old beau, kept his icy gaze fixed on you and puffed smoke to the side. Blond hair coated his head underneath the beige high-crowned hat, and you fought back a wince at remembering the times you shared with him. You told him the cost and he made a slow show of placing the money in your waiting hand, pressing his palm against your fingers and closing them around the money. You guessed you did a poor job of hiding a shudder, because he gave you a mirthful chuckle.

“What, sugar? You missin’ the way I’d fuck ya?”

You didn’t acknowledge his vulgar comment. You’d never been spoken to like that, even from the drunkest of men. It was just understood that men didn’t curse in conversation with ladies; even the gnarliest and dirtiest of them knew that. You could smell the liquor on John’s breath and had no interest in indulging his drunken idiocy. Instead, you bit the inside of your cheek, shoved the money in your waist apron’s pocket, turned to the left and walked a few steps down the bar, plastering a smile on your face as you greeted a new patron. The brown-eyed man still stood where you’d served him, and you caught him pulling the cloth covering his face back with pinched fingers as his other hand lifted his almost-empty glass. 

After you’d finished serving a gray-mustached man, thanking him for the tip as he walked away, your red-faced old flame slapped his palms against the wood and leaned into your space, blue eyes hazy. 

“I was talkin’ to you,” he hissed. “An’ I ain’t done yet.”

Your heart sped up and you gulped, your mouth dry and body cold. He’d only been like this with you once before—when you’d ended things with him back in your old town the day before you left. It was a cruel twist of fate that he happened to be passing through your new town a few years later. He obviously hadn’t forgotten about you, much to your dismay.

“Is there a problem here?” 

The brown-eyed man was looming behind John, his eyes narrowed. You hadn’t even noticed him move; he was like a shadow. John turned his head over his shoulder, keeping his hands planted on the counter as he eyed the man up. He scoffed and curled his fingers under his palms.

“Ain’t your business, saddle bum,” he snarled.

The man slowly stepped forward and came to stand in front of John, sweeping the front of his poncho over his right shoulder. Your eyes widened when you saw his chestnut-colored leather belt, the holster heavy with a pistol.

“It is now.”

John’s head swiveled back to you, his face smug and eyes cloudy. “I don’ remember talkin’ ‘bout this fella. Do you, sugar?”

You didn’t respond, opting to look over his shoulder and watch as the man turned John around by his shoulder. He pushed John against the edge of the counter, chestnut eyes fiery. From where you stood, it was hard to tell if he was using more force now than he had yesterday with Mr. Daniels; your gut told you he was. Something was different tonight, and it wasn’t the whiskey.

“Keep talkin’ and see what happens,” the man threatened, his voice low.

John laughed and shook his head. “What, did’ya have this soiled dove?” he asked loudly, drawing the attention of those who hadn’t noticed the stranger’s physical threat. 

The derogatory term made you gasp and take a step back, your skin hot under your off-shoulder blouse. The man’s eyes flicked over to you for only a second before squinting at John again. He shook his head, his beige cloth covering shifting slightly with the movement.

“Don’t do it,” the brown-eyed man warned.

You could barely see John toss the butt of his cigarillo on the floor, but you did see his head turn to the right and heard him spit. The people around them had moved back and gone silent, turning their backs to avoid being dragged into a fight that didn’t concern them. You didn’t blame them—you wouldn’t want to be in the path of this desert storm either.

There was a low growl and then the poncho-clad man was dragging John across the floor to the doors, tossing him out of them. There was a heavy thud when his body hit the ground, and you watched the man push the doors open and tilt his head down to look at the ground, presumably where the drunkard still sat. His hands gripped the tops of the doors, his stance wide and menacing. He shook his head, and you fought your better judgment, running to the end of the bar at the windows and then pushing through the patrons. They let you pass and then you were standing behind the cowboy at the doors, your blood cold but skin hot at the same time. 

Night had fallen, and the two yellow lanterns mounted outside the saloon cast a weak glow on the porch. John was scrambling to his feet and backing away, abandoning his hat and stumbling down the two wooden steps, almost falling on the dirt road. The man looked back at you; the side of his face visible to you darkened from the lack of light. You could only see the whites of his eyes; for once, he wasn’t squinting. Your breaths were shallow, and you pulled at your fingers.

“This bum bothering you, ma’am?” His voice was softer now, the edges smoothed, so unlike the threatening tones you’d heard only moments prior.

You swallowed thickly, but you caught John starting to rush at the stranger and you shouted, “Look out!” instead.

He wasted no time, immediately taking a step forward out of the doorway and planting his back foot before throwing a punch, his fist connecting with the bone of John’s nose. A sickening crack elicited a cry from you and a few of the other saloon girls that had seen or heard it. John dropped to the wooden porch again with a howl. 

You cautiously pushed the doors open and let them hit you on your way out. A sick pleasure filled your chest when the man kicked John down to the dirt road, his spurs jingling.

“Go to the inn and leave her alone,” he enunciated. “I’m not gonna tell you again.”

His voice and words were clearer than you’d ever heard them before. A part of you thought you heard something protective underscoring his firm warning, but it was just a delusion. It had absolutely nothing to do with you; the man clearly just didn’t want to have a scrap with John. It wasn’t because he couldn’t do it—he was obviously capable if he was a bounty hunter—but because he didn’t want to waste his time with it. 

There was a dark, sardonic laugh. “Oh, she got you real good, didn’ she?” 

You stiffened, covering your quivering lips with a hand, and the pair of brown eyes met your wide ones. His targeted vulgarity was starting to get to you, and it was becoming hard to hide. You felt embarrassed to be tearing up in front of the mysterious man, but you heard a sharp exhale as his eyes searched yours, the blast of air disturbing the cloth on his face. It was as if he was looking at you for permission, awaiting your orders and at your command—your own personal soldier, a bounty hunter tied only to you and the open land ahead of him.

“I don’ blame ya,” John sneered. “Best whore I ever had.”

Silence fell across the crowd; any lingering conversations had gone cold after that. You choked back a cry, your eyes flitting between John rising to his feet and the hunter in front of you. You noticed his fists clench before he finally took his eyes off you and stormed down into the street. He cut off the drunken cackles that filled the air with a swift punch, and you could barely see his knuckles connect with John’s jaw. He stayed upright this time and tried to swing at the man, but John’s sloppy form left him open to a punch in the gut that knocked him a foot backward. You stepped further out onto the porch, the sun-bleached wood creaking underneath your feet as you watched the stranger give John another kick before bending over to yank him up by the collar with both of his hands.

“You say one more goddamn word and I’m sendin’ you into that desert and tossin’ your canteen,” he seethed between gritted teeth.

John’s eyes landed on you, and he laughed. “That slut ain’ wor—”

He was cut off with a growl and a punch, falling to the ground. John was limp and unresponsive when the stranger nudged him with the toe of his boot. The man spat on him, then turned around to face the stunned crowd. Tears were streaming down your face, both of your hands over your nose and mouth.

“Which horse is his?” he asked, his voice deep and loud.

Only a few seconds later, he nodded; someone must’ve pointed it out. You watched him stalk over to a brown horse on his right, rifling through John’s belongings and pocketing cash and valuables he found. The man found his canteen and tossed it to the ground, then walked back over to John and dragged him to the horse. He heaved John up on his shoulder and tossed him over the saddle, then took the reins off the horse to loosely tie John’s feet together and then lead it under the horse’s belly to bind his hands together, making sure to keep the makeshift restraint taut. Finally, he led the horse to the right and out of sight; there was a shout and a whinny, then the frantic sound of hoofbeats as the horse galloped away.

The man came back into view as he approached the saloon again. The only sound filling the nighttime air was the jangling of his spurs and your sniffs as you calmed down. He made his way up to the porch, standing in front of you, his poncho still over his shoulder and revealing his brown leather vest and faded denim shirt. His eyes looked you over, lingering on your wet cheeks. 

He had just sent a drunk, unconscious man into the desert without water on a spooked horse at night. It was one of the cruelest things a man could do. And yet, here he was, his eyes soft under a furrowed brow. The yellow lamplight showed that the storms in his eyes had settled, but his forehead would bear the evidence of it in deepened lines.

“You alright, darlin’?”

The term of endearment didn’t make you squirm. Coupled with the gentle, low rumble of his voice, it made you feel…comfortable. “Comfortable” certainly wasn’t something you should feel around a man like him, and yet, you found yourself wanting to fall into his chest and let his arms support you and his warm hands sink into your flesh. 

But all you could do right now was nod and wipe the backs of your hands over your wet cheeks. You gave him a weak smile. “I’m rattled, but I’ll live.” 

You paused, looking down and then meeting his strangely soft eyes again. You wished you could see the rest of his face and not just imagine it based on how it had felt between your legs. 

“Thanks,” you said meekly. You shakily exhaled and repeated yourself. “Thank you, Brown Eyes.”

You swore you saw a smile creasing the corners of his eyes at the nickname. He waved off your thanks, tipped the black brim of his hat, and turned around to walk over to the inn. The shadow slunk back into the night. 

You were pulled out of your thoughts when your boss yelled and dispersed the crowd, then called your name. Mr. Daniels stood in front of you, his face worried as he looked you over, thick fingers gripping your biceps. The concerned and protective father inside of him was taking over, and you found it to be quite comforting and nice; you never complained when he treated you like one of his daughters. He asked you a dozen questions at once but trailed off after noticing your voice waver and bottom lip quiver. Mr. Daniels guided you to the stairs in the back of the saloon and told you to take the rest of the night off despite your protests—he’d hear none of it.

All you could think of as you lay in bed curled up under your thin blankets was the mysterious, brown-eyed stranger. How could a man so violent have such kind eyes? It just wasn’t fair, you thought to yourself as your eyes fluttered close and you drifted to sleep, the lively chatter of the saloon below a background to the memories of the stranger’s dulcet voice.

You thought that would be the last of Brown Eyes. You thought he’d be gone without a trace, a shadow haunting conversations for a while, another dusty drifter wandering the desert as if he were Moses. Just another man as wild as the terrain he traversed. You hadn’t expected to see him again unless it was in your dreams. He’d kick up dust there, then vanish with it when you opened your eyes. 

You really, truly thought his stunt last night would be the last one he performed in this town, and part of you wished it had been when he threw his shadow into the saloon the next afternoon, the sun at his back.

He leisurely strolled over to a table nestled in the back-right corner of the saloon. Three men sitting around its circular wood top playing cards. The jangle of his spurs accompanying each cocksure step of his boots alerted them to his approach, the decorative threads on the edge of his poncho fluttering gently. Finally, Brown Eyes stood with his back to you at the right side of one of the men, his black hat tilting slightly to look down at him. The other two men leaned forward and glanced at each other. 

You took a few steps to the right and angled your head a bit to see what was going on. You caught the two men slowly placing their cards on the table and trailing their hands to the edge of the circular table. The man looking up at Brown Eyes was red in the face and spoke quietly enough for his words to slip underneath other conversations in the saloon and go undetected by your ears. Your eyebrows knitted together as you watched the interaction from afar, then raised when the cowboy’s poncho flew over his shoulder.

“Christ almighty,” you murmured as his hand twitched at his thigh. 

You looked over to the left at Mr. Daniels, and he gave you a sideways glance. He and the regular in front of him were focused on the altercation; a few of the patrons in the bustling afternoon crowd had noticed as well. Despite the attention, you knew that nobody would intervene. This wasn’t anyone’s business except for the men in the corner. 

As you watched one of the seated men reach for his pistol, you swore under your breath. Out of instinct, you dropped to your feet, crouching behind the bar just as the sound of gunshots pierced the air. The sharp blasts made you cover your ears, and then they suddenly stopped. Instead, a wounded groan filled the air, then the crack of a fist against bone and the thump of a body hitting the wooden floor to punctuate the statement. There was a curt jingle of spurs and an oof, signals of a sharp kick.

“Alive or dead, your choice,” a familiar gravelly voice stated. 

It was flat and indifferent, so unlike the man who had come to your aid and who had cleaned you up after ruining you with the relentless thrusts of his hips. Yes, he’d been violent last night, but there was something gentle in his eyes hidden within their storm clouds. It almost made your heart ache, but then you remembered what he’d done to Mr. Daniels and how he’d sentenced a man to death without a second thought. You remembered who Brown Eyes was at his core, and the warm ache in your chest withered away.

“You son of a bitch!” A man yelled. “I’ll fuckin’ strangle you!”

A mirthful chuckle. “I’d like to see you try.”

There was shuffling, a shout, a gunshot, then silence. The bounty killer had won again.

When your boss stood, you followed suit, your heart racing. You knew that the customers you served weren’t all honest people with honest jobs. Hell, it was naïve to think that about anyone you met out on the frontier. You’d just never experienced a gunfight inside the saloon. You’d seen a few unfold on the dusty main road splitting the town in half, but no bullets had ever blown holes through the saloon’s grimy windows; the sharp smell of gunpowder had never tainted its air. You took a few deep breaths and tried to steady your shaking hands. Even after all these years out west, you still had wild experiences waiting to shock you.

Brown Eyes holstered his revolver with a flourish, then walked to the bar. 

“Here, for the trouble.” He placed a few bills and some coins down in front of a glaring Mr. Daniels, then tipped his hat at you. “Apologies, miss.”

He walked back over to the dead man then crouched down and lifted the body over his left shoulder. You heard him mumble under his breath and turn towards the doors to leave. You caught his eyes and swallowed when you saw how dark they were under his hat’s black brim. He silently left the saloon, the doors swinging and clacking behind him. All that remained were two dead men splayed out in their chairs, arms out and hats tipped back.

You looked at Mr. Daniels. He shook his head and sighed.

“And that, my dear, is why God destined some men to be carpenters.” 

He wiped off his hands with a frayed cloth and tossed it on the counter. Mr. Daniels shuffled behind you and down the bar with a huff as the patrons’ chatter began again. He quickly walked to the saloon doors and gave them a sharp push, stepping into the hot afternoon sun.

“’M leavin’ at dawn t’morrow,” Brown Eyes said into your cunt. 

A hot lick of his tongue made your hips buck. He swiped it side to side over your clit as he planted his hands on your hips and forced them into the mattress. You clawed at the sheets underneath you, your head thrown back in ecstasy. Another obscene slurp and moan from the bounty hunter sent you reeling and added to the growing tension in your belly. You forced yourself up to recline on your forearms, looking down at the hatless man hungrily eating you out as if it were his first meal in weeks. 

You choked out a breath when the tip of his tongue swirled itself around your hole and then pushed inside of it. Lusty eyes met yours, and you felt his lips curl into a smile against your spit and slick-drenched center. He held your gaze and sucked on the hardened nub, squeezing the meat of your hips when you moaned.

“You like that, darlin’?” he asked, gently sucking again and chuckling at your gasp.

You nodded emphatically. “Fuck, yes, I do, Brown Eyes,” you panted, the muscles in your gut tightening when he groaned at the nickname, your legs starting to tense. “I really, really do.”

When you closed your eyes and let your head fall back with a whine, he shook his head and nipped at the sensitive bud, making you jump and look back down at him. He was staring up at you, something menacing in his eyes. It made your walls flutter, it thrilled you, it made your heart race even more. He was reminding you that even though he was serving you, he was still in control—he was always in control, no matter where he was.

He licked a slow, broad stripe up your cunt, then pulled back. You groaned in frustration at the cruel loss of contact, the heat and tension within you backing away from the glorious peak he’d gotten so close to pushing them over. 

“You’re so mean,” you whined.

You heard him suck in a breath between his teeth. “You’re breakin’ my heart, baby.” 

His room at the inn had a few lamps to combat the dark desert night, but only one was lit. The lamp on the bedside table to his right cast a little light on him, but the curve of your thigh and the bend of your knee had shrouded him in black shadows while he knelt on the floor and ravished you with his tongue. Now that your legs had dropped to rest and bend over the edge of the mattress, you could see the corners of his brown eyes creased with a smile that he hid behind your dripping cunt. He dipped one thick finger inside of you and snickered when you gasped and startled. Your pussy was still throbbing and aching for release, and it wouldn’t stop until he pushed you over that heavenly edge. 

Warm hands massaged your flesh and trailed down to grip the underside of your thighs. His fingers dug in and lifted them a little bit so he could turn his head and press wet kisses on your inner thighs. You felt the ridge of his nose as his lips worked. Delicate eyelashes fluttered against tan cheeks. Brown Eyes gave you one last kiss and a playful nip that made you giggle.

“See, darlin’?” he murmured into your sensitive skin, opening his eyes again. “I can be nice.”

When you raised your eyebrow, he dramatically rolled his eyes. He turned around and stood up with a grunt that made you bite back a chuckle. Yellow light flickered on his bare back and revealed a few scarred splotches; you’d convinced him to take off his shirt and vest earlier, and now it was time for the rest. You swung up to sit on your knees as Brown Eyes hummed and took off his dark denim pants and underdrawers in one motion. 

He walked over to the chair next to a short dresser beside the door, meticulously folding the clothing and setting it underneath his folded shirt. His poncho and vest were draped over the back of the tiny chair, his hat resting on top of the shirt, a beige cloth peeking out beneath it. Dusty brown boots waited on the floor. The brown leather holster weighed down the poncho. A rifle leaned against the dresser—“A Winchester 73, m’favorite”—to finish the cowboy’s closet.

Brown Eyes cleared his throat and ran a large hand over the back of his head, fingers teasing his soft brown curls. He turned around to face you, striding over, his thick cock hard and bouncing with each step. It nearly distracted you from his face—his bare face, the handsome one he’d been hiding all this time. 

He lifted your chin with two fingers and you nearly melted into the mattress. Your eyes wandered all over his features, greedy for every detail. You were finally seeing the curved nose you’d felt against your thighs and folds. A neat mustache lay above the pink lips that had brought you to shambles. Scruff lined the jaw you’d stolen a look at a few days ago and crept up his cheeks. You noticed a bare patch in the scruff to the right of his chin, and your eyes traced the thin canyons on his forehead left behind from years of erosion and desert sun.

“My mama told me it’s rude to stare,” Brown Eyes chastised, the corner of his mouth quirking up a bit.

“I didn’t think it was rude to stare at art,” you quipped back, leaning forward a bit more when he brushed his thumb over your lips and massaged one of your breasts in his hand.

Your heart sped up when he bent down, his face only inches from yours. You could feel his steady exhales heat the air you inhaled through parted lips, his handsome face stealing every bit of sense from your head and making you weak. 

He clicked his tongue. “She also told me lyin’ is bad.”

Your eyebrows knitted together. “Why would I lie to someone like you? I’ve seen what happens. I’ve seen what you can do, Brown Eyes.”

You trailed off, biting your lip when he sharply inhaled. Damn, he sure loved when you called him that. He hooked his thumb into the corner of your mouth, his lust-blown eyes watching it as he swept it across your lower lip and your cunt ached with want. 

“You’re right, darlin’,” he acquiesced. “Didn’ take you for the lyin’ type anyway.” 

He gave you a soft smile you didn’t think bounty killers were capable of and you simpered. Brown Eyes pinched your chin before sitting next to you and laying back, pumping his cock in his fist. You adjusted yourself so you could trail your hands across his hot skin, explore its ridges and softness, soak in its warmth. Your hands graced across it until they cupped his jaw, startling him with a sensation he probably hadn’t experienced in years. 

You bent down with half-lidded eyes and gently parted lips. Chestnut eyes locked with yours right before you crashed your lips into his and let one of your hands reach and grasp his cock. The interruption made him moan into your mouth, the sound desperate and low in his throat. You shared a whine with Brown Eyes when his right hand forced itself between your thighs and shuddered when his fingertips stroked up and down the seam of your folds. He smiled against your lips when you began rolling your hips to steal more of his scalding touch.

He pulled back from your lips and whispered, “You wanna go for a ride, darlin’?”

You bit your lip and nodded. Brown Eyes grinned at you—this man was full of surprises tonight—and turned himself to lay in the center of the mattress. You moved and knelt between his slightly spread legs, your feet touching the wooden footboard as you stared down at him. He was biting his lip and let them part when you massaged your tits before bending over, making sure to arch your back, your lips hovering near the fat head of his cock. You looked back up at him coquettishly—you were in control now, teasing him with hot exhales and smiling after he gave you a few needy groans.

When you swirled your tongue around the head of his cock, you felt him tug the sheets with a hiss. A lick from the base to the tip made him swear; he was finally getting a taste of his own medicine. You planted your hands on his hips and held his gaze for a few more seconds before closing your eyes and wrapping your lips around him, slowly bobbing up and down, working lower and lower as you went. Your brow furrowed, spit starting to dribble down your chin, and you opened your eyes just in time to see him throw his head back and curse.

“Fuck, baby, god damn,” Brown Eyes rasped, groaning when you pressed your tongue against him as you slid back up again before twisting your head back down, just over halfway down his throbbing length. 

He choked when you took every inch of him, your spit-covered lips pressing against the curls at the base. You could only hold it for a moment—his girth and length pushed you to the limit—and then you bobbed back up and swirled your tongue around the bulging head before releasing him from your mouth with a wet pop. He looked down at you as you licked up a few beads of liquid leaking from his cock, wrapping a hand around his shaft before sucking him back into your mouth, wildly working your tongue around the head as you stroked. Your pussy throbbed when he whined, one of his hands coming to clasp your forearm as you snaked your free hand up his torso, splaying your fingers out for stability. 

He’d grown even harder somehow, and your hand trailed down to give his balls a quick, light squeeze, eliciting an even louder whine; you hoped that nobody occupied the room next to his. Your hand went back to work his shaft, but he tugged your forearm and his other hand held your cheek. You looked up at him and slowly let his cock fall out of your mouth, watching his eyes scrunch closed and eyebrows knit together, his plush pink lips falling open. His chestnut eyes opened again as you straddled his torso, your ass bumping against the leaking length, making him hiss and smile.

“Baby, if you kept that up, I would’a come down your throat.” He panted and shook his head. “But I wanna see you painted in it.”

You giggled when his large palms clapped on your cheeks, grabbing the meat of them and spreading them.

“Go ‘head, darlin’,” he urged. “Ride this cowboy’s cock.”

“Don’ have to tell me twice,” you chuckled, giving him a kiss before sitting back on your knees. 

You started to slowly lower yourself onto his cock, lips parting as his fat head notched inside of your slick and needy hole, already splitting you open. His hands traveled up the curve of your ass and over your hips to rest on your thighs, low groans coaxing you further down. You planted your hands next to his ears and stared into his eyes as you slammed your ass against him, hissing as he filled you to the brim. His eyes squeezed shut and he whined, hands moving back to your ass.

“You take me so well, darlin’, fuck,” he growled. His eyes bore deep into yours, and he gently squeezed your cheeks. “Now, c’mon, baby girl. Move those gorgeous hips.”

You slowly rolled your hips back a few times, feeling your ass shake and letting your cunt adjust to his size. When you started to speed up, the man nodded and grunted along with your pants. The tension inside of you had returned with a vengeance, your walls already fluttering after only a few minutes of riding him. You picked up the pace and added another movement, sliding up and down, hammering back down with a filthy, wet sound. You threw your head back and shifted to rest on your knees, sinking down to the base and holding his gaze as he groaned. You began massaging your breasts and circled your hips, remaining fully seated on his cock.

“F-fuck, feels amazing, Brown Eyes,” you moaned, your index and middle fingers landing on your clit and rubbing small circles around it. 

You lifted your head to look at him when he swatted your fingers away. Brown Eyes gave you a sly smile. “Allow me, darlin’. You keep on ridin’, and don’ stop ‘til I say so.”

You nodded and then moaned when he pressed his thumb against the sensitive nub. You fell forward and planted your hands next to his ears again, your face twisted in ecstasy as he pushed you to the peak he’d denied you earlier. You kept pounding your ass back, picking up the pace when his pants began to grow louder, riding towards his own climax along with you.

“Oh, fuck—fuck—Brown Eyes, I’m gonna come,” you gasped, something white hot threatening to scorch you from the inside out.

“Do it, darlin’, come for me,” he growled, his thumb working your clit frantically as the roll of your hips became erratic. “Clench my cock, soak me—”

You cut off his encouragement with a cry of pleasure, your entire body shaking and burning, your cunt pulsing around him and drenching him in your juices. You slumped forward to rest on your forearms, and he went to work, thrusting his hips up into you, grunting and growling into your ear. You stared at him, your head heavy as you basked in the afterglow of your white-hot climax. When you sloppily kissed his lips, spit still wet on your chin, Brown Eyes growled and pushed you onto your back, bending your sweaty legs and forcing your knees towards your ears as much as they could. You whimpered when he fucked into you with feral grunts and growls, your slick-coated walls letting the head of him push deep inside of you. The force was pushing you towards the footboard, and he placed his large hand on the top of your head to shield you from it and hold you in place for his cock.

“Fuck—your pussy feels fuckin’ incredible,” he opened his eyes, and there was a familiar dark storm brewing in them, his pupils blown as he gritted his teeth and increased his pace. 

“Come on me,” you whispered, still drunk with pleasure, eyes brimming with tears from his brutal strokes. You reached your hand up and cupped his jaw with pleading eyes. 

Your touch sent him over the edge, and he pulled out of you with a moan. You let your arms fall back and bend behind your head, watching him give his cock one final pump before thick ropes of his spend painted your body. You closed your eyes and smiled listening to his choked moans, then opened them again to see his head thrown back and cock throbbing as his body started to come down from his climax.

Brown Eyes stared back down at you and smiled, eyes trailing up your torso from your hips to your breasts. You blissfully sighed and smiled, and he flopped down at your right side with a huff. You looked over at him, his head propped up on his hand, his handsome face and body masked by a little darkness with the light behind his back. 

“You look mighty lovely covered in my come, darlin’.” He gave you a gentle kiss and smiled against your lips. “Prettiest thing I ever seen.”

“Surely I can’t be prettier than a bunch of money in your hand for a bounty,” you half-teased.

He pulled back and furrowed his brow, shaking his head. Your eyes fluttered close when his hand cupped your cheek—it was trembling against your skin—and you leaned into his warm touch.

“Darlin’,” he said sternly. You opened your eyes to meet his again, the storm in them suddenly gone. “Didn’ I tell you my first day here that I’d found somethin’ better than money?”

You furrowed your brow. “I..I think so,” you responded hesitantly.

“I know I did, darlin’,” he confirmed, brushing his thumb across the apple of your cheek. “An’ didn’ I tell ya I’m not a liar?” You nodded and he pressed a kiss against your sweaty forehead, then pulled back and murmured, “You’re lovelier than any sunset I ever seen.” 

The compliment made you shyly smile and giggle, but it quickly faded as you stared into his eyes. A question weighed on your chest, and you worried your lip between your teeth. You’d covered it up and hid it, and now you couldn’t hold it back any longer—especially since he was leaving town tomorrow.

“Brown Eyes, will you ever come back?” you asked meekly. You quickly added, “Here, I mean. To the town. Not to me.” Your skin warmed with embarrassment.

He hesitated, glancing at the sheets before looking back into your eyes. “Well, you want me to?”

Did you really want him to, even after all he’d done since he stormed into town and held it—and you—captive in his fury? The man with a revolver on his hip and a Winchester 73 and a belt of bullets? The one who’d sent John to his death, who’d threatened Mr. Daniels, who’d killed three men without blinking? Did you really want the bounty killer to return and shroud you in his stormy shadow again?

“Yeah,” you smiled. “I want that.”

He smiled against your lips as he kissed you, and you wondered if he ever smiled after killing a bounty as you tangled your fingers in his hair.

masterlist a/n: whew! thank you for reading all of this! it really ran away from me. please let me know what you think with comments and reblogs !!

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@bbyanarchist @threeheadedlamb @dindjarinsmut @djarinslove @saradika @tortor-mcgee @sofasoap @hardlystrictlystarwars, @hrtsforpascal @notsosecretspy @totallynotastanacc @elinedjarin @maddiedrmr @kaqua @fairy-tale-writer @charlottetownwaffles, @theamuz, @jellybeanstacey0519 @tizylish, @graciexmarvel, @dheet, @kalea-bane, @mymindfuckery

[solaarbeeam]

Walking in public with Nishinoya Yuu is odd to the outside perspective for two reasons.

One, you’re way taller than him. Two, the style of dressing was completely different.

Nishinoya, is clad in a pair of baggy jeans, beat up high tops, a hoodie that reads ‘Guardian Deity’ on the back that the Karasuno First Years (Yachi included) had gotten for his birthday, and black headphones around his neck.

You, on the other hand, completely contrast the outfit he’s wearing, and it’s making people stare. It’s totally uncomfortable.

“Meh, let them stare. They’re just made they saw someone totally awesome wearing better clothes than them and got jealous!” He jumps up and down, which gets a chuckle out of you.

- If we’re going to be honest here, Noya is totally the kind of person to be peeved about people taller than him. He literally gets pissed when someone gets at him for his height.

- Of course, what he doesn’t have in height, he makes up for it in two ways. One, volleyball, and two, being in a relationship with you.

- The first thing that he said when he saw you for the first time, was “God fucking damn.”

- Now, he’s seen some pretty tall people in his lifetime. His own kouhai being some of them, and Amanai, Tanaka’s childhood friend.

- But you were different.

- He’s seen you in the hallways of Karasuno before. Most people just know you as ‘that one kid who doesn’t really wear the uniform’, and they aren’t wrong in that sentiment, but not completely right either.

- All you did was style the uniform to fit your style more. He was captured by the look.

- And you were tall. Way taller than he was. Somehow, that just drove him further towards you.

- He was worried of coming off as weird, especially with his height. Even if he’s tried his best to have people ignore his height for the person he actually is, it’s not going to stop people from drawing their own conclusions.

- Until you, naturally.

- He got intimidated by your style of choice, to the graphics on your shirt to the chains and clips, shit, he had no idea what to do.

- He didn’t want you to think he was lame or anything, so he actually tried to start dressing like you. Key word being tried.

- He failed miserably. You on the other hand, simply laughed at his antics and decided that you’d give him a try.

- If we’re going to be honest, Noya was indeed a little miffed about having an S/O that was taller than him. He can’t help it! However, he slowly but surely came to terms with it and now he simply doesn’t care.

- His S/O is like a giant model! You stand out from the others with how you dress! You look stunning, amazing, show stopping, and drop dead gorgeous! All Monster High slang intended! (Okay I’m sorry moving on-)

- During post-timeskip, his instagram follows go up by like 10K each day just because of you. Of course, he travels everywhere, and on the trips he takes you on, it’s like two million likes per post.

- All in all, pre and post timeskip Nishinoya Yuu loves his S/O, loves the way your style fits you, love how it contrasts to his, and anybody who wants to say otherwise can fight him.

- Also, please piggyback him places. He likes heights more than solid ground.

@kyoghurts

this was a request from kenji <33 i hope its to ur liking, if there’s anything I missed or something you wanna see i’ll make a pt 2

[vladdyissues]

Seriously, there are more than enough fanfics and rule34 art of Danny getting raped by Vlad till he's bleeding, but the second the reverse is suggested you clutch pearls.

You Peppers ship a 14 year old with and adult who wants to kill him, at least don't look down at me like you got a moral high ground. And just to not sound hypocritical, of course I ship them too.

Vlad can be the cruel, brawny, tall, big dicked man and Danny has to be the catamite, but an alternative can be great too, a bit divergence damn it,

"Enough of this thing exists already! I want everyone to stop making this thing they enjoy and instead make the thing that I want to see!"

Anon, you sound like a screaming, tyrannical toddler.

You're the one throwing a hissy fit about there not being enough Tall Strong Big-Dicked Danny content while the rest of us mind our own business. You're the one spamming our inboxes with asks—sometimes very graphic, distasteful, and definitely unwanted asks—about ship dynamics that we have repeatedly explained don't appeal to us. And yet you keep sending them.

This isn't even about shipping or dynamics, really. This is about you not respecting our boundaries and trying to force us to cater to your personal preferences.

Metaphorically, you're going to every ice cream parlor in town and having a tantrum because they're not serving cheeseburgers. "There's too much ice cream in here!" you scream—in a restaurant called We Love Ice Cream And Serve Nothing But Ice Cream. "I want a cheeseburger! Why don't you serve something other than ice cream!? You're all a bunch of pearl-clutching snobs who look down at me because I like cheeseburgers! Well, the ice cream you serve is gross, anyway!" (As if there's only one flavor of ice cream, and its the flavor of Pompep that you mentioned.)

You're being an ass, anon. This is not how you ingratiate yourself to your fellow fans or shipmates—especially not when you imply that some of us are shipping Vlad and Danny the """"wrong"""" way and your way is somehow better or more interesting.

How about the next time you feel like sending someone another ask about Big Tall Strong Danny wrecking Vlad's anus with his 16-inch monster cock, you instead pick up a pencil and learn to draw art and write fic of the things that you want to see? Because that's what the rest of us did.

Be the change you want to see in the world.

[wonderlandwalker]

To Love or To Lose| Finnick Odair X Reader

THG Masterlist / Taglist / Inbox

Summary: Finnick wishes he could just simply make up his mind about you, but in reality he was in a constant rotation of emotions. He knows it could never be, but that doesn't mean it's easy to let go.

Content Warnings/Tags: Slight fluff but mostly angst, look I tried writing fluff but it's simply impossible, this is once again not proofread, no use of y/n, no character descriptions.

Word Count: 1.1k

A/n: Ask and you shall receive. Still recovering from the writing mush my thesis put me in but slowly trying to get back to it, hope this is good. Let me know if you guys have any requests! (Once again divider by @saradika-graphics who was sent to tumblr by the damn gods themselves)

He wanted to hate you, his life would be so much easier if he could just hate you. And every once in a while, he could convince himself that he did, that when you looked at him with that sparkle in your eyes the feeling in his stomach was disgust and not butterflies, that when he saw you all dressed up at a party the haze clouding his mind was annoyance instead of jealousy, but as soon as he would actually talk to you the masquerade fell down quicker than he cared for, and he would have to confront it time and time again.

If he was honest with himself he knew what this feeling was, he knew the fact he wanted to crumble to his knees and ravage you until the melody of you moaning his name graced his ears wasn't contempt, but actually facing reality was much harder than upholding the illusion. Because you were everything he stood against, you were everything he had devoted his life to destroy, you were part of the capitol. And yet he found himself wanting to devote himself to you, found himself desperate for your attention.

He fought the battle with himself for so long, but every time you had snuck away from a party to your apartment you would become so gentle, you would reassure him and care for him and it would make him question everything he thought he knew, because capital citizens weren't good people, he knew that, so why were you?

And tonight had been different, he had dreaded the event since he first heard of it, and tried everything he could to get out of it, but President Snow wasn't one to easily budge. It was a night in honour of something he could not remember, something he didn't care to remember either way. His stylist had dressed him up less provocatively than usual, a three-piece suit adorning his frame letting him know it was at least a high-profile occasion, therefore letting him know you would be here.  He was scanning the crowds of people he so desperately wanted to destroy, desperately seeking for you among them. And the moment he saw you he remembered why he put himself through all this turmoil, why he couldn't simply stay away. The blue dress you were wearing put the oceans at home to shame for daring to think they were beautiful, it made him wonder if the skies above knew they were being humbled by you tonight, and once again he couldn't help but walk over to you the second he caught someone else noticing the same thing. And he knew, logically he knew that it was his own doing, that if only he could get over himself and tell you the intricate rambles of his mind he would have no need to feel threatened. Because that's what this feeling was slowly creeping its way up to the surface, the threat of someone else realizing what he was taking so long to come to terms with, and he had no one but himself to blame.

And as he woke up the next morning he forced himself to forget everything he learned once more, just as he did every time he spent the night with you, because this sense of peace was nothing but a well-constructed time bomb. 

The way you would so perfectly fit into his arms as he lay beside you, as if someone had found the mould of his body and crafted you to complement it made him melt every single time. The soft tilt of your voice as you invited him in without fail made him wonder if perhaps it was possible because you did not ask what others did, you did not demand more than he was willing to freely offer, the only thing you wanted was to be with him. And maybe it was the fact that he wasn’t sure how to process the concept, but maybe he was still too scared to even try. 

And as he attentively removed your soft skin from his and got up to get dressed he knew he was creating his own destruction, that he was reconfirming his own fate. And if he truly let himself he knew he would love you, he knew he would love you until the world was cruel enough to rip you apart, but he also knew that he would convince you to join the cause without even meaning to. Because if loving you was what he would do, he wouldn’t hold back, he would share every part of himself with you, including the one that would lead to destruction. You were smart, you were smart enough to survive on your own in a world that was out to get you, bright enough to climb to the top and remain there, you were respected enough that he knew Coin would utilise it, she would be foolish not to. And no one would make it out of the war unscathed, but he wasn't about to contribute to the harm of it, not willing to risk it.

So stuck with the alternative it was, stuck pondering over the what ifs and the distant possibilities, wondering if he would be able to remember the feeling of your lips against his until the moment he died, wishing to forever recall your sweet whispers. He would come back to it as long as he could, as long as he could stand the guilt of exposing you to the exact same thing he would spend the rest of his life recovering from

They say it's better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all, but what about the scenarios that run rampant in his head as he looks back at you, the internal screaming of doubt as he closes the door behind him to return home, careful not to wake you as the lock clicked in place, because if he knew he wouldn’t be able to look himself in the eyes if he had to see yours shimmer back at him. He would have to love without ever being able to lose, because you would always be in the back of his mind, receding with an infatuation that would be his undoing one of these days.

[romana-after-dark]

The Wrong Way: Chapter 1

Raider!Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

Raider!Tommy Miller x Fem!Reader

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

Chapter 2

Summery: You are sold to Joel to clear up some of your fathers' debts, and he takes you back to his house where him, Tommy, and high ranking members of his raiding trope stay. Joel is mean, cruel, and hash, but had small moments of softness that confuse you in your venerable state. Over time, you get to know him and Tommy, and see different sides of each, an both are hiding secrets. Was it possible to fall in love under these circumstances? Or was that just another way Joel was fucking with you?

WARNINGS FOR FULL FIC, NOT CHAPTER BY CHAPTER UNLESS SOMETHING NEW IS ADDED AFTER MASTER WARNING LIST: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT!!!! Fic contains graphic depictions of sexual assault, rape, molestation, dubcon/non con. Blow Jobs, PIV sex, lose of virginity, sex trafficking, past incest, death/people dying everywhere, Stockholm syndrome, falling for your rapist, victim blaming, torcher, branding, physical abuse, attempted sexual assault (not Joel), somno, self-harm/depression/suicidal thoughts (not a lot)but fair warning, major age gap

This is a reader fic, reader is early 20's, Joel is 40's at this point, reader is small enough that the men can lift her, but these are strong men. Reader is also refered to as little one, little girl ETC, but that's more in reference to her age/innocence than physical size.

*******************

The first time you met Joel Miller was a flurry of events.

“C’mon Joel, I don’t have it this time but I promise, next month its yours”

Jaimie, your dad, stood in front of Joel, who was unarmed but guarded by his group of fellow raiders who had guns pointed at Jaimie and his men. “Next time you’ll owe me nearly double, I’m tired of waiting, I got a reputation to uphold.”

Jaimie owed Joel money, and a lot of it. The amount of land Joel controlled was expansive, a damn near kingdom at this point that FEDRA didn’t bother with since it was so far out in the middle of nowhere. Joel and his gang of raiders made a near Viking-like living out here. You could either pay Joel monthly with small amounts of food or resources and in return you have a modicum of protection from him and other raiders as Joel’s men patrolled areas under their control, or Joel just raids you and takes everything you have. Easy enough choice. Problem was, if Joel’s men raided your farm or town, in general, they didn’t kill you if you didn’t try to fight. However, if he didn’t get what he expected from you, he was none too thrilled about using his men's resources to protect people who weren’t paying, and that debt could easily end up with someone dead, and that’s how Joel came to your dads house.

“Fine” Joel grumbled, turning to one of his men, a tall redhead. “Kill him”

“Wait!” Your dad shouted, and Joel held up a hand to stop the gunman.

“I’m listening”

“I have a daughter” Jaimie offered.

Joel narrowed his eyes at that. “You think I need help getting my dick wet?” He began to turn to the red haired man again, when your dad shouted the words that really piqued Joel’s interest.

“She’s a virgin!”

Jaimie continued, motioning for one of his men to get you from where you were hiding in the hall. “You can have your way with her, as long as you want, knock off some of what I owe you, and next month I’ll have the rest, unless of course you want her again.”

You’re pulled in before the two groups, and had the distinct feeling you were on display.

A man to the right of Joel, looking a little younger than him but only by a few years, with longer, dark hair, finally spoke. “You pimping out your own daughter?” He said with disgust.

Your dad glared at him. “Judge me all you want, Tommy, not all of us have powerful family to protect us” he turned back to Joel.

Joel held out a hand, stopping the interaction, then turned to you. His gaze was intense, focussed, harsh, and you couldn’t help but be afraid. You were used to this, of course, your dad using you as a bargaining tool, bad men who had used you and hurt you, leaving bruises and scars that were visible even from where Joel stood, but Joel was different, Joel was powerful, Joel was a cold blooded killer, and was not someone you wanted to upset or god forbid disappoint when he took you; you might end up with a bullet in the head if he wasn’t happy with a blowjob. 

Joel scanned you, taking in your body and no doubt the marks that littered your skin. “You let them do that to her?” He referenced the bruises.

Your dads hands were still raised. “Other men have used her mouth, but nothing other than that. Some men just want to toss her around, rough her up a bit, get themselves off like that, but you’d be the first inside her.”

“Joel.” The younger man spoke with a warning. “Don’t”

“I’ll do damnwell whatever I please” Joel grumbled, turning to your dad. “Mouth only, I’ll see if she’d worth buying more off after that.”

Jaimie nodded. “Sure! You can rough her up too, if you want, that’s extra, of course-”

“Shut up, I’ll decide the price when I’m done with her.” Quickly, Joel strode over to you and hanked you out of the other man’s grasp, half-dragging you to another room, your dad calling out to you not to mess this up.

Joel grabs you by the neck and shoves you to your knees, the cold, hard floor stinging against your kneecaps. You try your best to suppress the shaking fear inside you and play good little whore, reaching up to undo his belt buckle but Joel smacks your hands away, yanking you by your hair to look at him.

“Listen to me, sweetheart.” Despite the pet name, his tone was harsh and condescending. “I don’t need you to do anything, you’re just a warm, wet hole for me to get off with, got it?”

You nod.

“Just stay still and this will be over soon enough. Hands behind your back, now.” He demanded and you did as you were told, holding both your hands behind you and opening your mouth.

Joel took his cock out, and an involuntary whimper escaped you; you’d never been with a man this big, and if he liked you, he was supposed to deflower you? How was all that supposed to fit?

Joel must’ve seen the fear in your eyes. “I’ll start slow, but after that, I ain’t taking it easy on you, little girl.”

You nod quickly, thankful for even small mercies. 

Joel kept his word, sliding into you slowly, carefully, pausing when you gag, and allowing you to adjust when his full length was inside. Tears pricked at your eyes, it hurt so bad, but you needed to do good. If Joel didn’t like you, whatever you dad would do as punishment would be way worse than this.

He pulled himself all the way out, and told you to take a breath. “This is where the fun begins”. When he thrust his dick inside you, you heaved so hard that if you had eaten anything, you would’ve thrown up all over him, spit spilling out of your mouth mixed with stomach bile, your scalp stinging from his painful grip on your hair.

“Fuck yeah, gag on it” You can hear him say above you, and it’s not like you have a choice, continuing to make a mess on him and yourself, the drool dripping down your chin.

“Such a pretty little mouth” he grunts with each thrust. “Wonder what that tight little cunt would feel like.” You can’t help but whimper, knowing how much it would hurt to feel Joel stretching you open. His breathing becomes heavier. “Don’t know if I can have you just once, princess, just look at you…” His fingers entangled themselves deeper into your hair, holding you still as he fucked your face. “Might just have to keep you, be my little pocket pussy to use whenever I want, you want that? Hm?” When you don’t respond, you keep your eyes tightly closed, as the pain in your throat grows.

Joel huffs a laugh when you don’t respond, not that you could say much of anything either way. “Well, you don’t really have much of a choice. But wouldn’t it be better? Only me? No more random men? Of course, I’d fuck you, be the first one inside you…” His pace was faltering, imagining breaking you open, your blood on him… “Fuck!” Joel cums in your mouth with no warning, and you begin to cough and choke, cum and spit falling out of your mouth and he pulls you off him by your hair, throwing you to the ground. 

You lay there, heaving and coughing, face covered in spit, tears and cum and maybe a little blood, your throat burns and your just want to curl up and cry, but Joel is pulling you up. “Let's go” he’s yanking you around again, and you stumble to the door, feeling somewhat like a rag doll. Before opening, however, Joel stops, wiping his sleeve roughly on your face. “Can’t let them see what a pretty mess you make, princess.”

When he pulled out outside, where it seems the tensions hadn’t eased, Joel announces he’s taking you.

Your dad immediately protests, and for a moment you think he might actually care about you, until he gives his reason, being that he sells your mouth for extra money, and Joel can’t take that away from him.

“I’ll wipe your debts clean” Joel isn’t even looking at him, yanking you to where his men had loaded resources onto their horses.

“But that’s-”

“And the next three months free.”

Your dad seemed to recognize that Joel wanted you, and tried to trade for more and Joel hoped on his horse, never letting go of your arm. Effortlessly, he reached under your arms and pulls you up onto the horse, and you suddenly realize the weight of the predicament. Joel was taking you, and you weren’t coming back. He was going to fuck you until he was tired of you, then throw you away, if he doesn’t kill you. You were never going to see your friend or your brother again.

“Joel, come on, she’s my only daughter” You dad tried one more time, and you begin to squirm in Joel’s lap, wanting out. “She’s worth a little more than that, untouched.”

“Dad, please, don’t”

Joel wraps an arm around you and points a gun at your dad's head. “Three months, and I don't blow your brains out right now.”

Raising his hands, Jaimie backs down, giving up.

“Lets go” Joel says to the younger man from before, and turns his horse around.

You hear your name called from the house, and turn to find your brother running outside. 

“ZACH!” You scream for help, the fight in you kicking in, desperately trying to get out of Joel’s arms. The horse takes off, and you turn to see Zach getting on his own and starting after you and your dad telling him to stop.

Turning around, in one movement, Joel turns your head into his chest to cover your ears, and shoots.

You scream, and turn to see your brother fallen off the horse, laying still.

The first time you saw Joel Miller, he fucked your face, bought you, kidnapped you, and killed your brother in a span of ten minutes.

“One stop princess, then we can go home, and you get to be my little toy.” Joel spoke, his breath hot in your ear, as if he was your husband taking you home after a wedding, not the man who just uprooted you from everything you know.

The stop, as it turned out, took 2 hours to get to, and you were exhausted and in shock by the time you, the younger brunette and the redhead separated from the group. Joel had tied up your arms in front of you, not that you could escape even if you tried. Joel was much stronger than you. You were nearly nodding off, Joel’s hold on you keeping you upright, the adrenaline rush leaving you bone tired, when you heard a woman’s voice.

“You trafficking girls now, Joel?”

You open your eyes wearily to find a woman on a horse with two others flanking her, she had dark skin and her hair was in braids, eyeing Joel with disgust.

Joel’s hand ran across the top of your chest, closer to your collar bone but enough to make your whimper. It was a display, more than anything, meant to get a rise out of the woman. “What would you do if I was?”

“Not much I can do, it seems.” She seethed.

“Relax, Maria. Her dad was the one was selling her, I bought, she’s staying with me.”

You were dreary, unable to keep your eyes open, only listening to the voices.

“And that’s supposed to be better?”

You could feel Joel shrug. “Maybe, maybe not. But she’s not getting passed around like she was at her dads. We ain’t making a habit of it, if that makes you feel any better.”

Joel motioned the redheaded man over, who Joel referred to Nick. “Take her, just up the hill there, out of earshot, but where I can see her. Do. Not. Touch.”

Falling asleep against your best attempts to stay awake, you feel yourself getting picked up and handed off into another's arms. Over the next few hours, you were in and out of sleep, unable to fully rest but unable to stay away either. Passed back to Joel, who you only knew was him from the smell of his leather jacket, and another long ride for god knows how long, you finally awaken when Joel passes you down from the horse and into the brunette man’s arms before climbing down and reclaiming you. You felt like an object they just passed around as needed, no regard for you. You open your eyes in front of a large house, trying to take everything that had happened in the last few hours, but between your sleep addled brain and the general shock of it, you found yourself unable to. This is where you’d stay for the remainder of your short life, Joel rapeing you and letting god knows who else do the same until you die. Joel starts pulling you inside.

“Please” You whimper before you can stop yourself.

Joel thrust you up against the door, his face right next to yours and his beard rubbing against your skin, burning it. “What was that, little one?”

But you don’t reply.

“Joel…” the younger man says from behind the two of you.

“Shut up, Tommy.” He pulls you back, opening the unlocked door. “You ain’t fucking in charge here. I paid good money for her.” He snaps to Tommy, his large hand around the back of your neck tightening, making you whimper. “And I’m bout to get my money's worth.”

“I know” Tommy steps forward, carefully, like he has experience cooling his leader down. “We just road 4 fours, maybe you should wait, you’re tired-”

“You calling me old?” Joel fully turned around, his hand moving to the front of your throat, pressing your back into his front.

“No, that ain’t what I’m saying, Joel. I just mean you got her as long as you want her, no need to do it tonight, you can enjoy yourself more later.” Tommy’s eyes flickered over to yours, and you saw just a smidge of sympathy before they went back to Joel. “She’s had a long night, Joel, she just lost everything. Give her one night, please?”

You stood there in Joel’s arms, your hands still tied in front of you, feeling the rapid rise and fall of Joel’s chest, praying to whomever that you can have this; if Joel took your virginity tonight, you were sure you’d simply break.

Grabbing your bundled hand, Joel begins dragging you inside, and you see why the door wasn’t locked. In the living room, several more men were sitting inside: some drinking, some playing games, some just… sitting. Joel turns to them “She is mine, no one fucking touches her.” he demands as he pulls you, stumbling and trying to keep up with his long strides. Opening up a door, Joel thrusts your back to the wall, taking out his knife and you gasp, trying to get away; to where, you don’t know.

“Hold still, woman, or I’ll cut you for real.” Joel cut off your hand ties, and literally threw you onto the dirty mattress. He stomped over, towering above you, and pointing. “One night. Tomorrow I get what I paid for, and you’re mine, wherever, whenever, and however I want you, no matter what Tommy and his bleeding heart think. Understood?”

You nod, but that's not enough for him.

“Say, ‘yes, Sir’”

You swallow, and speak as much as you can imagine. “Yes sir”

“Go to sleep”

And with that, he leaves the room, and you can hear it locking. How are you supposed to sleep after all that? After everything?

Not long after, the door opens again, and you scramble up thinking Joel changed his mind; it was Tommy, but that didn’t ease you at all. Maybe Tommy showed you mercy to save you for himself.

“Relax, I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

He’s got a bowl in one hand and a bag in the other. “Don’t got much by way of a bath tonight, but here's hot water and a towel, you can at least wash your face, and here’s clean clothes and a pillow”

You don’t move, frozen in fear, almost as if he was a t-rex; if you didn’t move, he wouldn’t see you.

A soft smile. ”Alright, I’ll get out of your hair” and with that he leaves you, your room dark save for the moonlight coming through the window.

********************

You know, when I made this side blog it was initially gonna be like. Secret. Like I wasn't gonna tell my mutuals i had a side blog for dark content

But even if I decided to stay anonymous, the fact I have a fic with a song title, a shitty dad and a good brother would've given it away lol

Anyway, if you want to read more, comment to be added to the tag list!

@my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction

[fluffansmut-old]

Hi could you do a Eddie x reader fic where they couldn’t wait till they got home from hellfire. Like they decided they needed each other right now. And they fuck in the school bathroom. Also the hellfire boys walk by and hear it? I hope this makes sense. I also really bad for them😭

Summary: Thing get heated before hellfire one night

A/N:Thanks for this amazing request, I loved writing this honestly, just hope it’s not too graphic though.

Content warnings: 18+, smut, fingering, penetrative sex, hand jobs (ish), praise kink, very slight voyeurism (they get walked in on)

Word count: 1704

AO3 | masterlist

Hellfire fuck

He honked the horn twice and you knew that he was outside.

He smiled widely when he saw you, the way you dressed today was one of his favourites, you had a hellfire club shirt on even though you never really played and then you had this red little skaterskirt, paired with your burgundy doc martens, as usual.

“Hello gorgeous” he said as you got into his van.

“Hi babe” you responded as you pressed your lips to his.

His hand almost immediately found its way to your thigh as soon as he had put the car into drive. He inched the fabric up little by little until his little finger rested against your lace-clothed cunt. He didn’t do anything, he simply just kept his hand there and it alone was causing both heat and wetness to pool between your thighs.

He drew little shapes with his pointer finger on your inner thigh, watching your expression ever so often to see the reaction you had to his actions.

He said nothing nor did you, but you both knew, because frankly when he parked outside of Hawkins high, the little finger he had resting against your core, was positively wet. Eddie smirked to himself and flicked his pinky up once, brushing against your clit. You choked on a moan and then he removed his hand completely.

“Ready to go set up?” Eddie asked casually, as he removed his own seatbelt.

“You can be so cruel, do you know that?” You said as you pressed the seat belt button.

“I dunno, tell me what I’ve done sweetheart?” He said, smirking widely because he knew damn well what he did.

“Oh you know”

Inside the drama room Eddie got to work in a heist, bringing out chairs for everyone, setting the mood with lights and he even popped a tape of mood music in the record player, to be able to just press play as the rest of hellfire walked in.

When all of that was done the only thing that was left was setting up his dungeon master screen.

During all of this you couldn’t take your mind of how glorious he looked whilst he worked. The way his muscles so effortlessly flexed under his shirt as he moved tables and carried chairs. His skilled fingers, that fiddled around with figures and dice, and the way his face scrunched up in concentration over it all.

Let’s just say he didn’t make the heat between your legs cool down, rather the opposite. So when he sat on his throne you couldn’t stop yourself anymore.

You straddle Eddie on the throne when he was in the middle of setting everything up.

“Well hello there baby” he said surprisingly as he opened a folder of notes.

“Hi” you said innocently as you rubbed your hips softly against Eddie, your pantie-covered clit brushed against the rapidly forming bulge beneath you.

“Can I help you with something sweetheart?” He asked, placing a hand on your hip, guiding you down against him again.

“Does it seem like you can?” You said, not wanting to have to say it.

His ringed hand came up and he brushed his fingers lightly up your neck, sending exciting shivers down your spine, before he grabbed your chin, making you look him in the eyes.

“Now baby, if you want something from me, then you tell me” he said, looking into your eyes. “ what do you want sweetheart?”

The way he spoke made your heart pound harder with lust for him.

“I want you.” You said, grinding down on him again. “I want you so bad.”

“Is that so?” Eddie said, mockingly surprised. “In what ways, baby?”

“Every, any” you answered within seconds. “Up to you really”

“Wow, you really seem desperate huh?” He said as he slid a hand up under your skirt.

“Uhu” you moaned as you felt his hand trace your folds.

“Oh baby you really are desperate.” He said, removing his now wet finger for you, holding it up for the two of you to see.

You felt heat rise to your cheeks, seeing the evidence of your desperateness.

“Open your mouth for me baby” he softly demanded, and you complied immediately, putting your tongue out for good measure, “oh, good girl”

The praise made you feel electric and you let out a low moan as Eddie trailed the wet finger all over your tongue.

“Suck sweetheart” he said and you did. “Well I guess we’ll have to find time in the schedule to relieve someone as desperate as you.”

“How long do we have until the others show up?” You asked, leaning down to leave a trail of hickies on the exposed skin of his neck.

“Absolute max, about 20 minutes.” Eddie said.

“C’mon then” you said and got off his lap, grabbing his hand pulling him out of the room, heading towards the bathroom across the hall.

Inside the stall Eddie didn’t wait until he pushed you against the wall, his lips traveling from your neck down as close to your breasts as your shirt would allow.

You pulled the shirt up from where it was tucked into your skirt and tore it off, hanging it over the stall door as Eddie’s face disappeared into your chest, leaving dripping hot kisses to the newly exposed skin.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty baby” you heard Eddie moan into your chest, and you dug your fingers into the dark messy locks and pulled him up,

moaning into his mouth as his tongue met yours.

Eddie pulled your bra down exposing your tits and flicked over one of the nipples,with his fingers as he continued to kiss you deeply.

You took one of the hands that you had in his hair and trailed it down his body, until you came to his belt buckle.

It wasn’t easy without seeing it but after some fiddling you unbuckled it and stuck your hand down his pants, rubbing your hand along his already almost painfully hard cock. You felt it twitch as you touched it and Eddie moaned into your mouth.

“Fuck,” he moaned, as he took both his hands up under your skirt, finding the edge your panties, pulling them down to your mid thigh. His fingers started to rub circles on your clit almost instantly. “How do you want me?”

You thought for a second then decided.

“From behind, please Eddie” you pleaded.

He kissed your forehead.

“Of course baby, always so good for me.” He said, “turn around for me sweetheart”

You did as he asked and before you knew it you were pressed with your back against Eddies front, the back of your skirt flipped up, him easing into you with little to no effort, one of his hands found your tit, the other was down the front of your skirt rubbing you clit in sync with his thrusts.

You had your arms up around Eddie's neck, pulling his head towards yours until your lips met. He panted into your mouth as he pounded deeper into you.

“Fuck Ed’s” you said “I’m close, a little faster and I’ll cum”

“Hold on a little babe and I’ll get you there” he moaned.

You were so overcome with pleasure that you threw your head back against Eddieks shoulder and let out a string of incoherent words in pure pleasure.

This action was also what made the rest of the hellfire club realize where their dungeon master was.

They heard mumbles and assumed that it was Eddie.

”See” Dustin said to Gareth who had been convinced that Eddie had left to grab something that he forgot at home. “Told ya that he was still here”

“Yeah, yeah you win” Gareth responded and rolled his eyes at the freshmen. “Go prepare and I’ll drag the bastard out of there.”

The rest of hellfire went into the drama room and Gareth entered the bathroom. You and Eddie had both more or less just orgasmed and had you full focus on catching your breaths and whispering love declarations to each other. Gareth didn’t hear what you said, and only saw the hellfire shirt hanging on the stall door.

He assumed that it was Eddies, why would he assume any different? It was the boys bathroom after all.

He decided that he would surprise his friend, who probably spilled something on his shirt, so he yanked the stall door open and yelled, “ what are you doing man?”.

What he saw before him was not what he expected.

He saw you, clad in a skirt that thankfully covered a lot from where he was standing, you had your bra on but it didn’t help much because your tits weren’t covered by it, one was in Eddie's hand, and the other was the first thing Gareth saw.

Behind you were Eddie with his pants partially down, one hand holding your tit, the other slowly guiding this cock out of you.

Neither you or Eddie had the chance to say something before Gareth said;

“Oh fuck, no, shit uhm sorry,” he said and almost ran out of there.

Eddie's mind went straight to you who accidentally just flashed his friend your tits.

“How are you? I’m sorry I should’ve locked the stall.” He asked, shoving himself back into his boxers and then helped you slip back into your bra and shirt, before you shimmied your panties up your legs, knowing full well that they would be ruined by the time you got home since Eddie came in you.

“Are you talking about the sex or the surprise visit cause either way I’m fine.” You reassured and pecked his lips. “The sex was amazing, but I think we scarred Gareth for life.”

Eddie chuckled at the thought of his terrified face.

“We better go check on him”

When Gareth had entered the drama room all the other hellfire club members had questioned what had happened, Mike asked:

“What happened in there, did you see a ghost?”

They didn’t get an answer out of Gareth, but when you and Eddie entered, clothes a bit wonky, hickies and lipstick stains all over each other and hairs an absolute mess they figured out what he saw themselves