#also fun fact i did have to share a seat like this with someone a while ago

[ritterdoodles]

Back on my bs once again

[mygnolia]

to weave my love ⭒ n. riki

⭒ SYNOPSIS -› Riki is good at many things- dancing, making fun of his friends, playing it cool (debatable.), Hell- he’s even good at saving people from falling buildings without getting whiplash. But the things he’s bad at? Well, it’s asking you out to prom, and trying to balance the shared assignment he has with you…while being Spider-man.

⭒ PAIR -› spiderman!nishimura riki x fem-pres!reader

⭒ GENRE -› fluff, banter, action ⭒ TROPES -› classmates to lovers, idiots to lovers ⭒ WC -› 17k (i’m sorry idk why either.)

⭒ INCLUDES -› SPOILERS FOR GREAT GATSBY, cursing, non-graphic injuries (reader discretion advised), yes i made the patching up with first aid kit trope SUE ME!! takes place in a busy city similar to new york never specified, reader is rich, jake and heeseung are seniors and riki’s a junior, is riki stupid? yes… jake reveals stuff because he is also a little silly, reader wears a red dress!

⭒ GREAT GATSBY -› basically jay gatsby has this weird amt of money but no one rlly knows how he got it (nefarious reasons) and hes been in love with this girl daisy for five years but then she got married to tom buchanan but he gets rich so he can get the house across from her and wistfully watch her and he pines after her like CRAZY but he dies at the end

⭒ REN SAYS...special huge fat kiss to thena @sensitively-taken you will be in the will when im a millionaire THANK YOU for helping me with so much of this I WUV U AND I WLL BE WAITING FOR UR HUENING FIC!!! | LIBRARY

NISHIMURA RIKI MIGHT DIE FROM PRE-ADULTHOOD STRESS, IF THAT’S EVEN A THING.

What exactly does Riki have to worry about as a seventeen-year-old junior in high school? Right now, his most daunting responsibility is catching up on the chapters of The Great Gatsby because the only thing Riki’s actually read from the novel is that the main character shares a name with his best friend and senior, Park Jay. His second most daunting responsibility is handling the fact that with the new seating chart in his Literature class, it means he’s sitting next to the object of his very subtle affections, you. 

See, the problem with having a crush on you is that Nishimura Riki’s committed to thinking that you’re way out of his league, and unfortunately, the boy believes that almost too well. Not only are you minted beyond his wildest dreams (having seen your posts on social media), but you’re hardworking, helpful, and dedicated to your role as student body treasurer. He’s already understood that you’d never go for a guy like him. Maybe someone more like Park Sunghoon, whose parents’ salary matches yours. If Riki lived in a rural estate with generational wealth, handling the whole ‘Spider-Man’ thing might be a bit easier for him, considering he wouldn’t have to try so hard in school. It might even change the fact that Riki dealt with some alleyway criminals last night and is currently catching up on lost sleep, as your English Literature teacher goes on and on about a project on the book you’re reading. 

In class, and even sometimes outside of the classroom, your small tendency to not pay attention to your surroundings has landed you in some awkward situations—like now. 

“I don’t really tell anyone this, but I hate Daisy.” And instead of getting a response, you glance over to see Nishimura Riki slumped on the desk. Without trying to make preconceptions about what could land him in a situation like this, you poke his arm, stifling a smile at how his eyes widen when you’ve caught him rubbing the very obvious sleep from his eye. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, still fighting the post-nap grogginess, “Did I miss anything?” 

(Nope.)

Shaking your head, you return your attention to your teacher as he continues to answer questions. The second Mr. Yoo assigned a report, you wanted to die even more considering the work you had to do on top of the impending due dates. But for it to be partnered? And for you to get seated and paired with the one boy who's known for not caring about school? Maybe things are a little stacked against you, but there has to be a reason why Riki’s somehow still passing all his classes…right?

Considering it’s the last assignment about the book, you’re glad that you already read it so many times to know what you want to put into words. And in retrospect, answering a few open-ended questions about it can’t be that hard—the hardest part would be getting your partner to stay awake in class. 

A small tap at your side makes you turn to face Riki, who you see has frantically written a page full of notes about the project in the past three minutes and how he can succeed. “Can you go over the first part? Sorry…I was…y’know.” 

“It’s a partner project. And we’re partners.” You wince at the awkward wording. 

Great! Riki was caught sleeping and that was your first impression of him for your paired assignment? Riki feels so stupid in front of you right now—in front of your meticulous notes with annotations and proper highlighting. He wants to curl up into a ball when he sees you glance over at his haphazard attempt to look like he was paying attention when, in truth, he was trying to remember the dream he had just ten minutes prior. When you offer him a small smile and nod, leaning over with your notebook in hand, he sighs in relief, thanking whoever it was that let him get away with his naps without the consequence of irritating you afterwards. 

The bell rings when Mr. Yoo stops talking, and you pause, startled by the sound. Instead of leaving, however, you pack your bag and shuffle to his side of his desk, continuing to parrot details about your report in hopes that it all makes sense. You need to make sure he knows what he’s doing. 

“I think one of the questions he mentioned was like ‘Is Gatsby a good person?’ and do you remember how in Chapter Eight…” The rest gets zoned out and forgotten in the boy’s head, because he in fact does not know what happened in Chapter Eight. He doesn’t know what happened…in any part of the book. But he agrees anyway, pretending like he understands what scene you’re trying to explain. What he notices is how thorough and dedicated you are towards ensuring he comprehends what you’re explaining, and although it could be because you don’t want him to fail you both, he chooses to believe you’re doing it because you tolerate him. 

You’re so engrossed in covering all the little details and telling him random tidbits regarding the book that you don’t realize your feet have made it all the way to the cafeteria. “But here, let me get your number. I’ll totally explain more over text.” 

Riki is definitely not freaking out when he silently grabs his phone and hands it to you with the contact page, staring a little longer than necessary at the cute smiley face you added to your name. “Thanks,” he mumbles, forcibly tearing his eyes away from the ten digits of your number, “For helping me with this, too.”

“Of course! The Great Gatsby is a fun read for me. A little hard to read sometimes because of some of the characters, but still easy to understand.” And Nishimura RIki realizes that he has to do well. He’ll read the book five times over if it means gaining your approval. 

Jake notices something a little different about the tuft of black and blonde hair when his friend walks in. The first thing is that he’s actually here, and that you’re next to him, smiling. The boy rubs his eye to make sure he’s not dreaming somehow, but when he looks up again, you’re waving goodbye and joining your friends across the room. 

“Did you get hit with something while fighting a villain that makes you more bold? I feel like I just saw you and ____ talking,” Jake starts when Riki finally joins him with his lunch. 

Riki laughs, shoving Jake’s head out of embarrassment and opening his chips. “It’s just school. Got some project in English and she says we’re partnered.” He looks over at his friend chuckling, rolling his eyes at how Jake pokes at his side and wiggles his eyebrows. 

“I better hear you two are dating by next week.” 

“Who’s dating by next week?” Heeseung places his bag of food in front of them and takes a seat, opening the fast food he got last period and stuffing a fry in his mouth. 

“Riki and ____. Let me have one,” Jake answers, reaching inside the bag. 

Heeseung looks over at his junior curiously. “You asked her out?” And the two older students hear a groan from the boy in question. 

“Me and ____ aren’t anything, for your information.” He prods at the vegetables on his tray and takes a bite before a look of displeasure washes over his face. “You’re both way too excited for two guys who do not have girlfriends.” 

“Hey! You know the girl I’m always fighting with is the reason why I’m single. I have to focus on studying to do well in school to do better than her.” Heeseung’s whining falls on deaf ears as Riki smiles victoriously, seeing how defensive the former got. 

Jake offers him a shrug of defeat. “I got nothing.”

The three of them fall into normal conversation and Riki finally explains everything that happened during English.  “So you’re telling me your plan to ask ____ out went down from 18 months to 6?” And with a nod from the younger, they both groan once more. Heeseung exclaims, “We’re both going to graduate, dumbass. Make the plan go down to like…two months? Please?” 

Jake cuts in before Riki has a chance to respond. “Make it one and a half, so we can see you with a prom date before leaving forever.” 

“You act as if you’re going to die after graduation. It’s like you’re begging to be a super senior.” 

And they’re silenced immediately. 

“Do you think the guy I was with earlier hates me?” you ask on the other side of the room. Minjeong stares at you blankly, waiting for your explanation. “I don’t know if you saw when I walked in but I was talking to this really tall guy with blonde hair and black tips. He seemed really out of it, like he kept staring at me and nodding. I think I scared him off by talking about the book too much.” 

Sunghoon, who is also listening in, opens his neatly packed lunchbox and begins mixing his noodles. “I think you did scare him off, ____.”

“Not helping,” Minjeong interjects, “Just talk to him more and maybe he’ll warm up to you. You two sit together in class anyways, so hopefully he’ll talk more?” 

“I know him,” Sunghoon comments, “Well, sort of. I’m friends with Jake who’s friends with Riki, and it seems like all that boy does is sleep.” 

“Maybe he’s really good at subconscious in-class comprehension?” you try, taking a bite of your sandwich. “I just hope it doesn’t interfere too much with treasurer stuff.” 

NISHIMURA RIKI MIGHT DIE IF HE SWINGS INTO ANOTHER WALL AT 100MPH LIKE HOW HE ALMOST DID TONIGHT.

All he’s had on his mind since school ended till now is how he should probably text you, if he really discarded the slimy acid monster from last week properly, and when the prom theme is going to be released, but there’s something amiss that confuses his spidey-senses and makes Riki much more alert. 

He snaps out of whatever train of thought he had before, focusing on the situation at hand and looking around to follow his instinct. Riki cautiously plants himself on the side of a random apartment building to get a sense of what's going on. A tingle of some sort of in the air permeates the material of his suit and leaves him shivering from the cold. 

He doesn't like it one bit. 

Moving to the side of the building to the top, the boy finally catches a glimpse of something when he gets a decent view of the city and highway systems. Riki knows something’s wrong with the bridge the closer he gets. He zips from one side of the tall, metal tower to the other, crawling down on all fours making sure he isn’t caught. He feels the electric feeling once more, only amplified. It runs up his spine and he wants to slap it, almost like a frantic, summertime bug. The air around him is charged with something he has never recognized before. With a puzzled expression under his mask, Riki continues to investigate the surrounding area. 

Riki finds a lone figure with some sort of attachment to his left arm, like a long glove made out of metal. The bulkiness of it seems to have no impact on his body as the man fiddles with the contraption, and the boy watches with bated breath as the machine fizzes and spurts with electricity. It begins to glow as power concentrates on his plated palm and the superhero sees it for the first time. It’s like a fizz, like a match striking at fire only to produce a quick burst of friction, but it almost feels liquid when he watches the person play with the flickering blue ball of electricity. It dances in the dark in a hauntingly beautiful way, with bolts jutting out from the metal as it spurts and buzzes with a life-like manner. 

A spark. 

“Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” The sound of Riki’s voice from the end of the bridge causes the stranger to look up with wide eyes. Although Riki fully expects it to simply enhance strength or block damage, the immediate strike of blue that flies straight towards him is anything but defensive. With a yelp, he jumps away, this time refusing to show himself. 

What the hell was that?

He knows he should go back down there to change things and get the person and the metal pieces away before it escalates, but when he goes back down to watch, it's ten times worse. The bright blue illuminates the scarred face of the villain as he’s picked up the metal arm–but this time, it’s no longer clunky and sparking, but fused into his arm. 

Riki’s face pales at the sudden change before his body acts on its own and he shoots out a web to stop the man. 

The villain is shocked by the intrusion, but quickly yanks free from the webbing and flicks another bolt of electricity, one that flies much faster now that the metal flows into the arm instead of simply resting on the skin. It’s unlike something Riki has ever seen, something that is so controlled in motion and yet so erratic in nature, and it instills a deathly fear when it grazes his arm he hisses in pain. The sharp feeling springs Riki into action as he jumps away. He’s lucky another bolt isn’t sent his way, seeing how the villain’s too busy marveling at the power of his new gadget.

“You know that fucking hurts, right?” He yells out, cupping his wound. “Maybe leave the gadgets to the kids!”

The man scoffs. “It better have hurt. I sacrificed half my body for this to work.”

“But why?” All Riki wants is answers. Some sort of explanation.

The man charges up yet another bolt, almost like a laser gun is built into the machine. “Less talking, more running, Spiderman.” 

That scared the shit out of him. 

The boy doesn’t have time to think as he jumps out from the dark tunnel to the bridge and up the metal towers—he hates having to fight with people right below. The villain follows in pursuit, almost crumbling the metal with his engineered arm as he hoists himself quickly. Riki continues to jump between the structure to avoid the flashes, trying to get out and apprehend the man as quickly as possible. When he reaches the top, however, he feels death is near as he glances down at the villain below who’s quickly gaining on him. He shoots out webs to slow him temporarily, letting himself fall and swing from the side of the tower to escape. 

What he doesn’t see on the way across the bridge is the flash that misses his cheek and hits his thigh instead. It burns, and mid-air, Riki gives the wound a quick assessment before he lands on the metal, immediately forcing his body to climb. While dealing with his wound, he fails to notice the villain swinging from the bridge support lines to meet him. 

He needs to end this fast before he becomes burnt toast.

Riki doesn’t often rely on instinct to carry him, but he can tell that the villain he’s facing isn’t just a criminal. 

“Land another hit, would you?” he tries to say, his voice strained from the pain in his arm and leg. It doesn’t do much to deter the man in front of him as the arm continues to destroy and bend the metal on the way up. “What are you going to do now, Sparky?”

The man says nothing, charging energy into his metal glove again before aiming and focusing on the target: him. 

Riki jumps off, not able to properly land his web in the right spot as he goes from one section of the bridge to the other. The man behind him looks enraged at the boy’s attempt to escape—so much so that he reaches out with his normal hand to try to grasp the suit when Spider-Man swings past him. Instead of the feeling of fabric, the villain feels sticky spider fluid on his fingers. Riki shoots out a web, one that curls around the villain’s wrist and drags him off the tower. Instead of being able to launch him into the surrounding waters, the man slips from the poorly shot-out webs and falls from mid air into the sea of frantic cars, including one semi truck that collides directly with his arm. In the air, the boy winces when he hears honks and shouts from the impact, hoping it’s the last time he’ll have to witness it.

With his gaze trained on the falling figure, the weakly attached web breaks, and Riki all of a sudden starts falling down as well. He curls up defensively before bracing for impact, curling into himself when he feels the metal dent and the truck driver scream from outside of the parked vehicle, the body of the villain right in front of it. 

Riki staggers, holding onto his arm and thigh the best he can before getting up. With wobbly steps and a small jump, he lands near the unconscious man, whose metal arm is cracked and fizzling—something that Riki knows is bound to leave more scars. 

“Call the police. I’ll get rid of the pieces.” Although Riki wants to figure out who the criminal is and make sure he’s properly apprehended, the gashes in the boy's limbs leave him winded and exhausted. With hot metal scraps bound together by webbing in his hands, Riki swings out and dumps it somewhere rural, trying his best to cover the pieces with the pounding headache that 

Riki revisits the secluded spot under the bridge, looking for clues to the man’s identity, and his expression falls when he notices a lanyard dangling near a trash can. 

His name, his position, and the company. FLiGHT Corp. The company name caught the boy’s eye, and he pockets the item before leaving. 

It seemed like he was a normal research scientist, but Riki’s recollection of the scars and tattered skin leaves him retracting his last thought. He heard something about the failure of a time travel machine at FLiGHT, and if the mass of the incident was anything to go by, he was in the center of it. 

No matter how many times Riki tries to get it out of his head, on the way home, all he can think about is the inexperience he displayed and the lack of response he gave Riki during the whole time. But Riki can’t bring himself to really take away someone’s life—and maybe for that, he’s a horrible superhero. 

He knows he should stop the man before it's too late, and especially with how many self-proclaimed villains there have been, it's not easy to see so many innocent people ruin their lives chasing a power that inevitably consumes them. He knows it’ll only get worse if he lets them run free.

And while the superhero has never been fully honest with himself, there are many times where Riki hates his role as Spider-Man, and wishes that he was just some teenage boy who didn't have the lives of others in his palm. He wishes he didn't have to sacrifice so much to stay behind a mask—and he wonders deep down if there’s anyone else who felt the same. 

His swings lead him across the city above hundreds of lives he has to protect, and he tries to find some semblance of peace. He thinks about how he has his homework due despite having just risked his life, he thinks about how your project is going—and about you. 

In the night under the stars, Nishimura Riki wishes for something just a bit normal. He wishes a good night for himself, but also for you, wherever you could be.

NISHIMURA RIKI MIGHT DIE FROM TRYING TO READ THIS BOOK IN ONE NIGHT.

The Great Gatsby is exactly like how you described it; a little hard to get through but fun with the plot’s eccentric characters. He’s pretty sure he could’ve just used a detailed SparkNotes explanation for the book, but having a crush can make someone do weird things. And in Nishimura Riki’s case, his infatuation has got him reading a novel about morally-skewed characters and rich society to impress you. 

When you come into class barely on time, Riki gives you a confused look when you sit down, but doesn’t comment on it any further. Instead, he takes out his book and tries to act like his eyes weren’t closing shut from exhaustion by the time Daisy was finally confessing how she loved Gatsby. 

The moment Mr. Yoo stops talking, however, Riki isn’t asleep—much to your surprise. He has his book out, pages filled with sticky notes and a whole section of his notebook dedicated to characters (written in bright red to keep him awake) and their traits. 

“I got it.” It’s the first thing he says when you two are left to do in-class work. It’s ominous, and maybe a little too enthusiastic in a high school literature class for a boy who doesn’t even care that much for school, but you’ll accept it with open arms if it means you get a helping hand on your project. 

“Continue,” you tell him slowly, leaning back in your chair to listen to him. And you don’t know why, but a small part of you thinks that the boy who sleeps every period the book was discussed wouldn’t have much to say or contribute to such an open-ended prompt, but life is full of surprises. 

What you fail to notice is how Riki is nervous and his stomach does at least twenty flips before he swallows dryly and starts rambling in hopes to impress you and redeem himself from his embarrassing slumber a few days ago. 

“So you know how our prompt is based on one character and basically all their actions?” he asks, and you nod, absentmindedly thumbing a sheet in your journal. “I’m thinking we should talk about Jay Gatsby because so much is revealed to us about him that we might as well use it to our advantage. Y’know, talking about how the theme of exploitation and secrets is veiled under Gatsby’s desire for Daisy.”

“You don’t think Gatsby’s a good character?” Riki wants to tell you that Gatsby is more relatable than good or bad, but he shakes his head. 

“I mean, not really.” He feels like with those four words, he’s completely changed the trajectory of his relationship with you from a positive slope to completely downhill—and a wave of panic washes over him. “Should I? I mean, I could see him as more redeemable if you gave me examp-“

You wave your hand to quell his worries. “To be honest, I don’t like him either. But he’s an interesting main character to write about, so I think we should go with your idea.” 

To win your approval feels like he’s won at least three fights against a villain in a row without getting any bad injuries—it feels good. And for the rest of the period, you are able to finish a detailed outline of your work for the next few weeks, mapping out sections for each other, and he even gets to see a part of prom planning on a word document you had open. He considers your shared productivity a win when he packs up and bids you goodbye before leaving for lunch. 

One wave doesn’t catch Riki’s attention from across the room. Not even two, or three calls of his name could get Nishimura Riki out of his thoughts, and Jake frowns before moving up in the lunch line. 

“Something’s caught your eye again.” Jake feigns innocence and sighs dramatically as he places the food down next to Riki’s plate. “Could it possibly be our school treasurer?” Jake laughs, leaning over to catch a glimpse of what’s got his friend so entranced and non-responsive.

Riki scrunches his nose, annoyed, but never breaking his gaze from where you’re sitting. “We talked in class–like, a lot,” is all he says, paying his friend no mind. “She’s genuinely so understanding.”

“God, I don’t think you can be any more down bad for her than you are right now.” Jake picks at his food, and despite his concentration directed towards the olives on his pizza, he’s able to dodge the flying loaded nacho that goes his way, even if he wasn’t the one with superpowers.

“Can you shut up?” Riki grumbles, laying his head on his arms as he notices you smile and point to something. “I just got pummeled into a semi truck last week. Let me have this before I die tomorrow.” 

“Very grim,” his friend notes, ruffling the younger’s hair, “I think this is exactly what all of those mental health assemblies that we get are for.” And Riki basically tunes him out, too tired to fight and too used to the teasing remarks to come up with anything useful in response. 

Riki sits up a bit, letting his head rest on his propped elbow as he looks at the school food and touches another nacho gingerly. “Y’know, I read the book for English so she wouldn’t think I’m an idiot.” 

His friend snickers, successfully pulling out yet another sliced olive from the cheese, much to the disgust of Riki. “She probably already thinks you’re an idiot.” 

The superhero debates throwing another cheesy nacho in Jake's face, before deciding to eat it instead. “Don’t say that asshole! You make it seem like I have no chance with her.” 

Jake shoots him an exasperated look that makes Riki break eye contact. “That’s because you don’t.” 

“I’ll prove to her that I’m worth her time.” Riki says somewhat wistfully, still stealing glances from a few tables away. “Maybe I’ll ask her out to prom, show up in my suit. Do that cheesy upside down kiss shit people say Spiderman does.” When his friend raises an eyebrow at him, Riki shrugs. “I will! Well-maybe not the Spider-Man thing, but prom definitely.” 

Jake continues to look at him unconvinced as he takes a bite out of a slice of pizza with mangled cheese. “You barely talk to her in class and you think you can ask her out to prom as Nishimura Riki?” And the younger grins, eyes still stuck on how your eyes crinkle and how your shoulders shake with laughter. 

“Yup.” And his fate is sealed, just like that.

“What’s your project about, anyways? Didn’t you tell me last night that she gave you her number? Must be pretty serious if she wants to text you.” Riki furrows his eyebrows and shakes his head. 

“It’s just tying the theme of the book to one character and writing about how they show it. So we did the theme of money and Gatsby, because it’s easy and mentioned so many times.” 

Jake gawks. “You must really like her,”

“I was planning to read it regardless of who I was partnered with.” 

“Okay- that’s debatable.” There goes another one of Riki’s nachos.

“Gross.” 

He thinks things are going pretty well for you two. The report is being written and your quotes are basically finding themselves, so Riki should give himself a pat on the back for pitching the initial idea for how to go about your assignment. Maybe reading the whole book offered him a few useful pointers, and he goes to sleep that night satisfied with your progress. Maybe Heeseung and Jake were right—maybe he could finally ask you out by prom. 

NISHIMURA RIKI MIGHT DIE TRYING TO SAVE THE CITY FROM YET ANOTHER MONSTER TERRORIZING THE STREETS.

He wakes up the next morning, not expecting his alarm to alert his senses to danger. It rings in his head and makes him feel delirious, trying to shake sleep off as he looks out the window for any visible sign of what's wrong. If he could hear the danger in his head then that meant someone could be hurt, and he could go to school without a few hours of sleep if he worked fast enough, right? 

Riki slips into his suit without much thought and goes to crack his window open, only to look back at his clock and read the horrific time of 6:23AM. 

Who the hell picks a fight with a teenager at this ungodly time? 

Then, he shoots from his wrists, once, twice, and suddenly, he's off, covering more ground through the air in just three seconds than he ever could while walking or running for minutes on end.

The source of his tingling spidey-sense is some large metal centipede creature that was setting off car alarms in a neighborhood near the market. Thankfully, no one was really awake to be caught in the crossfire, but he has to figure out how the hell he's going to catch that thing in...he checks his watch…twenty minutes? 

Hopefully, his instinct will help him win this time—again. 

The web he shoots out does nothing to stop the monster, and considering how it connected them both, the threads only drag the superhero to the edge of the building he was initially watching from. With some yelling and pulling, he finally detaches, and realizes that the odd sizzling feeling in his bonds must be from the same source as a few days ago; Spark. 

He had this gut feeling that a villain as strong as him wouldn’t have been destroyed so easily, but his wounds were so deep and the blood loss so bad from a few nights ago that he couldn’t have truly dumped him in the ocean without fainting or suffering something permanent, and although Riki hoped things in the universe would work itself out, the presence of the giant fifty foot insect alone is proof that things were not in his favor. 

He jumps off the building onto another, working quickly as he strings up a few webs between the houses as a wall for the monster, watching it slide and knock over cars in its wild pursuit. The monster spends a few seconds breaking down the wall of webbing and climbing over it, the many legs easily breaking through. As the superhero jumps across buildings and keeps track of the centipede’s movement, he has no idea why it isn’t going for him, and that makes his job much harder without the attention of the monster. One glance at the direction the centipede is headed in sets off another ding in Riki’s head—but this time, it finally clicks why the centipede is headed away from the boy. 

It’s attracted to the power plant. 

Riki immediately jumps and swings off of a lamp post, using the momentum of gravity and the force of his swing to propel him faster than the slithering creature. Squinting, he holds out his fist and points his pointer and pinky out, following the movement of the centipede as he aims. 

Bam. 

He sends clusters of silky white threads down precisely at the first pair of legs to pin it down. The webs stop the creature momentarily, and Riki doesn’t have time to watch how the body shrinks up and fizzes out with blue shocks as it tries to wiggle loose and malfunctions. This fight would be over soon, and the boy smiles when he jumps down to shoot more webs to apprehend the centipede. It wiggles and sends electricity out through parts of its body, trying to pry itself out. He expects it to simply be a robot of sorts following a mission considering its avoidant behavior, but as he approaches the tail, the monster suddenly swings at Riki, and its mass and speed is incomparable to the boy’s reaction speed. 

Riki lands into a tree and someone’s garage, feeling the crumbling wall falling all over him and the sudden pain blooming in his lower back. 

This fight will, in fact, not be over soon. 

With his superhuman abilities, Riki grabs onto the metal of the car beside him to hoist himself up, coughing from the dust, and jumping over the rubble to see how quickly the centipede creature can get out, without regard for his current state. The sound and rumble of the giant monster is all he needs to know that the traps are effective, but not at the previous capacity. 

The plan is simple: apprehend the legs and crush the head, where Riki assumes the decision-making and programming is taking place. But the monster’s angry and erratic actions throw a wrench in his plan. Its legs move faster, digging into the cement and leaving ruin in its wake as it continues down the road. While both the villain and superhero are fast, the distance between the power plant is finite—and only grows smaller and smaller.  

Although Riki can feel the bruises coming, he runs and swings, hearing the wind in his ears as he catches up to the centipede in no time. He tries the same tactics again–aim, shoot, stick, all the while keeping his distance. Although the monster’s body spans incredibly long, and should carry an immense amount of weight, the way it snaps at Riki’s flying body and sends shockwaves through his core leaves him shivering as his body slams into the ground, coughing. It hurts all over, and it feels like there’s weight on his eyes when he tries to open them and get up. His head is spinning as he staggers onto his knees, clutching his chest as he watches the centipede shrivel and crackle. 

It seems like the voltage produced is a double-ended sword, one that burns up the centipede body as much as it deals damage, and with the way the mutant creeps towards the electricity of the plant, Riki gets the feeling there’s a magnetic pull that forces the mutant to continue to crawl even against its instinct to stop. 

Despite his waning strength, however, Riki knows better than to half finish the job like last time. He creates a net from experience, weaving together the thickest and most durable threads to trap the entirety of the slowly approaching creature. It seems to crawl slowly up the makeshift barrier, knocking its head against the white and spreading the bright blue waves of its energy throughout. The boy watches as the thin white mass absorbs all of it and clings to the creature. It works, finally, after his attempts to nullify its movements, and he knows that despite the ache in his every step, the almost mummified centipede that hangs between several roofs for all the neighbors to gawk at is his sure sign of victory. 

All he remembers is hearing a familiar call of his hero name before his legs give out and his head hits Jake’s chest. 

Holy fucking shit is the first thing Riki thinks when he wakes up. 

He’s not out of his tattered suit and he feels grimy all over, but his body has done wonders in reducing the otherwise fatal injuries he got. No human body should be able to withstand two energy-filled blasts, but his suit and superhuman healing are of greater help than ever in alleviating the damage from his wounds. 

He knows why he’s in his bed with bandages thrown over his open wounds. He knows that every time something like this happens, it’s Jake who shoos away the concerned civilians, telling them he’s a medic. Jake is not a medic—rather, he’s a seventeen year-old boy who knows about his friend’s double life and with all the times he’s saved Riki, someone might as well dub him the greatest medic of all time. 

The clock on his bedside table has only served as a bearer of bad news. He looks over to see how it’s practically midday, and he’s missed yet another day of school from fighting crime. He’s in no condition to get up or get his bag, seeing how his hair is frizzy and his cheek has a cut that would warrant questioning. It seems only fair that he stays absent, and before he falls back asleep, he only prays you aren’t too mad at him for leaving the seat next to you empty.

But you aren’t mad, just worried. The soreness in his muscles doesn’t go away though, and he groans when he sits up in his bed, with bandages around his arms and an ice pack discarded next to him. 

He’s most definitely not coming to school like this. 

While you bore holes into the clock hanging off the wall, that doesn’t speed up the time. Two minutes pass, then another minute. As your classmates find their partners and begin discussing, you notice how the room gets louder with the due date looming near. It’s the first time you’re alone without the familiar boy beside you, and something hangs low in your chest when you put in a pair of earphones and open your laptop. 

Riki’s absence should have no effect on you. After all, you’re both just high school students who’ve talked once or twice, and yet you still look over at the empty chair. Staring doesn’t make Riki appear, though, and you return to your edits. It feels empty without his insight, or without him asking you to help him with a passage. Riki was your solution to all things boring. If he wasn’t doing his work, then you two were laughing at something on his phone. And if you agreed to both do something other than the report, then you could ask for an extra opinion when deciding prom details. There was something freeing about working with him that attracted you. Riki knew how to lighten the mood on days that weren’t so good for you, but he also worked hard and let loose at the same time. There was a perfect balance in Riki’s life that you aspired to have; it was a good mix of playful, dedicated, and fun all in the same vein. 

The words blend together on your screen. Jay Gatsby this, Tom Buchanan that, it all looks monotonous the more you keep trying to read and comprehend what exactly you’re talking about. 

Before class is dismissed, Mr. Yoo steps to the front of the classroom to gather everyone’s attention. He introduces your new novel for the next month, explaining yet another large assignment associated with the text. 

Truth be told, you don’t pay attention to any of it. 

The only thing you remember to do is to grab extra copies of the printed graphic organizers, as you get out of your seat and rush out when class ends in pursuit of one specific boy. 

“Sim Jaeyun!” The call of his name diverts Jake’s attention from his phone to your waving arm as you weave through the students and finally reach him. 

“You can just call me Jake,” he explains, “what’s up?” 

You begin to reach into your backpack, trying to feel for your folder, and pull out a few sheets. “These are for Riki.” 

Jake cheers internally for his friend who’s busy recovering at home. “What, you got a crush on him or something?” 

He tries to play it cool by teasing you, but the smile you bite back leaves the boy questioning if there really is anything going on. Jake knows better than to tell you anything about Riki’s feelings, and opts to instead grab the papers and to thank you for looking out for his friend. 

“Is Riki okay?” You have to know, just to make sure he’ll be here tomorrow to cure your boredom. 

What Jake says is much different than the nonchalant wave and half grin he gives you. “He’s just bedridden.” 

“That’s pretty serious! Did he come down with anything?” He seemed fine yesterday, so what’s the catch?

He blurts, “He just got badly hurt.” 

Immediately, Jake knows he’s fucked up. 

Your confusion and silence answers him far more than words ever could–he basically hears the gears turning slowly in your head.

Jake weakly defends, “His parents had a fight with him because he hit his head or something. He’ll be fine by tomorrow. Just bedridden from sadness, y’know?” 

The look you give him is unconvinced, but when Heeseung pats him on the shoulder and waves to you, the boy realizes that maybe staying quiet would’ve been the better decision. 

“I’ll see you later, ____.” And he’s off, waving half-heartedly and dragging a very confused Heeseung out of the cafeteria. 

NISHIMURA RIKI MIGHT DIE TRYING TO WAKE YOU UP AS GENTLY AS HE CAN.

Ever since March started and flowers began to bloom, your energy seemed to do the opposite, dwindling until Riki catches you mirroring his frequent in-class action: sleeping. And it worries him beyond belief, because you’re not the type to fall asleep like… ever. However, Riki does not have the heart to wake you up, even if it’s with a little nudge that you probably barely feel with how light he taps. It breaks his heart to have to ask you to review what he has done, because the bell is about to ring and the teacher might just send you to detention if he catches you off-task. 

The allergies always make Mr. Yoo irritable, and Riki knows not to get on his nerves. 

Your eyes flutter open to the pokes and prodding from none other than Nishimura Riki, who gazes at you softly when you adjust to the bright classroom setting once more. 

Panic settles in. “Wait- how long was I sleeping for?” 

He shrugs and scrunches his nose, not giving you an answer as he finishes scribbling something in his notebook. 

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” Your hand squeezes into a fist at the frustration that you’ve let your partner down. 

And yet, Riki seems to be unfazed, frowning when he sees you stressing out. “Don’t ever sweat the little things, yeah? If there’s anything you ever need to talk about–trust me, I know what it’s like to have a lot of pressure on your shoulders.”

Smiling at him, you respond with, “Thank you, really.” 

Being treasurer is daunting in the spring. It’s full of requests, forms, and small tasks that leave you spent by the end of the day. “But,” you glance at the clock to see just how much time is left, “how’d you know?” 

He motions to your open computer with a now dark screen. “I saw your document pulled up. ____’s tasks or else she will be kicked out of student government,” he taunts, snickering when your eyes grow wide with embarrassment and you lightly nudge his shin with your foot in warning. 

“It’s not polite to snoop,” and although you say that, you catch something in your peripheral vision. It’s a few drawings of a figure and gadget drawn, shaded from rigid shapes with small descriptions pointing to different places. You weren’t sure what was more surprising; how good the drawings were, or the subject of his imagination. 

Weird. Inherently, there was nothing wrong with Riki drawing a villain, and you chalked it up to him being creative. Nothing more, nothing less. 

He puts his hands up in surrender at your last comment, his grin showing anything but. Just one look at the boy makes you realize that everything you’ve just thought about is foolish. 

There’s no way he’d have time to be a villain and a student. With one final thought, you let your raging thoughts rest and focus on the present; him. You’ve seen his hair messy, especially after his naps, but when Riki tries to style it like how he did today, you pay more attention to the streaks of blonde and how he often hides behind his bangs and scrunches his nose. It’s cute. He’s cute.

The truth is, you enjoy being around him like this, joking around and never worrying too much about your responsibilities and expectations. It’s refreshing. Being around Riki gives you the feeling that things will be okay in the end. 

You snap out of your thoughts to see that his desk is empty, while your’s hasn’t changed one bit.

“You’re going to sell prom tickets now, right?” He makes small talk before leaving for lunch, closing the notebook you were suspiciously eying before slipping it into his bag. 

“Yup,” you answer, popping the ‘p,’ “I’ll see you later,” and you two part ways.

All the long lines and constant distribution of change doesn’t allow much wiggle room for you to daydream. As time goes on, the ticket-selling line grows smaller and smaller, but the only thing you truly care about is eating the lunch your parents packed you. Your sandwich is probably sad and soggy now that there are only a few minutes of lunch left. When you finally sign off one last time after triple checking the forms are all correct, you let out a sigh, leaning back and finally getting a break. 

Then, it hits you that you’re not even sure if the boy you’re fawning over is attending the biggest event of the year, and you feel stupid for forgetting to ask. 

-

Yesterday was a rookie’s mistake–today, you’d make sure you get an answer from him.

“Are you going to prom, Riki?” is the first thing you ask when he sits down, grabbing his book and laptop with a little too much enthusiasm. 

“I’m thinking about it.” Yeah, whatever confidence he had when convincing himself he’d ask you out isn’t serving him well at this moment. Quite frankly, Riki feels lame as ever trying to be nonchalant around you. “You?” 

“I’d have to set up, so I would be there, yes. But whether or not I have a date is another story.” You smile to lighten the mood, but Riki watches you and nods, focusing back on signing into his laptop and getting his notes for the new book you’re reading. 

“Well, you’re not the only single one here.” And he wants to reprimand himself for saying something without thinking. “If someone asked, would you say yes?”

You think about it carefully, really because you don’t have anyone in mind when it comes to prom if Riki’s not planning on going. “It’d have to be someone I know—someone I talk to somewhat regularly. I’d be nice to be with someone who doesn’t make it awkward.”

Nishimura Riki might die from over-thinking if he keeps on wondering whether or not he fits that description to a tee.

RIKI'S TO-DO LIST BEFORE PROM

☐  talk to ____ regularly 

☐  don't make it awkward 

☐  be..cute? 

The boy decides that his superhuman responsibilities might be easier to complete than any of those three things. 

He switches the subject to stop his head from hurting too much. “Did you finish the report?” 

You still, and Riki’s question reminds you of the report looming over your head. In your defense, you two hadn’t brought it up much in the past week, and he didn’t seem to worry over how much of your time was spent emailing teachers or making spreadsheets. Although caught off guard, you’re quick to respond with, “What did we have to finish? I thought we were done since last week, but if there’s anything else-” 

“Sorry,” he rushes out, biting his lip, “I meant, if you finished reading it.” And the answer is no, you haven’t read it since your last edit on it three days ago. 

Within a few clicks, you find the document and scroll to the bottom, seeing the small note that Riki left that said ‘let me know how it looks.’ It’s sweet to know he thought about your input as much as you did his. 

“While some can agree that Gatsby’s rise into high society was sketchy, Gatsby still retains the same reserved character from years ago, and doesn’t manipulate others into success or use his money for nefarious purposes. It’s not like he changed after his wealth, and it could be argued Gatsby loved Daisy until his last breath and was willing to die as long as she was happy, emphasizing the theme of sacrifice. 

So, is Jay Gatsby a good person? The question targets the morality of a character who many can empathize with. Those who are charmed by his overwhelming love for Daisy would say that he’s committed textbook crimes, but focus more on the intent behind it. To pine after someone from a distance isn’t easy, but to pursue her after years of separation is even harder. It’s universally agreed, however, that love as a driving force doesn’t nullify what he’s done to others and the dirty schemes he’s enacted to gain the power he has. Therefore, Gatsby makes for an interesting main character, and highlights just how twisted a system around money can be.” 

The last page is–for the most part–his writing, and your admiration for him grows when you finish reading and scroll to hit your Works Cited page.

“It’s good,” you tell him wholeheartedly, “Didn’t think you had it in you.” 

Riki cracks a smile at your light teasing, soaking up your praise. 

“Now you know.” He shrugs. And he can only hope that you like him as much as you like his literary skills. 

NISHIMURA RIKI MIGHT DIE WHEN HE COMES TO THE REALIZATION THAT HE IS EXACTLY LIKE JAY GATSBY,JUST WITHOUT THE MONEY—DESPERATE FOR THE GIRL OF HIS DREAMS, DYING YOUNG, AND A FRAUD HIDING BEHIND SECRETS.

Nevermind the last one, he has to hide when he has an identity to protect as the city’s only superhero, but Riki feels his heart sink to his heels when he read a few weeks ago how much Gatsby simply adores Daisy. When Gatsby died, he scoffed, closing the book with a sudden disinterest. If he were the male lead, he wouldn’t have been laying in a pool for target practice. Maybe being a superhero teaches you how to avoid being easy bait for all your enemies, or maybe Gatsby was too carried away with love to think straight. 

Fighting crime gives you insurmountable experience with sneaking around, but it wasn’t something he could just teach to anyone. When he gets this horrible gut feeling that something’s happened to you, he just knew something was wrong. He might not be easy to catch, but for anyone else? Definitely.  

For everyone else, prom was a month away, but for you, it was three weeks of talking to your advisor and president, arguing with your other board members, and sitting behind that damn money box for another five days to sell tickets. For you, it was realizing that you were supposed to buy streamers and balloons yesterday on your way home from school. It was the thinly veiled disappointment in your board member’s texts when they told you they were at a loss for words. ‘I’m sorry, and I know you’re busy, but how could you forget? Prom is so important for all of us. What if they don’t have what you need anymore?’ It all repeated in your head as you bit your lip in frustration and slipped on the first pair of shoes you could find. Although it was dark and dangerous, you could care less if it meant avoiding the passive aggressive comments you’d get tomorrow during your meeting.

There it is again: that little tendency to not pay attention to your surroundings. 

You yelp when you feel someone grabbing your wrist and pulling you in, muffling your screams as he pulls you along. To see him on the news was worrying, but to see Spark in person with your life on the line is even worse. 

Tears spring to your eyes as you struggle against the metal to no avail, and you curse every previous moment you spent worrying about balloons rather than your safety.

Spark suddenly stops, shoving you against the wall before his hand grabs a brick with his metal arm, beginning to climb. “Don’t let go.” And you don’t think twice before holding on.

The city view would be beautiful if you weren’t hearing your heartbeat in your ears or if you weren’t dangling from the railing of some company building, trying to wiggle yourself free of the rope around your wrists. 

Spark speaks up, drumming his fingers on the railing next to you. “You wouldn’t happen to know where your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man is, would you?” And you furrow your eyebrows, genuinely questioning for a moment if he really knew how the superhero operated. 

A voice from across the street puts a temporary hold on your thoughts, and you glance up to see a flash of blue and red soaring through the air, followed by a groan and a beam of light next to you. Seeing Spark’s powers right in front of you spurs you into action, yanking at the rope and trying to take tiny steps away from where they were fighting.

“From what I’m seeing, you wanted to hold someone hostage because you’re not feeling too good, huh?” Spider-Man shouts as he shoots out webs and blocks hits. You shake your head in partial disbelief of how unserious he is, but also how unbelievable all of this seems. “You tried to take a potion or something? I’m going to tell you this now, but these usually don’t work.” 

Riki’s assumption is right, and considering how Spark now has a leg and arm from metal instead of just the arm, the procedure for the additional limb couldn’t have been easy. The superhero still proceeds with caution, making sure to pay attention to anything new as he dodges and fights back. 

The villain immediately gets back up, stumbling for a moment before he regains his stance and runs towards the boy. You hear the clanging of fist hitting metal from their fight, and considering the difference in height and build, you’d expect Spider-Man to be easily flung to the side, but he holds his weight in battle. 

Riki aims for around the left shoulder, where an abundance of stitches cover the skin and fuse the metal into muscle. He lands a hit, and almost another one, before a punch to the side knocks him from his momentum. The boy wheezes when his back makes instant contact with the ground, rolling and getting up before Spark has time to shoot. 

He notices how quickly the gadget generates electricity now. Before, the beams took longer, and were easily predictable, but now, it glows bright for a moment before it fires directly in Riki’s path. The boy dodges the first, but the second one almost hits the top of his head before he ducks and creates distance. 

From the roof-top, Riki scans his surroundings before making the split-second decision to jump. 

He swings to the other side of the building, keeping you in his peripheral vision as he works on apprehending the villain in front of him. They spring into yet another fist fight, with Riki’s agility easily letting him avoid punches and land precise hits to make the previous injuries even worse. 

You think Spider-Man has the upper hand in this, seeing as how none of Spark’s punches seem to slow down the superhero, but you hear something loud before you can register it. 

You figure out what happened after Riki stumbles and suffers a blow to the stomach, sending him tumbling to the edge of the building. Spark knew that Spider-Man was avoiding his left arm—he knew that one wrong move paired with the tungsten material would have a lasting effect on the superhero’s fist. 

Riki coughs from the impact before his spidey-sense rings, pulling him back into battle as he runs as fast as his body can take him. 

You. He still needs to save you. 

With renewed vigor, he continues to avoid the flying sparks as he ducks between structures and uses the terrain to his advantage. He can tell, though, that the villain is slowing down. The shots are less accurate–a telltale sign that the enhancer Spark tried is working against him. 

Between all of the chaos, Riki finally lands a proper web, yanking as hard as he can to pull Spark to the ground. He stumbles, grasping at thin silk before Riki lets go on his side. The villain’s balance is off, giving the boy an advantage as he closes the distance, hopping over a thrown slab of metal and landing a solid kick into Spark’s ribcage. As he stays down, Riki continues to aim for muscle and flesh, his head spinning as he packs punch after punch to keep the villain apprehended. 

Spark’s body–curled into itself to absorb the hits the best that he can– hides the growing blue flash that he’s slowly charging up with his remaining power. The moment it escapes from under his abdomen, Riki directs his efforts towards avoiding the electric glimmer. The villain rolls over, his body tattered from the consistent injuries, and he fires what seems like an intense bullet of energy. It zips by the boy’s cheek, cutting the mask and leaving blood to run down in its wake. Time slows down as the superhero tries to process the unlocked speed of the burst, and Spark loses focus marveling at his new abilities. Never before had either of them seen power so concentrated, and it inflicts both fear and excitement. 

He lifts his arm, the other holding it up for support, and Spider-Man notices the fizzle of bright blue. Riki’s about to jump out of the way, preparing for yet another high-speed bullet, but before Spark fires, something clicks. The arm doesn’t directly point to Riki–but it skews off to the right.

Except, he’s no longer aiming for Riki in the split second that the boy blinks. He’s suddenly aiming at you, where your hands are tied to the railing and your feet are dangling from the bent metal that holds you precariously over the edge, leaving a fifty foot drop in its wake. When you see the blue energy in the villain’s palm growing slowly bigger, you pull at the rope desperately with zero regard to the tender rawness of your wrists. 

In your attempt to somehow break the rope, your cry of fear snaps Spider-Man into action. 

Riki pushes his sore body to jump as quick as he can, leaping across the rooftop to the building over. He easily avoids the metal railing, grabbing onto your arm as he yanks hard on the rope, the force of it separating a piece of metal from the railing. He immediately jumps, sending out a web to swing him back up. It all happens in a flash–first, you were bound to the edge about to fall to your death, and all of a sudden, you’re tightly pressed against Spider-Man’s chest with your bound wrists still attached to the metal. Shutting your eyes, you trust Spider-Man entirely, closing your eyes to avoid seeing just how far up you were. Wind rushes in your ears and leaves your stomach fluttering with butterflies until the superhero sets you down on a secluded rooftop. 

“Please,” he begs, “don’t leave. I’ll be right back.” 

You’d be a fool to do anything but wait. 

Riki checks on you one last time before diving down, springing himself back up with another web. The damage from the blasts is recognizable even from far away, and yet, he notices the reflective shine of a metal arm on the edge of the building before Spark lets go. 

To Riki, Spark is dead after dropping from a fall having taken that much damage, but he hears no impact. Making haste, the boy fails to find any figure no matter how hard he looks, but Spark’s laboratory has to be here somewhere. The badge from a week ago was stuck on Riki’s mind, and he could only imagine the reasons why he pursued this life. Was he recreating something? If he needs to power some sort of machine, then the heart of the city is a perfect place to harness the electricity for any large scale project. As much as he wants to dedicate the rest of the night to searching the city for some sort of clue, the fact that you’re still stranded on that rooftop after having just experienced a life-changing event blares like an alarm in his mind. 

He quickly leaves, returning to where you’re seated.

Without the fear of falling to your death from earlier, you were able to focus on undoing the knots from the rope. Red scratch marks and irritation bloom on your wrist, and the reality of it all happening still hasn’t settled in. Despite not being harmed once, the fear and incessant pounding of your heart overwhelms your senses, and it leaves you heaving with confusion. 

A pair of footsteps only become apparent as Riki walks closer, taking a seat beside you and letting out a large sigh. He stares at the stars silently as if he doesn’t have a cut on his cheek and bruises waiting to paint his skin purple–as if he isn’t hiding his true self under a facade. 

“You’re not hurt, are you?” You shake your head, grateful that Spider-Man was the reason you got away without a real injury.

“Thank you, really, for saving me. I don’t know how you manage to do it.” 

Riki chuckles under the mask. “Eh, you get used to it,” you hear Spider-Man say. “You fight a couple bad guys, get over a fear of heights and eventually you get the hang of things.” 

Scoffing, you gently rub at your wrists to ease the redness. “Easy for you to say. I haven’t been taught a crash course on how to avoid being supervillain bait just yet.” 

“Maybe you should learn it sometime,” Riki responds absentmindedly, “someone like you shouldn’t have been out so late doing whatever it could’ve been.” 

Sighing, your mind drifts off to think about the balloons and streamers that are not in your hand. “I had stuff for my upcoming events.” 

He knew about all of it when you’d explain your cryptic reminders and notes on your computer, but he still feigns curiosity. “What upcoming events?” 

“Just prom,” and he hears just how strained it makes you. 

Riki tilts his head in faux confusion. “What do you have to do for prom?” 

He notices how you immediately slump, as if the mere mention of prom deflates your happiness. “It’s only a few weeks away, and I was supposed to get decorations for our venue yesterday. I just wanted to slip out before my parents noticed.” 

Despite the fabric over his eyes, Riki’s expression shifts from surprise to pity when he understands your stakes. “You still need to be careful. Is your student council strict?” 

“Not strict necessarily, but judgemental–I ran for the position because I thought I could help my school raise funds and find more opportunities, but it just feels like no one truly wants to try anything new.” You wave it off as if it’s not that important, as if it isn’t the reason why you find yourself stressed so often. “I just don’t want to disappoint or give people something to talk about.” 

Despite not being involved with school the same way you are, the boy next to you resonates with the fear you currently face. The fear of letting people down was a large part of why Riki continued to put on that mask and step into the most dangerous situation of his life; he never wanted to sit down to hear the news that Spider-Man quit. 

So he keeps doing his job, even if some days are harder and some fights aren’t worth winning–just like what you do. 

“Yeah, I get that,” he tries to console, “You must be doing a lot for everyone around you, and I’m sure a lot of people appreciate what you’ve done. Don’t beat yourself up too much, yeah? You’ll always have me.” He smiles, but he knows you don’t see it. You’re looking at the stars, trying to calm your mind and return to your life before everything happened. 

You glance over at Spider-Man, wondering if he’ll truly be around for you when you need it. “If I need to talk to you, should I step out of my house past 8PM again?” 

Riki chuckles, watching clouds slowly dim the moon’s glow in their path. “If I’m not fighting crime, I’ll show up at a moment’s notice.” 

There’s no way he means it, but you grin, feeling a lot of the pressure and stress of earlier slowly wash away. After all, nothing happened to you–Spider-Man made sure of it. Maybe things really were going to be okay. 

“Let’s get you home, yeah? Don’t you have stuff to do anyways?” 

You shrug, nothing really coming to mind. As you get up, you remember having to run a plagiarism check on your work, and how Riki told you to text him when you got home after your student government meeting. 

Riki. Spark. Spider-Man. 

“Wait,” you tell Spider-Man, sitting back down on the cement, “I need to talk to you about something else, too.” 

“It’s not like my dinner’s getting cold,” the superhero mumbles quiet enough that you can’t hear. 

“There’s this guy,” you start, paying no mind to how dirty your clothes are getting when you cross your legs. 

Spider-Man scoffs, looking off into the distance, and it makes you believe he has to be your age or older. “You have a crush on him, or something?” And a whole tidal wave of deja vu hits you in the chest. 

‘He must be badly hurt’ isn’t just something people say. People don’t just draw insanely detailed drawings of Spark’s arm and machines without notes to follow unless they knew. People wouldn't just randomly miss school without any impending signs. You’re sure of it–the tired naps in class, the random drawings of superheroes and superhumans alike, or how awkward he could act–it all makes sense.

Your classmate, aka Nishimura Riki, aka the guy who you’ve questioned if you had a crush on for the past few days, might be a villain. 

The swirling feeling of trepidation in your stomach leaves three words running around your head. 

What. The. Fuck. 

Although you tried so hard to stop thinking about it, Jake’s comment from before rubbed you the wrong way. It was sometime last week where you couldn't get your mind off of the implications of his words, but that feeling was brushed underneath your responsibilities. 

Until now. 

“Yeah, there’s this guy,” you breathe, feeling your chest constrict, “Nishimura Riki. I think he’s Spark.” 

His blood runs cold. 

“You think this…why?” 

You take a deep breath, trying to organize all your thoughts. “Well, first, it was his friend, Jake. He said that Riki was badly hurt, and I was really confused at first, but tried to let it go.” 

Riki was going to strangle his best friend. 

“And then, I was looking at him in class, right? And keep in mind, he’s pretty cute, and we sit next to each other, so I just noticed how good his hair looked that day, but his notebook was out, and I saw all these drawings of Spark. Like, the arms, the metal things, even the projectiles! Who would know the ins and outs of that thing if it wasn’t Spark himself?”

He didn’t know what to think about first; the fact that you gushed about him for the first time, or if he should even tell you that Spider-Man would know those things, too. 

“And sometimes, I notice he’s a little awkward around me. I can’t explain it. It’s like he’s paying attention to me. That must’ve been why he captured me.” He wants to laugh at how damn close you are to figuring it out, but in reality, nothing is funny about the situation. 

Nishimura Riki is actually listening to this, right now, as Spider-Man–not Spark. The awkwardness, though? It was his crush on you, and was not superhuman related in the slightest.  

“I don’t know,” he attempts to divert, pretending to focus, “I saw a badge for FLiGHT. You know the company that’s been making time traveling machines? I saw a glimpse of his name and face. It’s not that guy you mentioned.” 

You raise an eyebrow. “And you haven’t gotten him caught?” 

“Villains aren’t easy to find, y’know. It’s not like playground hide and seek,” Riki defends, crossing his arms. 

You shrink in your spot, feeling sheepish for questioning a superhero so bluntly. 

“Plus,” he continues, “Spark has never had a hostage. Wouldn’t it be pretty mean of that friend of yours to kidnap a girl from his class?” 

“Yeah—that makes sense. Thank god,” you breathe, closing your eyes momentarily. “Then what do you suspect all that evidence leads to? Maybe he’s a secret agent?” 

“I think,” Riki continues to keep up his clueless facade, “Your friend might just be clumsy. Or creative. I mean, maybe he went through a break-up?” Nice one, Riki. 

You shake your head. “No, there’s no way he has a girlfriend. You’d think I like guys who are taken?” Scoffing lightly, you then remembered that Spider-Man really would have no idea who any of you are. 

He shrugs and stands up stretching before motioning for you to follow him. “I have no idea what you high school kids do. Come on, let’s get you home.” 

As you hug him tight, the cold air whips around your body and leaves goosebumps in their wake. You barely open your eyes from the fear of seeing yourself inches from hitting a building or up in the air. Spider-Man only yells his confirmation after asking how to get you home, finally placing you on the ground outside of your large gate. 

“Thank you for saving me tonight.”

“Anytime. Figure things out with that friend of yours, and don’t go out late, okay?” You nod and take his words to heart. 

“Goodnight, Spiderman.” 

—-

Nishimura might die. One, because he has this horrible guilty feeling in his stomach, and two, because of a villain. 

Yesterday, he ignored the salmon and rice bowl that waited for him back at home, choosing to follow the coordinates he saved on his phone after he took you home. It led him to a seemingly harmless auto-shop, with an arrow on his GPS pointing to a garage that was shut down completely with nails and blocked with boxes. The exterior pointed to it being abandoned, but Riki suddenly saw some light coming from a makeshift above.

The boy scaled the wall as quietly as possible, glancing into the source of the whirring. He caught small glimpses of something–metal, glowing, blue. 

Or at least, for a few seconds it was on until the power went out. 

The voice that complained from inside the room sounded identical to the man Riki fought. Spark grumbled, turning on a flashlight and quickly waving it around. Riki ducked from the window and held his breath, waiting for the man to suspect something. 

Nothing. 

One lightbulb slowly flickered back on, and then the other dingy light followed. The space was cramped with the metal equipment in the middle, resembling what Riki had seen in the news. 

He was right–it was the same time travel portal that was ruined from a few months ago. 

Spider-Man continued to observe the man as he worked and drilled, plugging certain wires or pausing momentarily to read from a journal. To anyone, it’d seem peaceful, like some sort of renovation project. But in reality, it was so much more than that. 

Riki searched for any sort of information about the machine, trying to see what exactly was left to do until his gaze landed on something. 

There was some sort of date on a bright pink sticky-note, and Riki’s eyes widened when he finally comprehends it. 

The machine was scheduled to be completed tomorrow. 

-

A street lamp next to Riki dies out—which was a clear sign that something was powering up. From the dark, he hears the metal from the same place as last night moving again, and he knows that Spark has left. His presence sends anyone down the street and immediately running, leaving the area for only them two. 

Riki finally sees the completed metal build. Half of his body is wrapped in or replaced with metal parts as he sets down the metal portal, beginning to push it in the direction of the power plant. 

A truck or car would make things much easier, but whatever.

Riki wants to cry from fear and run away. He wants to leave and pretend he never saw anything from last night. 

He’s going to die fighting Spark and he will quite literally a) never finish highschool and get that stupid diploma, b) finish explaining how Gatsby is not a good person and is naturally selfish, and c) he’s never going to tell you how he’s had a small crush on you ever since he saw your cute campaign video as to why you should vote y/n l/n for student body treasurer last spring. 

“You sure that thing works?” Riki asks, jumping into action as he sends webs to immobilize the machine. 

“You’re annoying, you know that?” Spark sends a projectile in the superhero’s direction, hitting the wall behind him instead as Riki jumps out of the way.

With another duck mid-air and the roof of a flying car dangerously close to his nose, Riki thanks the dance practice he does for his flexibility as he shoots another web and swings away. 

Spark is uncontrollable by now, sucking the light from street lamps and fizzing wires in his wake. He has no idea how he’s supposed to get in contact with the villain like before. The body of his suit fizzes with bright electricity that sizzles and pops. It illuminates Spark’s figure, making him easy to spot, but not so easy to defeat. It’s an overload of power, causing the voltage to escape between the joints and gaps of the metal pieces in his suit. And Riki can feel it; the air is heightened and so are the stakes of this fight—and with how the man that stands in front of him looks upgraded and menacing, he knows only one person can make it out of this fight alive. 

“You injected the city’s ‘Gas and Electric’ into your system or what?” Riki calls out, making light of the situation. If he’s being honest with himself, he’s scared out of his wits seeing the six foot figure with blue and white shooting from every crack, looking like a nightmare to touch.

Riki avoids a few more angrily thrown objects, using the momentum of his jump from the side of the building to zip from the top of a yellow fire hydrant to go from one side of the street to the other. “You’re slow!” He taunts, tucking in his legs to avoid a shot of electricity directed at him. 

The screech of metal from the nearby hydrant can be heard as the top flings off, making Riki lose his anchor/ Before he can process it, instead of smoothly landing on the building, he crashes into it faster than expected, groaning when his back makes contact with the glass and he tumbles into the living room of someone’s apartment. 

“Fuck,” he curses, fighting his aching limbs to get up once more. 

And the solution hits him. Literally. 

When he steps out and quickly attaches a web to the top of the building, he’s met on the way up with a splash of water from the hydrant to his face, and Riki splutters as he wipes his mask, regaining focus as he lands on the concrete and hides behind the ledge. 

Water. If he can get it in contact with Spark and pour enough water on the right spot, the excess of electricity blazing from his mechanical body should work against him. 

“Too scared? You should know better than to run away.” The superhero rolls his eyes, crawling away silently to avoid being seen by Spark. Riki does his best to look around for something, and finds a black flower pot in the corner, using a web to grab it before he scales the side of the building and runs away while Spark is distracted as the villain also climbs the wall to face him there. But when Spark climbs the ledge and scans the premise, Riki is nowhere to be seen. 

Instead, Riki swings across the street and fills the pot with water, heaving the extra weight as he shouts out from the sudden pain in his side. He stumbles on the pavement, crying out from the injury as the pot falls with his whole plan. 

Maybe this is where Spider-Man dies. 

He sucks in a deep breath before rolling from his back onto his knees, ignoring the wound to pick up the flower pot. The hydrant still shoots out water, and the superhero rushes towards it, causing Spark to follow. He narrowly avoids another shot from behind him, reaching the yellow hydrant before dropping the pot on the ground. Spark is th 

While Spark has always been intelligent, Riki could tell that the man didn’t fear the water, believing he’d be invincible to the elements now that his suit was perfected. There was something off, Riki could tell, and he would make sure to use it to his advantage. Spark was uncontrolled, and his powers drastically decreased the more he used them. There’s no way his body isn’t in overdrive with how recklessly he’s been letting himself get hurt. 

Riki uses a web to get himself on higher ground instead of fighting, waiting for the supervillain to follow. If he could get Spark off the edge and fall into the growing puddle of water, it should slow him down. 

Spark scoffs. “Run away, then. Like you always have.” Riki hears the wall crumbling under the villain as he climbs within seconds, immediately preparing to fight when he makes it onto the rooftop. But Spider-Man was also prepared, jumping from his crouched hiding position and attempting to catch Spark off guard. 

All he can focus on now is pushing him off. There’s no way it’d be easy, considering he had to focus on his touching any of the electricity off of his suit. Riki delivers a kick to Spark in the ribcage near his heart, where he’s fused metal into flesh. The villain coughs before taking a step back, his metal arm reaching for Riki’s outstretched leg. He grabs it, twisting with anger before the boy meets the ground in a violent throw. Not only is the slam greater because of the enhanced strength, but the power seeps into Riki’s skin, leaving it hot from the energy radiating off of his palm. 

The boy groans, flipping to his side to avoid a fatal hit to the chest. He reaches for Spark’s normal arm, swinging the villain’s body away with as force as he could to create distance between them. 

Riki has been in enough fights to simply know when to run, even if he doesn’t know what’s coming. He could feel the tingle of the charge as it powered up, and with its energy so unrestrained and its user so unstable, the large attempt to hit Riki sends the villain stumbling back from the force. The more Spark uses his powers, the more likely he’s going to end up dead. 

“Your skin can handle that anymore!” he shouts, getting ready to swing himself closer as a plan manifests itself in his head. “You’ll die like this!” 

Spark seems to know that too as he wipes his mouth and recovers from Riki’s attacks. 

“You think I care?” He shouts, desperately pressing his wounds to stop the bleeding. “You think I have anything else for myself?” The vulnerability of his character shines through as he clutches his bleeding wound without regenerative powers to help. “You think I didn’t know that when I did it to myself--what they did to me?” 

Riki doesn’t respond, grimacing as he continues hand-to-hand combat. Although he takes a solid punch to his jaw that’s forming a deep purple bruise, he manages to trip Spark onto the ground.

The man stumbles back from the head injury, the pounding from earlier not letting him to think straight. Riki doesn’t try to injure him anymore, but he instead blocks an incoming punch and tries to force Spark towards the edge. 

The villain barely notices how much space there is left, and the boy lunges with full force. They tackle each other into the ground, and Riki gets off after apprehending him once more. 

The city's a mess, and Spider-Man’s eyes want to shut down so badly, but he takes a few steps in Spark’s direction, pushing him off the side of the building as quickly as he can. Riki hears the thud before he peeks over the edge, seeing the water erode all of the engineering from the machinery. He slowly descends from the rooftop. 

“You were in the accident, huh?” Riki shouts on top of the plethora of sounds. Pain, buzzing electricity, splashes of water as he lands next to Spark; it all echoes in his ears as he pours the water from the pot on Spark’s body. “Why did you try it? Why did you want to go back so bad?”

“If I could go back,” Spark coughs, trying to get away from the large pool of water, “I could’ve prevented the accident from taking the lives of the people around me. I could’ve saved them.” 

Spider-Man understands loss, and he understands the regret that comes with failure. He understands how the man in front of him feels after having everything taken away from him, but his emotions could never justify his actions. 

“You know you can’t change things,” Riki responds, “You tried your best, Spark.” It’s the last thing Riki tells the villain before his body slumps and police sirens grow louder and louder. It’s the last thing that he continues to think about, even if the medic quickly assesses the severity of his wounds. 

“I’m fine- really,” he pushes away the hands of a concerned woman as she holds a roll of bandages. “There’s something else I need to do.” 

Riki knew he had to tell you about this–he couldn’t just let you confide in him about..well, him, without your knowledge. And Riki wasn’t morally perfect, but he knew an explanation would be the only way to fix things.

Your house looks different when jumping over the fence instead of standing in front of it. When he realizes he has no idea what room belongs to you, he racks his brain, suddenly remembering how yours was the only one with a gray balcony over the pool. And so he climbs, slipping from the exhaustion creeping into his body. 

You’ll understand after he explains everything, right? 

“____, a little help?” And what the fuck is Nishmura Riki doing outside of your door? You go to investigate the muffled sound, inching towards the curtains and pulling them back to expect him there. When you hear a half yelp and a hissing sound that follows right after, without a person anywhere in sight, your heart drops to its stomach. 

Do not say it’s true. 

“Riki, where the fuck are you?” you ask, traversing out when you don’t see him anywhere across the glass. 

“Down here.” You run in the direction of the voice, and your eyes grow comically large and you gasp, staring down at the sight before you. 

“Holy shit.” 

There Nishimura Riki is, with his mask half burned off his face and his blonde and black hair messy and matted to his forehead with sweat. The suit is ripped in multiple locations with gashes and purple replacing the healthy skin underneath. His face is in more of a grimace, as he holds onto the web with both hands and one foot planted on the stone of your balcony—read; the bottom of your balcony. 

“A little help?” And you see his sheepish emotion through the tattered fabric, embarrassed after you had to find him in such a compromising situation. “I’m a little worn out and I think my webs are getting weaker.”

You’re a little frustrated with him for being out so publicly, but more scared and worried for his condition. Your gaze narrows on the mask, tattered and covered with scratches, but clearly visible. It was Spider-Man’s mask. The material gives way to a familiar face, and your mind almost blocks you from putting the pieces together. It’s impossible, almost horrifying to think of the implications of what it means to wear the blue and red suit. 

Instead of being the villain, Riki is, in fact, the savior.

The harsh truth is that your classmate, who you spent the last month working on a project with and suspected was a villain, is the same superhero that went out and risked his life every night fighting crime. It’s jarring to see him like this, breathing heavy and straining against the stone of the balcony, and his cough snaps you out of it. “What the fuck do I do?” 

Riki tries to put his hand up in surrender and shuts his eyes at your harsh tone. “Okay, okay, I get-“ and he cuts himself off with a yelp as his footing slips. 

He holds out his hand, and you immediately bend over the smooth railing to grab it, leaning back on the heels of your feet to help him up the most that you can. You’re filled with confusion when the boy hobbles over the cool surface of the balcony and lets his head rest on the stone, not saying much as he catches his breath. You watch the rise and fall of his chest and how his right arm goes to nurse the left side of his ribcage, wincing and sucking in a pained breath as he assesses the smear of red on his fingers. 

Sitting there with your mouth agape, you’re not really sure what to think about first; to check if RIki’s alright, to think about how your city’s greatest superhero is your English project partner, to yell at him for going to your house instead of his house to fix himself up, or to think about how good his side profile looks in the moonlight. Maybe you should’ve just been relieved that the boy you started to like wasn’t a fear-inducing villain.

“Okay, first of all, we need to have a huge talk. But I’m not a medic Riki- I’m going into accounting for fuck’s sake.” He hears the amount of curses flying from your lips as you ramble, and sees how stressed you look watching him sit against your railing. 

“I don’t know how to help you. And also,” you lower your voice and scoot closer, looking around at the large property to really make sure no one’s listening. “you’re Spider-Man?” 

The information all hitting you at once is worse than when your history teacher told you your essay was horrible. At least then, in her office, you could process everything. But here? You’re about to faint. 

“I’m pretty cool, huh?” And of course Nishimura Riki says such a thing, taking deep breaths as he shallowly presses on the blossoming bruises on his skin and wipes the sweat from his brow. 

“Pretty fucking stupid is what it is, Riki.” You cross your arms and try to take a look at where he’s been hurt, hoping that at least he has some sort of regeneration ability that helps him heal much quicker—because there’s no way he could deal with all of this on top of school. 

“I have my reasons,” he says, his voice quiet. 

You pause. “For being Spider-Man?” 

“No,” he shakes his head. “For coming here.”

“What could possibly make you want to come over to my house instead of the nearest hospital? What’s that important to you?”

“I really want to ask you to prom.” 

You simply stare at him, surprised. 

“You came to my house, even though you’re like, a punch away from passing out, to ask me out? And you couldn’t have, I don’t know, asked me anytime during the classes we have together?”

Riki somehow finds it in himself to frown and shrink from your angry piercing gaze. “I can’t because talking to you makes me nervous–so yeah, I’m sorry I’m half conscious on your balcony in my suit instead of at your door with a poster.” 

You’re conflicted, your mind still reeling from the recent discovery and your flood of emotions. Ever since you questioned his identity on top of your feelings for him, you had a hard time really knowing if you could like Riki if he turned out to be a villain, so to know that he proved both of your theories wrong leaves you quiet as you think. If possible, the color in the boy’s face drains even more when you go back inside, but the door stays open, and he thinks he hasn’t ruined things after all. You emerge with a bottle of isopropyl alcohol, a bowl of warm water, and a pristine white towel. 

“I’m not mad about that, you idiot,” you reprimand him, setting everything down as you examine the cuts on his face. You squeeze the towel and start to dab at his skin, avoiding the cuts as you clean it. “Who does this for you if not me?” 

“Jake.” 

“Seems like a pretty good friend.” Riki nods in response. 

 “I’m sorry,” he sighs, sitting up to properly address you, even if you weren’t able to meet his gaze. 

“For what?”

“For putting this on you–all of it. Not just the whole Spider-Man thing.” He knew he’d have to tell you at some point, or else it’d eat him up inside to know he kept all of it from you. 

“Look at you, saving me mid-air and talking to me as if you didn’t know who I was.”

You notice a flash of regret through his wince as you clean up a cut with antiseptic. “I meant it when I told you I knew what it was like to have a lot of pressure.”

“Guess I wasn’t so far off, then. If we never talked, would you have told me?” Riki shakes his head, and the simple motion leaves you somehow disappointed. 

“How do you ever tell anyone you’re…y’know, Spider-Man?” Even if it’s a hypothetical, you shrug, not being able to answer.

“How’d Jake find out?” 

Riki chuckles and hisses at the same time before trying to remember. “I think I just kicked his window in after a nasty poison got hold of me. He was a little too excited to have Spider-Man on his bedroom floor, and less excited to know it was me. I’m not really supposed to tell anyone, though.”

“Then why’d you tell me? You could’ve just gone back to your friends.” 

“I felt guilty–I know, I know, it sounds stupid. I’d definitely get my identity revealed at this rate.” You shake your head. 

“Not stupid. Keep going.” 

“I didn’t care that you suspected me, or if anyone else did, because I knew it was never true. But I felt so bad knowing you were sharing to me how you felt without even knowing it was me who was listening–like I was holding something from you.” 

You admire his honesty, and when you look at his furrowed brows and his lip that he’s been gnawing from worry, you can’t even imagine what he’s had to hide and do for this. In a way, you look up to him more, for trying his best even if he’s gotten all odds stacked against him. Riki’s commendable in your eyes–he always had been, ever since you woke him up in class. 

“I like those things about you, Riki. That you’re honest with yourself and the people around you as much as you can be, and you try to help others when you can. I’m glad we got to know each other more this past month.” Talking to him feels different than talking to Spider-Man from a few days ago; it feels raw, like you’re not just confessing something to a brick wall anymore. If none of this ever happened, you doubt you’d get the chance to tell Riki any of this properly. 

The boy stays silent, taking deep breaths while processing what you’ve told him. “I’m glad I could help you out.” 

You furrow your eyebrows. “I hope you know I don’t like you because you help me out. I like you because you’re attractive, and because you’re genuine,” you blurt. 

Riki laughs despite his ribcage hurting everytime he does so. Riki nods and mumbles a ‘thank you,’ also glad to truly get to know you. While his crush was more of an infatuation with your hard work and amiability, the past few weeks really opened his eyes to who you were. You never wanted to disappoint, and even if your recklessness left you in some dire situations, Riki could see how much effort you really put into things. 

There wasn’t anything else he needed to tell you–you were smart enough to see how much he cared about you.    

You’re so close, your lips glossy with lip balm as you watch him carefully. You hear and see it all; the heavy, labored breathing from his body healing itself rapidly, and the way his hand is full of rough cuts and calluses as his fingers intertwine with yours. But your eyes catch a glimpse of his mask tossed to the side, the blue shining in the corner of your eyes as you’re reminded of who he is right now, and what role you play. You are still ____ ____, but he’s a superhero.

It makes you momentarily forget whose suit you're peeling away, whose skin you're cleaning. It reminds you that he’s just the boy in your English class that you fell for. “What does that make us?”

“Prom-goers,” he answers with a slight nod. 

You smile, wiping a cut before placing the towel back into the bowl for the last time and getting up. “We can be prom-goers, yeah.” 

You’re not sure if you’re ready for anything, and you’re thankful that he understands that, too. As much as it warmed your heart to see him again and hear his confessions, the blaring truth still hangs over your head. You grab his mask, finally looking at him before handing it back and grabbing your things. His secret identity wasn’t something you could just ignore. 

“Go home, Spider-Man,” you turn your back on him, and time slows when you falter before sparing him one more look. “I want you as Riki, not like this.” 

MAYBE NISHIMURA RIKI DOESN'T NEED TO DIE–OR ALMOST DIE–ANYMORE. 

He went home that night with his scars somewhat cleaned and his bruises miraculous healing on their own, and even if slipping through the window left him clutching his side in pain, Riki silently jumped up to celebrate his multiple victories before slipping out of his suit and finally getting some rest. 

Riki’s scared of how he’s affected your relationship. He’s worried you’ll avoid him in the halls, and he’s worried you’d never want to see him again after putting you through all of it. As much as he'd understand how upset you'd be towards him, he hopes he did the right thing by telling you.

But you see him on your way to English, and you call his name. His eyes search for yours in the crowds, and you two see each other before you crush him in a hug. 

Riki isn’t sure how to feel at first, but eventually wraps his arms around you as relief settles in his stomach. 

“Thank you for saving me, Spider-Man,” you whisper, loud enough for only him to hear. 

He smiles at you, ruffling your hair as you go to English together. “Anytime, ____.” 

NEVERMIND, NISHIMURA RIKI MIGHT DIE WHEN HE SEES YOU IN YOUR RED PROM DRESS.

But first, he has to try something out. 

He curses to himself when silently zipping from a tree outside your family property to the top of your house, staring past the ledge two and luxurious stories to your well decorated porch light and door. He just prays that Google Maps is  right about how secluded the area is, so no one can see him pacing around your rooftop, with flowers elegantly wrapped in his hand (courtesy of your mother’s sleek envelope from a few days ago). 

“Fuck it,” he says to himself, shooting a web and dangling himself down. Riki’s upside down figure watches swirled window frames and meticulously designed accents as he descends, and he wonders what kind of shady business your parents could’ve done to afford something so grand. 

He faces your door—hanging down instead of rightside up, but he’s still here on time like he promised. 

The door opens at 6:00PM like he instructed you to, but what he didn’t tell you what to do was shriek and slam the door. On his nose. With a loud yelp, Riki clutches his nose, rubbing the spot you hit and trying to apply pressure to alleviate the pain. 

When the door slowly creaks open again, you face with the image of Nishimura Riki, aka your boyfriend, aka your English partner, aka Spider-Man, curled upside down in the fetal position as he cradles the sore spot on his face and swings slightly from the breeze. 

“You scared me, dumbass! How was I supposed to know it was you? It was so hard to see!” 

Although muffled, Riki’s able to mumble, “You have a porch light for this reason, _____,” and a jab at his stomach from you follows his sarcastic remark. Finally, his nose feels better, and he straightens out to finally look at you. 

Pretty, pretty, pretty, and the boy wonders how you look even more stunning with a glittering red dress and perfectly done make-up. “I like the red,” he says, trying not to freak out over your beauty. “Reminds me of a certain neighborhood superhero.” 

“I have some blue spider earrings to match.” With a beautiful smile, you turn to show him the little accent, and it melts his heart. “Are you okay, though?”

“I’m fine. I should’ve probably put more thought into that.” 

You snicker, sliding into your heels and closing the door behind you. 

“One of us is better at romantic gestures, it seems.” It warrants a scoff, and Riki brings a gloved hand to poke at your forehead teasingly.

“Let me have a do-over, then?” And the way your lips curl up into a bright smile leaves him quiet and in awe. 

“What, were you going to kiss me? Very original, Spider-Man.” With the way the fabric shifts over his features, you can tell he’s pouting. 

“I thought girls liked this.” 

You shrug, pretending you aren’t swept off his feet by the effort he’s put in. Taking a step in his direction, your hands reach up to gently pull the mask over his chin, ears, and then his nose. 

Whispering quietly, you ask, “You’ve kissed other girls upside down?” 

Riki’s quick to shake his head. “You’re the only girl I’d withstand a head rush for.” And god, you just can’t stop yourself from grinning at his sweet, genuine words.

You lean in, placing a small kiss on his nose as a silent apology. Then, you close your eyes and lean into him once more, feeling his hands carefully holding the side of your head and his lips on yours. Your kiss with Riki is saccharine and slow, making you pull away when the urge to beam at him is too much. Your cheeks definitely hurt by how romantic he’s being, and you can’t resist kissing him once more.

“I’m not gonna lie,” he starts, finally letting himself down, “It feels weird.” 

“You ruined the moment.” And he really didn’t, but you enjoy his subtle reactions to your light digs at him. 

“Whatever.” Riki laughs. “Stay here, I’ll be right back.” 

You nod, sitting down on the porch and dragging a manicured nail over your lips with the ghost of his affections, thinking about how you literally just kissed Spider-Man. 

Riki comes back, dusting off his suit and smoothing out the wrinkles, with a large bouquet of red roses and one blue one snuck in there. Your lips stretch into a grin and you accept the bouquet, keeping a mental note to read the card in there.

“You never cease to amaze me, Riki.” It’s the last thing you mutter to the air before you loop your arms around his neck, urging him to lean down as you kiss him once more—this time rightside up, but still as sickly saccharine as the one before it. Your heart is fuzzy with fondness and your eyes glitter with adoration. 

“So, which kiss was better?” he asks when you pull away, a little breathless and dizzy.

You swat his arm and walk past the gates, seeing the sleek limo waiting by the curb. “I don’t know, Spider-Man. Maybe show up in your suit and we’ll try it again.” 

REBLOGS AND FEEDBACK ARE ALWAYS APPRECIATED AND ALWAYS READ!

RIKI FIC DONE!!!! ngl y/n u were right there how did u not know riki was spiderman but whatever idc she's a hard worker not smart LMFOAOAO. my first ever action fic so i hope you enjoy! also i hate the ‘oh he pined after her for 4 years she liked him for 2 months’ bs because I WAS IN IT. and it sucks so i tried to deviate from it :)

꣑ৎ permanent fic taglist (TAGGED IN TEASERS, FICS, HEADCANNONS, DRABBLES, ETC.): @dimplewonie @minleeeknow @heeheesang @mintpjzroll @llvrhee @firstclassjaylee @in-somnias-world @rairaiblog @suneng @mavlogist @sensitively-taken @sumzysworld @simpjay @moons-v @riksaes @txtari @jungwonscatcus @tya0 @sasfransisco @woorcve @shypen @pinkriki @rikisluv @saranghaohoshi @lilifiedeans @wonmyheart @k1ttyluvr @nikisgfff @ramenoil @laurradoesloveu @lvcky-g1rl-syndr0me @ikeulims @missychiefs1404 @qwonyoung23 @yangjungwonnie @onementally-unstabel-kid @microwvdstrawb3rri3s @blooqz @anormieee hi permies hope u enjoy! kith

[mmmilkweed]

how do you think the ancients and the beast would react to know that pv and smc had children

I WAS GOING TO MAKE A COMIC BUT ARG HAVE THE TEXT VERSION

For the Ancients... PV was *supposed* to tell them about Smilks pregnancy. He was GOING to tell them. But turns out Smilk gets a LOT worse, attitude wise, and basically.. All his time was spent on Smilk ( for the first 3 months it was just Smilk absolutely abusing his Pregnancy Status. Think: "I can't believe you won't let me do this, I'm carrying your child! " basically having PV wrapped around his pinkie. After that? The pregnancy actually hit him like a bus. Funs over, now he needed PV for real)

For the last 2 months of Smilks pregnancy, he basically didn't speak to any other ancient. All communication stopped. But that's not too far from the ordinary when it comes to PV, so no one questioned it.

Until he strode into a meeting with a babe swaddled to his chest.

First, the ancients were confused. Is he babysitting? Such a young cookie? Maybe. But then again her icing seemed oddly familiar to Vanilla's (minus the slight blue undertones.) So, of course, they asked who's she was. "Why, mine of course! This is Lemon Meringue Cookie." he'd say with a bright smile.

Then they'd be offended. No one is surprised PV got.. Busy.. With someone so soon, but not even introduce them to the mother? That was uncharacteristic. They didn't even know he was courting anyone! And so they voice their concerns. And then PV's face scrunches as he thinks. "Oh. I seemed to have forgot to send the letters. My apologies. Shadow Milk Cookie became a whole lot more.. Demanding, once he got pregnant."

Oh the silence that followed. All eyes on Pure Vanilla. They just stared at each other, PV shuffling in place, uncomfortable. At once, the table erupted. Hollyberry was the first to speak: "She's adorable!" Golden Cheese's face seemed both disgusted and impressed: "You bed the Beast of Deceit?!". Dark Cacao threw a hand in the air. "What were you thinking, Pure Vanilla Cookie?!"

Hollyberry was also the first to stand up and coo over the little Lemon nested against her father. She was already singing the little Cookie's praises. PV warned against touching her - not that he didn't trust his friends, it was just that Smilk took issue with it. Says she'd smell weird if they touched her. PV couldn't tell if it was a joke or not.

Golden Cheese joined her, but instead of praise she scrutinized the little bug. "She's going to have your nose, poor thing." though her tone was fond.

Dark Cacao remained seated, brows furrowed. He wasn't sure of this.. Decision PV made without consulting any of them. He was skeptical, worried PV was getting manipulated. Worried PV will fail to take action when time comes, simply because Smilk gave him a child. So he voiced his concerns. And PV listened, and nodded and agreed with his friend. He already knew - of course he did, spending so much time with Smilk - and he was prepared for the worst. From one father to another, they shared wordless acknowledgedment. "..She is rather adorable." DC said, also joining the circle around the babe.

I'll do the beasts some other time idk, it would be a lot less interesting though. Mostly just "Nah nah guys this is all a part of my plan dw. This has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that PV knows How To Get It On and its hard not to say yes to his breeding kink guys I swear. Anyway this is my second pregnancy and yes it's still part of my plan guys I swear"

[dakusan]

First Claim I

Vampire!Seo Changbin x Reader | neck-biting, desk-fucking, plushie-bribing menace who accidentally imprints and panics

🔞synopsis: You’re a human research intern at Luxe Health—smart, stubborn, and the daughter of one of Chan’s closest human allies. You wanted field access. Real data. Real vampires. You didn’t expect to be assigned to Seo Changbin. Cold. Ruthless. Director of Hostile Containment. And now—completely obsessed with you. One blood-slick riot drill, a desk-breaking tension spiral, and a bar incident later, you’re covered in bite marks, plushies, and an illegal contract that says you’re his. You didn’t mean to fall in love. But then again, neither did he.

💌a/n: OH MY GOD I DID IT. I FINISHED IT. FIRST CLAIM I IS HERE. THE “I” IS NOT FOR AESTHETICS. IT’S BECAUSE I HAVE SINNED. 😇 You’re probably wondering why the title sounds like a vampire legal document and also why there’s a Roman numeral in it. WELL. FUN FACT. This fic was supposed to be a single thing. But then I blacked out halfway through writing the office scene and woke up with so many words, 17 plushies, a blood contract, and Jeongin threatening to flee the country. So now it’s in two parts 😇. Second part, click me, to continue reading 💋. Sorry it got this long that I had split p.s. reblog for clear skin, forehead kisses, and a vampire bf who growls when someone else touches you p.p.s. not to be dramatic but Changbin is the reason vampire HR exists now (hi seungmin, he's not getting paid enough for this) p.p.p.s. if you've ever had a thing for dangerous men who call you “baby” while saving your life and then ruin your life… same

⚠️ warnings: 18+ / MINORS DO NOT INTERACT | oral, penetrative (wrap it up people), multiple rounds | breeding kink if you squint | blood-sharing / vampire biting (consensual) | choking (consensual) | marking / possessiveness / claiming | rough sex → soft aftercare | desk sex, couch sex, morning sex | slight somnophilia vibes (you wake him up riding) | jealousy & territorial behavior | Jeongin trauma (comedic)

📌 Please read responsibly. Lock the door. Don’t bleed in front of rogue vampires. Stretch.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Guilty — Taemin « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:10 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Your father was one of the few humans who could walk into Luxe Health and be bowed to.

He never wanted the spotlight—didn’t need it. Power, he’d always told you, was quiet. It was in the rooms no one saw. It was in the contracts they couldn’t understand. His pharmaceutical empire made him a billionaire. His shadow investments in vampire medicine made him untouchable.

You’d grown up watching boardrooms turn silent when he entered. World leaders called him by his first name. Vampires—old ones, cruel ones—inclined their heads in recognition. His reach extended beyond patents and patents—he helped build Luxe, quietly backing Chan during the facility’s earliest expansions.

A legacy man, through and through.

And you? You were expected to be his reflection.

But instead of joining the executive suite, you carved a different path. PhD in biogenetics. Trauma recovery specialization. Graduated top of your year. Published early. Interned in high-risk human clinics. Refused nepotism—until now.

Because Luxe was different.

Luxe was where vampire biology met experimental care, where research meant risk. And you wanted in.

You’d stared Chan down during your interview, both of you seated in a private wing lit by enchanted glass and scent-sealed vents. You wore a black turtleneck and a steel charm under your wrist to keep your pulse from triggering a blood response. He wore concern under his professionalism.

“You could work anywhere. Hell, I’ll give you a lab myself.” “I don’t want a desk. I want data. Let me near the real ones.” “You understand this isn’t a simulation?” “I understand blood. I want to see what it does to them. I want to help.” “You get hurt in containment, your father will kill me.” “Then don’t let me get hurt.”

That got a small, reluctant grin out of him.

He still tried to assign you to Bio-Monitoring. You refused. He offered Private Recovery. You declined again. It was only after hours of back-and-forth, after you signed the enchanted consent papers and passed an emergency restraint drill that he finally gave in.

“Fine. I’ll assign you a handler.”

“Who?”

“Someone who’ll hate having you. Which means you’ll be safest.”

Enter Seo Changbin.

Director of Hostile Containment and Physical Defense Operations. Known inside Luxe as The Wall. The Lock. The Enforcer.

He was Normal-born—bloodlines rooted in protection, not politics. His family didn’t scheme. They didn’t climb. They stood in front of danger and took the blow first. The Seo name was legend in containment sectors, and Changbin had turned it into scripture.

He wasn’t like the other executives. He didn’t wear tailored suits or silk-lined coats. You first saw him from across the upper observation deck of Containment Wing B. Tactical gear. Armored sleeves. Twin silver hoop earrings—enchanted for sun protection. He barked orders with the gravel in his voice, hands wrapped in reinforced gloves still smudged with someone else’s blood.

You watched him haul a rage-state vampire back into a suppression cage with nothing but brute strength and clenched fangs.

You said nothing. But you felt your breath catch.

He turned—just once—to look up at the deck, meeting your gaze through reinforced glass.

It was the most silent threat you’d ever seen.

Your official orientation packet didn’t include a welcome. Just your schedule. And a warning scribbled in red at the bottom.

Changbin will meet you in Training Bay Four. Do not be late. Do not lie. Do not bleed.

Training Bay Four

You arrive two minutes early.

The corridor to Bay Four is silent, save for the hum of reinforced lighting and the soft tap of your shoes on vampire-grade flooring. Your badge grants you clearance with a flicker of enchanted silver. You note the biometric seals, the backup vents, the locked cabinet labeled "Anti-Feral Protocol: Class B+".

Cute.

The door slides open.

Inside: dim lights. Floor mats. Medical staging equipment along the walls. A tranquilizer gun laid casually on a side table. And him—Seo Changbin, arms crossed, shirt tight across muscle, sleeves rolled to his forearms like he’s about to kill something and doesn’t want blood on his wrists.

He doesn’t acknowledge you right away. Just glances once. Then keeps inspecting a steel baton in his hand.

You step forward, crisp and polite. “Director Seo.”

He doesn’t look up. “No.”

You blink. “No…?”

“Not Director. Not Sir. Not Handler.” His voice is low, flat. Dangerous. “I didn’t ask for this. So don’t pretend we’re in some stupid chain-of-command arrangement.”

Okay.

That’s the energy.

You clasp your hands behind your back. “Noted.”

He looks up then—eyes dragging over you slowly, not with lust, not yet, but suspicion. Like he’s cataloging every inch of you to determine how much of a liability you’ll be.

Hair tied back. Neutral expression. Enchanted cuffs, like Chan insisted. And a slim tablet tucked under one arm, filled with blank logs you’re meant to fill with field notes.

Changbin stares at it. Then at you.

“You bring that thing near a rage-state vamp and they’ll shatter it into your throat.”

You don’t blink. “Then I’ll take notes after they’re restrained.”

His jaw ticks.

It’s subtle, but you catch it. That flicker of annoyance, or maybe grudging respect, coiled tight in his posture. You know his type—military-minded, logic over emotion. He’s been trained to view anything human and rich as soft, as disposable, as protected by systems he doesn't trust.

You, unfortunately, were designed to make men like him twitch.

“You’re human,” he says bluntly. “I don’t care what degrees you’ve got. If they turn on you, you’re dead before I can move.”

You nod. “That’s why I’ll stand behind you.”

It slips out—a little bold, a little flirty, maybe. You can’t help it.

He scowls.

“Cute,” he mutters. “Let’s hope you’re still standing after your first bleed scare.”

You don’t respond to that. Instead, you cross to the nearest work station and begin pulling on a lab coat—charms embedded in the seams, scent-masking threads at the collar.

He watches you. In complete silence.

“What did you think I’d be like?” you ask, just to needle him.

“Worse,” he replies.

That makes you laugh, short and sharp. “Disappointed?”

He tosses the baton into a bin behind him without looking. The sound clangs off the wall. Then he steps toward you, stopping close enough that you feel the thick static of vampire presence—more force than temperature. Like a shift in gravity.

His voice lowers.

“I don’t care whose name is on your badge. You don’t belong here. That’s not a threat. That’s biology. That’s reality. You’re not built for this floor.”

You tip your chin up. “And yet. Here I am.”

Something flickers in his eyes—rage, maybe. Or something darker. “You bleed, and they’ll tear each other apart to get to you.”

“Then I won’t bleed.”

“And if you cry, I’ll have to restrain them. Not because of the sound. Because they’ll smell it. Because it’ll make you taste better.”

You swallow.

His gaze drops to your wrist. The vein there, soft beneath the cuff.

Then—

“You’re not mine,” he says finally. “That’s why this is a problem.”

And he walks past you. Straight into the containment wing.

The rest of the week is… interesting.

Changbin doesn’t speak unless he has to. You suspect it’s a self-preservation tactic—less words, less risk of snarling them. He prefers barked instructions, curt assessments, and the occasional dry, "Don’t do that," when you dare to observe too closely.

You’re not offended. You’ve been ignored by worse. And at least this vampire doesn’t smile at you with fake charm—he just stares at your pulse like it’s his job.

Because it is.

Still, the chemistry starts to hum beneath everything. Silently. Inappropriately.

Like the time you dropped your pen near an observation cage and leaned down to grab it—and he was suddenly behind you, one hand ghosting your elbow like he’d yanked himself back at the last second.

“Don’t kneel in containment zones,” he snapped.

“Why?”

“You don’t want to look like prey.”

You stood slowly. His eyes stayed on your throat the entire time.

Or when you laughed during an intercom briefing—just a soft exhale, something about the absurdity of rage-state protocol involving the phrase “de-escalate with tone modulation”—and he turned so sharply you thought he’d dislocated his neck.

“Something funny?”

“Tone modulation, Changbin.”

“My tone is modulated.”

“It is,” you grinned. “Modulatedly pissed.”

He looked away before you could see his mouth twitch.

divider

And then there was Hyunjin.

Director of Sensory Magic and Bond-Stabilisation Therapy. Ethereal. Tall. Wears flowy black trousers that are definitely cursed for dramatic effect. Smells like sandalwood and metaphysical trauma.

He appears at 8:04 AM, waltzing into the containment briefing room with a portfolio under one arm and a crystal cup of black tea in the other.

“You’re the intern, right?” he says to you, voice like a lullaby dipped in sarcasm. “Hi. I’m Hyunjin. I specialize in trauma, blood, and unbearable beauty.”

Changbin: sighs like he’s aged six years.

You blink. “Pleasure?”

“Likewise. Your scent is... odd. I like it. Feels like lavender anxiety with a hint of ‘my dad’s the reason this building exists.’”

“That is disturbingly accurate.”

“Thank you. I smell emotions for a living.”

Changbin, already done: “Why are you here.”

“Art therapy,” Hyunjin replies cheerfully. “One of your patients bit a guard and then painted a ceiling mural in dried blood. So now it’s my turn.”

You nod solemnly. “That's either deeply poetic or a workplace hazard.”

Hyunjin gives you a conspiratorial smile, then leans toward Changbin.

“You’re vibrating.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You’ve been vibrating since she got here.”

“Get out.”

“Oh, I will. But not before I tell you this—”

“The bond lines are reacting.”

A silence falls.

You frown. “What?”

Changbin goes very still. Hyunjin just sips his tea.

“I don’t think there’s a full imprint,” Hyunjin muses, eyes half-lidded. “But there’s a shimmer. Minor resonance. Micro-claim reaction, maybe from proximity or blood compatibility. Nothing formal. Yet.”

“Explain,” Changbin says darkly.

“It means,” Hyunjin purrs, “that your subconscious thinks she’s yours.”

You try not to choke on your breath. Changbin’s jaw clenches so hard you hear it crack.

“Get. Out.”

“Love you too~” Hyunjin sings, walking pleased with himself.

You don’t speak. Neither does Changbin.

He storms past you. You catch the heat in his eyes as he brushes your shoulder—intentional this time—and the word he mutters beneath his breath.

“Fucking bond magic.”

You find him ten minutes later in the weapons sanitization bay, rinsing blood off his gloves like the scent offends him personally. You’ve learned not to speak until the first rinse cycle finishes—he doesn’t like being startled when he’s armed, which is fair, given that his fists are already registered as weapons.

Still, you’re kind of proud of yourself for finding him at all.

“Director Seo,” you say, purposefully polite, like nothing awkward or claim-related was dropped into the air twenty minutes ago. “Reporting for observation duty.”

He doesn’t look up. “You’re not scheduled for containment until this afternoon.”

“I reviewed the schedule. You approved my presence for the morning tier-three briefings.”

Now he looks up.

Slow. Irritated. Maybe impressed.

You smile. Not too much. Just enough to say: you may be terrifying, but I am very smart and very annoying, and I know what I’m doing.

He exhales through his nose and turns to unstrap his arm guards. “You’re exhausting.”

“You’ve barely spoken to me today.”

“Exactly.”

You follow him down the hall.

“So. What’s the plan for the briefing?”

“We sit. We talk about the vampires that tried to kill us yesterday. Then we eat sad protein bars and pray the afternoon isn’t worse.”

“Do I get a protein bar?”

“No.”

“Rude.”

He opens a door with his palm print. You keep walking two steps behind, like some kind of blood-resistant intern duckling.

“Stop following me like that,” he mutters.

“Like what?”

“Like you trust me.”

You pause. Just a beat. “Shouldn’t I?”

He doesn’t answer. Not with words. Just stops at the door to the observation deck, turns on his heel, and pins you in place with one look. Not violent. Not even angry. Just—charged.

His eyes drop briefly to your wrist.

You know why. The cuffs. The enchanted ones. Your pulse hides behind them, but not perfectly. Not anymore.

“That bond shimmer thing,” you say casually. “Is it real?”

His jaw clenches. “No.”

“Hyunjin said—”

“Hyunjin says a lot of shit when he’s bored.”

“But he’s Director of Bond-Stabilisation—”

“And half-little shit. So maybe don’t let him seduce you with theories about what might be humming in your bloodstream.”

You try not to laugh. “You’re jealous.”

He levels you with a stare. “I’m protective.”

A beat.

“Let’s go. You’re already late to pretend you’re qualified.”

The observation deck smells like silver disinfectant and anticipation.

A long arc of reinforced glass separates the interns, researchers, and field techs from the three vampire patients below. Tier Three—partially stable, partially sedated. They pace like sharks in segmented enclosures, each one built to suppress a different aspect of their bloodlust.

One wears a pulse collar. Another has her hands in anti-magic cuffs. The third—

The third just stares at the ceiling, whispering to someone who isn’t there.

You’ve read their files. Watched their intake footage. Memorized their reactions to auditory triggers, temperature shifts, scent stimuli.

None of that prepares you for seeing them in person. For feeling the way the air tightens when their eyes flash toward the deck.

You exhale slowly.

Changbin stands behind you now. Arms crossed, expression unreadable. His presence is less a body and more a barrier—a pressure field humming behind your spine, like even your heartbeat has to ask permission to move.

You speak low. “I thought Tier Three wouldn’t react to observers.”

“They don’t,” he says. “Unless they smell something… interesting.”

You glance back at him. “Am I interesting?”

His gaze flicks down your neck. Just once. “You’re a problem.”

Your lips twitch. “Is that why you’re standing like a vault?”

He doesn’t answer. Just nods toward one of the staffers entering the lower level—tranq cart in hand, ready for standard evaluation.

You go still.

Because the vampire closest to the glass has stopped moving.

He’s looking at the intern. Then, slowly—too slowly—his head turns toward the deck.

His nostrils flare.

And his eyes lock on you.

A sound escapes his throat. Low. Animal.

The lights shift in warning—soft amber glow pulsing into a harsh, sterile white. That means pre-breach aggression. No movement yet. But something is rising in him, and it’s not from visual cues.

“Changbin,” you say quietly. “He’s scenting me.”

Before you finish the sentence, Changbin steps between you and the glass. His hand comes up—not touching you, but close, too close—and his body covers yours like instinct.

“Do not move.”

You freeze. Not out of fear. Out of recognition. This is what he was made for. Not planning. Not speaking. Not strategy. Just this. Standing between danger and what it wants.

The vampire lets out a snarl. Not at Changbin—at you. At your blood. Your presence. At whatever trace has started seeping through your enchanted cuffs.

“He shouldn’t be able to scent me through protocol,” you whisper.

Changbin’s voice is low. Controlled. Not for you—for himself. “He shouldn’t. Which means something changed.”

You swallow. “Is it the bond shimmer?”

He doesn’t answer. Just turns to the observation technician and snaps, “Trigger level-one sedative protocol. Now.”

You don’t speak as the team below confirms sedation, locking the cell with reinforced restraints. Changbin watches the whole process with his arms folded tight over his chest, jaw clenched hard, like he’s holding back teeth and truth in the same breath.

You feel the tremor in your own fingers. Faint. Ridiculous. You’re not supposed to shake. Not after everything you’ve trained for.

So instead—you do what you’re meant to.

You sit. You pull out your tablet. You start writing.

Tier Three Observation Log: Day 7 Time: 14:31 KST Subject: Patient 3 Status: Rage-state response triggered. Sedation successful. Unscheduled aggression. Cause: Unknown.

You pause. Your fingers hesitate over the stylus. Then, slowly, you write:

“Possible external stimulus: researcher blood compatibility breach. Protocol seals potentially bypassed via resonance shimmer.” “Unknown if catalyst is environmental or biological.” “Proximity to Director Seo… may be relevant.”

Behind you, you feel it—the shift in air pressure. Changbin moves.

You keep writing.

“Subject’s behavioral pattern deviated within 5–6 seconds of visual contact. Breathing irregularity noted in researcher. Physical response from Director Seo immediate. Shield positioning, non-contact but full frontal coverage.” “Verbal command issued: ‘Do not move.’” “Researcher obeyed.”

You shouldn’t write that part. But you do. Because it’s the truth.

You stop.

Because there’s a shadow over your shoulder now. His breath, soft. Controlled. Right beside your neck.

“Are you writing about me?”

You don’t look up. “This is observation. You're part of the response system. Therefore, you're in the log.”

He’s quiet.

Then—

“You wrote down that you obeyed me.”

Your throat tightens.

Still, you force your voice to stay clinical. “It was a direct command. I assessed the situation. You were correct.”

He huffs. Not quite a laugh. Not quite not one either. “You always do what you’re told, then?”

You tilt your head. “Are you asking professionally or personally?”

Silence.

Then he steps back, just enough for you to exhale fully again. “Pack up. You’re done for the day.”

You blink. “What? No. That was one anomaly—”

“It was one second from breach. One second from your blood on the glass. You’re done.”

You rise, slowly. “You don’t get to bench me, Changbin. I’m here to learn. I’m not afraid.”

He moves so fast you don’t see it—only feel it. Your back hits the wall. Gently. Caged. Not rough. Not dangerous. Just… immediate. His hand braces near your head.

You could push him away. You don’t.

“Do I make you nervous?” he asks, voice low.

You lift your chin. “No.”

“Then why are you standing like you’ll bolt the second I move?”

Your breath hitches. His eyes drop to your mouth.

“You need to understand something,” he says, voice darker now. “This isn’t a lab anymore. You’re not some ghost in the background. Not to them.”

Not to me, either. He doesn’t say it. But you hear it anyway.

“You bleed down here,” he murmurs, “and they’ll turn on each other just to see who gets to taste it first.”

You swallow. “And you?”

A pause.

“I’m not them.”

His eyes are still on your mouth.

Your breath stutters. The room feels smaller. Like the space between your spine and the wall is folding in on itself. Like if he leaned forward just one inch—

The door hisses. And everything stops.

You both freeze like teenagers caught under the bleachers.

Then: “...Wow,” comes a familiar voice. Flat. Dry. Absolutely done. “Am I interrupting?”

Changbin doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even pretend to look guilty.

You, on the other hand, do the awkward shuffle-of-shame, stepping sideways out of his arm cage like oh nothing to see here despite the fact that you’re flushed, your pulse is audible, and your cuff is glowing faintly.

You don’t have to turn around to know it’s Chan.

CEO of Luxe. Founder. Friend of your father. And currently standing there with his arms crossed like he walked in on two pit bulls mid-mating ritual.

“You know,” Chan says, squinting at Changbin, “when I said ‘protect her,’ I didn’t mean press her into the infrastructure.”

You cough.

Changbin doesn’t react. Just exhales slowly, gaze still on you, dangerously unreadable.

“Nothing happened,” he says.

Chan raises a brow. “Sure. And I’m a priest.”

You attempt to salvage your dignity by fixing your shirt and clearing your throat. “Director Seo was explaining scent-driven aggression. We were discussing field protocol.”

“Yeah,” Chan says. “Your field protocol involves pinning interns to reinforced walls and breathing like a dying wolfhound?”

You frown. “That's oddly specific—”

“—because that’s exactly what I just saw,” Chan cuts in. “Look, I get it. Trauma bonding. Biological resonance. Forbidden attraction. Super hot. Not here.”

Changbin finally turns. “We weren’t doing anything.”

“Your arm was over her head. There was breathing. You were doing something.”

A long pause. You bite your lip.

Chan runs a hand through his hair. Then looks at you. “Are you alright?”

You nod, heat crawling up your neck. “Fine. No contact.”

“No contact yet,” Chan mutters under his breath. “Hyunjin’s going to have a field day.”

Changbin glares.

Chan throws up his hands. “Alright, alright. Just—dial it down, yeah? Last thing I need is her father calling me to ask why his daughter is suddenly branded like Luxe property.”

Your heart skips. Changbin stiffens.

“That’s not happening,” he says, too fast.

Chan raises an eyebrow. “You sure? Because your scent is all over her cuffs. And she’s glowing.”

You glance down.

Shit. Your cuff is glowing. Just faintly. Silver shimmer, almost imperceptible—except you know what that means.

Resonance.

“Fantastic,” Chan sighs. “If you bite her, I’m firing both of you. And also throwing a party, because finally. But then firing you. Definitely that part.”

He turns to leave. Pauses in the doorway. “Oh—and we have a board meeting in twenty minutes. Thought you should know, Bin. Maybe wipe the murder off your face.”

And he’s gone.

The door hisses shut.

Silence.

You stare at the wall for a full beat before turning back to Changbin, who’s now leaning against a metal cabinet, arms crossed, smoldering with quiet fury and something else.

“So,” you say lightly. “That was... educational.”

He exhales.

“I need to kill Hyunjin.”

You grin. “You want to kiss me.”

A pause.

Then: “That’s the fucking problem.”

Your cheeks are burning.

Not in the cute, girlish way. Not in the “oops he caught me off guard” way either.

More like: Changbin just said he wants to kiss you, in that low, ruined voice of his like it physically hurts him to admit it, and now you’re standing here flushed, breathless, trying to decide if you need a cold shower, a therapy appointment, or a restraining order.

And yet, you're frozen in place, mouth open in mild, stunned betrayal of your own hormones.

“I—excuse me?” you manage, voice pitching slightly.

He doesn’t repeat it.

He just turns away, rubbing the back of his neck, muscles shifting under his shirt like anger barely contained by sinew.

You blink. Once. Twice.

Then, with as much dignity as you can salvage: “Okay. Great talk. Loved that. Definitely didn’t almost faint. Gonna go now.”

You turn, fast. Start toward the door like it hasn’t been absolutely defiled by tension in the past three minutes. You nearly trip on your own tablet case.

Changbin doesn’t say anything—of course he doesn’t—but you can feel his eyes on your back. Watching you leave like you’re some kind of… temptation with legs and clearance level three.

You smack the door control.

“See you later,” you call without looking.

“Not if I see you first,” he mutters.

You pause. Glance back. “Was that a threat?”

“No,” he says. “That was restraint.”

Luxe Health: Secure Conference Chamber 04.

The lights are low. The table is long. The vibe is supposed to be “strategic think tank,” but it’s rapidly deteriorating into “eight vampire men trying not to talk about the girl their enforcer wants to throw against a wall.”

Chan sits at the head. Arms folded. Pretending to be in CEO mode.

To his right: Minho—sharp suit, sharper cheekbones, reading a file with the kind of expression that says I will kill you if this isn’t worth my time.

Next: Changbin, still silent, jaw tight, the ghost of that wall scene clinging to his shoulders like scent.

Across from him: Hyunjin, dressed like a cursed gallery curator, twirling a charmed ring around his finger like he knows exactly what happened and will Not Be Normal About It.

Felix, beside Hyunjin, radiating golden-boy calm but quietly watching Changbin like he’s a patient with rising vitals.

Jisung is already bored. Playing with a vial of enchanted hemalixir, mumbling something about “scent stabilization is a myth, unless the girl’s really hot, in which case—yeah.”

Seungmin, pristine as always, flipping pages in the Medical-Legal Binder™ with the calm of someone who has absolutely drafted “What To Do If Your Co-Worker Bites a Human Intern” policy before.

Jeongin sits at the end, very clearly not supposed to be here, scribbling notes like do not flirt with rage-state interns even if they are pretty???

Chan clears his throat. “Alright. Meeting agenda. Let’s start with the containment breach.”

Minho: “Handled.” Chan: “Great. Sedation delays?” Seungmin: “Filed. Disciplinary warnings pending.” Felix: “Patient is stable. No residual psychic fallout.” Hyunjin: “No feedback loops. But there was—” he pauses, smiling slowly “—a resonance flare.”

Seven heads turn.

Changbin doesn’t move.

Jisung: “Like a shimmer?” Felix: “How strong?” Hyunjin: “Enough to make her cuff glow.” Seungmin: “Her cuff glowed?” Jeongin: “Her?”

Minho sets down his file. “Who’s her.”

Chan exhales loudly, temples already throbbing. “The intern.”

Minho stares. “The intern?” Seungmin: “The investor’s daughter?” Hyunjin: “Oh, she has a name now. Fascinating.” Felix: “This was during observation rounds?” Jisung: “I thought she was in Bio-Monitoring.” Chan: “She asked for Containment. I approved it.” Minho: “Why?” Chan: “Because she’s qualified.” Hyunjin: “Because you’re afraid of her dad.” Chan: “Also that.”

Pause.

Then Hyunjin, with all the grace of a panther mid-gossip: “Changbin pinned her to a wall.”

Silence. Absolute silence.

Minho looks at Changbin. Changbin doesn’t blink.

Jisung drops his vial. “WHAT.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Changbin mutters.

Hyunjin: “Oh, you’re right. It was much worse. You said—and I quote—‘That’s the fucking problem.’”

Felix is gasping, Seungmin is writing furiously and Jeongin? Well, his mouth is full open and he's horrified, possibly traumatised but also amazed.

Minho: “Bin.”

Changbin: “Minho.”

Minho: “You touched her?”

Changbin: “I didn’t bite her.”

Chan: “Which was somehow the most shocking part of the encounter.”

Hyunjin, dreamy: “He wanted to. The air was thick. You could feel the denial.”

Jisung: “DID YOU SMELL HER?!”

Changbin: “No.”

Seungmin: “But you’re emotionally compromised.”

Felix: “And scent-bonded.”

Jeongin, whispering: “Does this mean she’s gonna be his?”

Everyone turns.

Jeongin blinks. “I—I mean, that’s how bonds work, right?”

Long pause.

Hyunjin nods solemnly. “He’s right. It’s giving First Claim.”

Chan groans. “Do not name it like a romance novel.”

Jisung: “Too late. That’s what I’m calling it now. First Claim. Sounds hot. Who’s writing the fic?”

Seungmin: “I’m writing the liability clause.”

Minho rubs his temples. “Focus. What’s our next step if this escalates?”

Chan: “We don’t panic.”

Hyunjin: “We monitor.”

Felix: “We support.”

Jisung: “We watch the slowburn unfold.”

Jeongin: “We take notes.”

They all look at Changbin.

Changbin exhales, voice flat: “I hate all of you.”

Hyunjin smiles. “That’s the bond talking.”

Meanwhile...

You sit alone in one of the upper-level staff lounges. Not the fancy one near Chan’s office. The dusty one tucked behind a corridor labeled “Emergency Sanitization Supplies — Floor Two.” Which is exactly your vibe right now: emotionally spilled bleach in human form.

There’s a half-melted iced Americano in your hand. Cold and bitter as sin, and entirely useless at stopping the blush that has not left your face in the past thirty-seven minutes.

You take a sip. Pause.

“Okay,” you mutter to no one. “So maybe you’re a little attracted to him.”

You shake your head.

“No. No. That’s not attraction. That’s a biological stress response. He’s massive. His arms are the size of your thigh. Of course your brain is confused.”

Another sip. Stronger this time.

“Besides. He’s grumpy. Doesn’t talk. Glares like you keyed his car every morning.”

Beat.

“…Which is hot. Ugh. God. Okay. Shut up.”

You lean back in the chair, bumping your head lightly against the wall. Your enchanted cuffs hum faintly on your wrists—still active, still shimmery, still threatening to give away your entirely inappropriate emotional situation at any moment.

“You are not falling for Seo Changbin,” you say out loud, stabbing your straw like it personally offended you. “You are here to research biological trauma responses. Not become one.”

A janitorial bot wheels by. You stare it down.

“Don’t judge me.”

It beeps and rolls off.

You groan.

“Okay, but he did say he wanted to kiss me.”

A beat.

“No. He said that was the problem. Totally different. Very unromantic. Entirely scientific.”

Another pause.

“...Except he looked at your mouth like it was his last meal.”

You let your forehead drop to the table. “I need a new lab. Or a tranquilizer. Or both.”

From down the hall, you hear footsteps. Familiar ones. Heavy. Measured. Your whole body goes still.

“Oh my god,” you whisper. “If that’s him, I swear to every vampire council on Earth, I will throw myself out this window and enroll in accounting.”

You peek over your arm. It’s not him. Just a courier bot.

You sigh in relief. Then disappointment. Then immediate confusion. “I need therapy.”

You’ve just convinced yourself that you’re not in love with him—truly, deeply, definitively not in love with Seo Changbin—when the facility-wide comms system crackles to life.

“Attention all Containment and Observation units: Tier Three Drill commencing in fifteen minutes. Standard breach simulation, sedative protocol live. Assigned teams, report to Deck B.”

You blink.

A beat later, your tablet vibrates with a direct dispatch message.

CONTAINMENT DRILL TEAM C Supervisor: Director Seo Changbin Team Members: Y/N (Intern Observer, Clearance 3), Dr. Lee Yejin, Tech Operative Ryu, MedOps Rep Kwon.

You reread it three times.

“Okay,” you whisper to your coffee. “That’s fine. It’s fine. Just a drill. Just a very physically intense, close-quarters drill... supervised by a man who literally wants to bite me.”

You get up. Straighten your jacket. Slap your cheeks. Mutter something about professionalism and “Don’t you dare look at his mouth.”

And then you go.

Deck B is chaos. Organized, high-security chaos, but chaos nonetheless.

People rushing to prep sedatives. Armored gloves being locked in place. Staff adjusting their neck seals and throat shields. It’s all routine—but there’s a charge in the air, the kind that only happens when danger is about to pretend to be real, but everyone secretly knows it could become real anyway.

You arrive at the meeting point and immediately spot him.

Changbin.

In full Containment gear now. Tactical black, reinforced sleeves, cuffs over his wrists. His enchanted silver hoops glint under the sterile lighting. His face is unreadable, like he’s already halfway in fight mode.

He sees you.

You swallow. “Reporting for drill duty,” you manage, voice mercifully steady.

He gives a curt nod. “You stay behind me at all times. Log what you see. Don’t engage.”

“Got it.”

“And don’t bleed.”

You offer a very dry smile. “I’m aware.”

The rest of the team gathers. You all get briefed, handed mock protocols, sedative vials, dummy tags. Then comes the worst part: the formation split.

They divide you into pairs.

You already know what’s coming.

“Intern Y/N,” the ops tech says. “You’ll be with Director Seo.”

A brief silence follows.

Someone coughs. Someone else definitely smirks. Changbin doesn't blink. Just mutters: “Let’s move.”

The drill progresses.

Zone One: Cleared. Zone Two: Dummy vampire restrained. Zone Three: Simulated aggression triggered by shouting and flashing lights.

Still under control.

Then you reach Zone Four. Where something feels... off. The lights are slower to respond here. There’s a faint hum of magic in the air—sharper than usual. Your cuffs prickle on your wrist like static’s trying to get in.

Changbin stiffens. His hand lifts, a silent signal to halt.

You obey instantly.

The dummy vamp in Zone Four is chained. Supposed to be dormant. Eyes closed, breath shallow—controlled simulation.

But it sniffs the air. Its head twitches. Its eyes snap open. Not red. Black.

“That’s not a dummy,” Changbin says quietly.

“What—”

“It’s real.”

You feel your blood go cold.

“That’s a live rage-state. Someone fucked up the deployment roster.”

The vampire lunges against its chains. The others around you freeze.

The sound that rips from its throat is not an actor’s growl. It’s low. Bone-deep. Hunger manifesting as sound.

“It’s scenting,” Changbin mutters. Then, sharply—“Get her out.”

Someone grabs your arm. Starts to pull you back.

You don’t get far.

Because the vampire speaks. “Yours,” it snarls. Voice distorted. “She smells like yours.”

And then the chains break. Not by accident. Not by wear. By force. It launches. Straight at you.

Everything happens at once.

Screams. Sedatives deployed. Magic barriers flaring—

And Changbin moves. No hesitation. No words. Just speed.

He tackles the vampire mid-air, slamming it against the reinforced wall with a crack that shakes the entire floor. His fangs are out. His whole body is glowing with rage—not hunger, not loss of control.

Claim.

The vampire snarls, twisting beneath him, repeating it over and over: “Yours. Yours. Yours—”

Until Changbin’s hand wraps around its throat and slams it into silence. The vampire chokes once—then goes still. Not unconscious. Held. Crushed into compliance.

Changbin's forearm pins the creature’s chest. His other hand is still around its throat.

Your breath is loud in your ears.

Changbin doesn't move. Not right away. Just stays there, caging the creature against the wall like some monstrous, divine sentinel—fangs bared, gaze locked not on the vampire…

But on you.

Finally, Changbin’s grip tightens.

Crack.

The vampire slumps, unconscious now. Not dead. But close enough. Silence falls, broken only by the whir of containment drones resetting and the hum of the barrier recharging.

A long pause.

Then: “Director Seo,” one of the ops officers says carefully. “We’ll take it from here.”

Changbin steps back. Breathes once. Just once. Then turns to you. His voice is steady, too steady. “You’re off this floor for the rest of the week.”

You frown. “I didn’t—”

“Not a request.”

He walks past. Doesn’t look back.

Three nights later.

You're in a booth with a glittering drink in hand, skin still glowing from the bathroom highlighter your friend insisted on using (“you need shimmer, bitch—post-trauma sparkle tax”).

The music is too loud, the air smells like spiced rum and citrus perfume, and your heels already hurt.

But the buzz is warm. The girls are laughing. And you… are babbling.

“—and then he just walked off, like full dramatic coat sweep, and I’m standing there with adrenaline in my mouth and a full trauma boner or something, I don’t know—”

“Wait, trauma boner?” Your friend Zara chokes on her drink. “What does that even mean?”

“It means,” you say, stabbing your straw into the crushed ice like it personally wronged you, “I need therapy. Or a different internship. Or a restraining order. Or him. Honestly, I don’t know anymore.”

Your best friend Hyerin leans over the table. “Okay, wait. Let’s back up. Did he save your life?”

“Well, technically—yes,” you admit. “But also, I wouldn’t have been in danger if someone didn’t bond-glow like a possessive hellhound and piss off a rogue vampire in the first place—”

“You like him,” Hyerin grins, leaning in conspiratorially.

“No, I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I don’t!” You throw your hands up, nearly sloshing your drink onto your dress. “I like peace. I like science. I like not being tackled by muscle demons with jawlines sharp enough to slice through reinforced cuffs—”

“Right,” Zara hums. “And when you say jawline, you mean—”

“This isn’t about his jawline!”

Pause. You stare into your cocktail like it might offer answers. It doesn’t.

“…It’s a little about the jawline,” you mutter.

The table bursts into laughter. Hyerin’s already pulling out her phone.

“I’m texting him,” she says.

“YOU DON’T EVEN HAVE HIS NUMBER.”

“Not yet.”

You scream into your hands.

But, the universe hates you and you're sure of it.

Because not five minutes after you scream into your hands—screaming about him—the music shifts, the crowd parts like some hedonistic Red Sea, and in walks the reason your blood pressure has had a permanent residency in the clouds: Seo Changbin. Black shirt, tactical boots like he stomped straight out of the field and into the VIP section. Sleeves rolled. Forearms coiled. Expression unreadable.

And beside him?

Hwang Hyunjin, shirt unbuttoned halfway like a walking sin. Felix, honey-blonde hair and already blowing kisses at the bartender.

You—mid-sip of a definitely-too-strong cocktail—choke. Loudly.

Zara slaps your back. “Oh my god—what is it?”

“Don’t—look—now—” you wheeze, clutching the table, “but the reason for my imminent emotional breakdown just walked in with his vampire boy band.”

“What—” Hyerin starts, glancing over—And immediately gasps. “HOLY FUCK, IS THAT—?!”

“Yes!” you hiss. “It is! And now we’re gonna leave quietly, like normal people who do not talk shit about their boss and then get haunted by it in real time.”

Too late.

Felix spots you first. Smiles like he’s already decided to ruin your life for fun. He taps Hyunjin. Hyunjin turns. Sees you. Smirks like he’s proud of himself for causing all this. Like he’s got a bingo card and just checked off “accidentally start a soulmate crisis.”

And then—

Changbin looks up. Finds you. Freezes.

You freeze, too.

It’s mutual nuclear deer-in-headlights energy.

Then—and this is the worst part—he visibly exhales. Rubs the back of his neck. Says something to the others.

And starts walking over.

You panic.

“Abort,” you whisper. “ABORT MISSION—HE’S COMING—WHY IS HE COMING—”

Hyerin hides her face behind her glass. Zara just leans in like this is the season finale of a drama.

Changbin reaches the table. “…Intern.”

That voice. Low. Calm. Slightly hoarse like he’s been shouting over noise—Or thinking about you.

You blink up at him, stunned. “D-Director.”

“Didn’t know you frequented this club.”

“I—don’t,” you stammer. “I mean, I do. But not, like—frequently. Just—on occasion. Very rare occasions. Like now. And maybe never again.”

He looks vaguely amused. “Shame.”

You short-circuit. “Sorry?”

He leans in a little. Just a fraction. Just enough for your drink to forget how to exist and nearly spill itself. “Shame,” he repeats. “I was starting to think this place had good taste.”

You black out a little.

Felix, ten feet away, definitely whoops.

Hyunjin raises a brow like he’s just been fed.

You pray for the earth to swallow you whole.

It doesn’t.

Instead, Changbin steps back—cool as ever—nods to your friends, and says, “Don’t stay too late. You’re still technically under blood-scent restriction.”

And then he’s walking away. Felix blows you a kiss. Hyunjin mouths, “You’re welcome.”

You collapse onto the table.

Zara: “I’m gonna need you to explain everything. Slowly. With details.”

Hyerin: “You’re so in love with him.”

You: gargling incoherently into your straw.

Somewhere, across the bar, Changbin slides into a booth beside Hyunjin, downs a drink like he’s trying to forget his own existence, and mutters: “…I’m so fucked.”

Hyunjin watches Changbin slam his drink like it personally insulted his ancestors.

Then, with all the grace and smugness of a man who has never once minded his business, he drawls: “Soooo… when were you planning on telling us you’ve imprinted on your intern?”

Changbin glares at him over the rim of his glass. “I didn’t imprint.”

Felix snorts. “You tackled a feral vampire like a rabid Cerberus because it looked at her. Your aura’s been glowing since Tuesday. You’re literally scent-marking her by accident.”

“I’m not—!” Changbin exhales, runs a hand down his face. “It’s not like that.”

Hyunjin raises a brow. “Oh? Then what is it like, Binnie? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’ve got yourself a little intern-shaped problem. Or, more accurately—” He leans in. “—a little intern-shaped crush.”

Changbin doesn’t respond. Which is, obviously, confirmation.

Felix grins. “Awww, hyung… You’ve got a type.”

“I do not have a type—”

“You do. And apparently it’s smart, clumsy, slightly sarcastic science girls who wear combat boots and forget how to breathe when you look at them.”

“I swear to god—”

“She was literally squeaking at the table. You know how hard it is to make a scientist squeak?”

Hyunjin nods solemnly. “It's usually the lab rats that squeak. Not the interns.”

Changbin slumps in his seat. “You two are insufferable.”

Felix beams. “We’re supportive.”

“We’re observant,” Hyunjin adds.

“We’re just saying,” Felix continues, “that if you don’t make a move soon, she’s gonna keep thinking she’s hallucinating the sexual tension. Which, by the way, is not subtle. It’s practically a hazard.”

“I can’t make a move,” Changbin mutters. “She’s under my department. It’s complicated.”

“You tackled a rogue vampire for her,” Hyunjin says, sipping his drink like he’s delivering a TED Talk. “Pretty sure the ethics line was already blurred when you went full murder-glow in front of ten ops staff and a clipboard.”

“And she blushed,” Felix adds. “Like, blushed. The kind of blush that requires ice water and therapy.”

“She screamed into her hands,” Hyunjin says thoughtfully. “Cute hands, by the way.”

Changbin growls. “Touch her and I’ll dislocate your soul.”

“There it is,” Felix sings. “There’s our favorite blood-stained simp.”

Changbin slams his glass down again. “…I hate both of you.”

Hyunjin shrugs. “You hate yourself more. For feeling things. Tragic.”

Felix leans in, bright-eyed. “But also… so hot. Honestly. We’re rooting for you. And if you ever need help figuring out how to ask her out without sounding like you’re proposing a hostage trade—we got you.”

Changbin just sighs. Drags a hand through his hair.

Across the bar, you're still hiding behind your drink. Still red in the face. Still not over it. He sees you peek out from behind your straw. You meet his eyes. Then duck back like you’ve been caught.

Changbin exhales through his nose. “…I’m so fucked,” he mutters again.

Hyunjin grins. “No, Binnie. You’re in love.”

Back at your booth...

You slip away from the booth with a muttered excuse—something about needing another drink, maybe some air. Really, you just need a minute. A minute to breathe without Hyerin’s knowing smirks or Zara’s whisper-yells of “he’s literally looking at you again—right now—look—”

So you push through the low-light crowd, heels clicking on scuffed tile, until you reach the bar.

The bartender’s busy with a round of orders. You lean against the counter, nursing the last of your drink, trying very hard not to glance back toward that particular booth.

(You fail. Twice.)

Behind you, the crowd shifts. You barely register the presence until someone leans in—too close. A voice at your ear, slurred and syrupy:

“Well, well. What’s a little thing like you doing all alone in a place like this?”

You freeze.

The man—no, not a man. You feel it instantly. The cold, too-calm stillness of him. The unnatural sharpness beneath his smile.

Vampire.

Not glamoured, not registered, not glowing with the controlled hum of city-trained restraint.

Your instincts scream.

“Back off,” you say, louder than intended.

But he laughs, low and slow. “Easy, sweetheart. Just being friendly.”

His hand brushes your wrist. Too fast. Too cold. You slap it away—but he grabs instead. Tight.

In a second, he’s behind you. Hand curled over your pulse point, voice rasping in your ear: “I can smell it on you. Something sweet. Someone’s touched you recently. Staked a claim…”

Your blood chills.

“Let go of me.”

“No.”

And that’s when the air changes. A blur cuts through the room. A gust of wind and rage and fire. And suddenly he’s there.

Changbin.

One hand wrenches the vampire back by the collar, the other slamming him into the bar so hard the counter cracks.

No warning. No mercy. Just fury. His eyes are glowing. His fangs are bared. His whole body radiates kill energy.

“She said let go.”

The vampire chokes. “Y-You’re—she’s marked—by you—?”

Wrong answer.

Changbin’s fist slams into his jaw. “Don’t ever touch her again,” he growls, voice pitched so low it could gut steel.

People are staring. No one interferes. Because every creature in this place knows exactly what just happened.

Possession. Protection.

He doesn’t let go until the vampire is limp. Until bouncers come, dragging the rogue away.

Then—and only then—does Changbin turn to you. He’s still shaking. “Are you okay?” he asks, low. Urgent. Too close.

You nod, numb. “Y-Yeah. Just… shaken.”

He exhales. Looks like he might kill someone else, just to be safe. And then—he touches you. Carefully. A light hand on your arm, grounding. His thumb strokes the spot where the vampire grabbed you.

“You’re not walking anywhere alone again,” he mutters.

You blink up at him stunned, lips slightly parted.

Behind you, from the booth, Hyunjin howls. Felix starts clapping. You scream internally. Changbin stiffens at the sound of Hyunjin’s howl. His jaw ticks and Felix’s enthusiastic applause is not helping.

You’re frozen, wide-eyed, still clutching your half-empty glass like it might shield you from this mortifying reality.

Then—Changbin sighs. Long. Suffering. Like a man just barely holding it together. His hand is still on your arm. He hasn’t moved it. Hasn’t looked away from you once.

“…Come on,” he mutters, voice low. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Your eyes flick up. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he says, and it’s so firm, so quiet, so final that you stop arguing.

He gently guides you toward the exit, threading you through the pulsing crowd like you’re something precious he needs to protect. His hand never leaves your lower back.

You pass the booth. Hyunjin wiggles his fingers like a cheeky villain. “Have fun~”

Felix leans across the table, stage-whispering: “Use protection. Emotional or otherwise.”

You hiss: “I hate both of you.”

Changbin: “Mood.”

The door swings shut behind you, muffling the music. The night air hits you—cool, quiet, a little sobering. You’re standing on the sidewalk now. Streetlights glowing. People still spilling into the night around you. But none of it touches the little bubble you’re in. Him. You. Too close. Not close enough.

“…Thanks,” you say, because you have to say something. “For—y’know. Back there.”

Changbin tilts his head, studying you. “You’re trembling.”

You glance down. Damn it, you are. “I’m fine,” you start, but it’s a lie, and he knows it.

“Come on,” he says again, voice gentler this time. “I’m taking you home.”

You blink. “You don’t know where I live.”

He lifts a brow. “Then give me the address. Or come to mine.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again.

“…Option two.”

His jaw ticks—just once. “Yeah?”

“…Yeah.”

He nods. Doesn't look smug about it, not even a little. Just serious. Focused. Concerned in a way that makes your stomach flip. He leads you to the car and opens the passenger door and waits for you to climb in.

You do.

You buckle in. You try not to feel the weight of this. Of him. Of what this is starting to mean. He pulls into traffic, jaw tense, one hand on the wheel, the other flexing in his lap like he’s trying very hard not to reach for you again.

Finally, softly: “I meant it,” he says. “No more walking alone. Not with rogues sniffing around. Not with you glowing like…” He swallows. “…like someone’s already claimed you.”

Your breath catches.

You stare at the window. At your reflection. At the tiny shimmer in your wrist where that rogue touched you and your magic had flared in instinctive response.

“…Did you?” you whisper. “Claim me?”

The car is very, very quiet.

Then—

“I think,” Changbin murmurs, “I’ve been trying not to.”

Your heart stutters. He pulls into his building garage. Parks. Turns to you. “I don’t think I can help it anymore.”

Your mouth goes dry.

You feel it—the tension laced through the silence like a livewire. The air between you sparking with things unspoken. Untouched. You turn slowly to look at him. At the way his hand tightens slightly on the gearshift. At the muscle ticking in his jaw. At the way he’s not looking at you, like one glance might undo him entirely.

“…You’re not helping,” you say quietly. Half a joke. Half a truth.

His eyes flick to yours—fast, sharp, dark. “I’m not trying to.”

Your stomach flips.

For a moment, neither of you moves. Then he gets out, walks around the car, opens your door like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t. You step out, legs unsteady, and he’s right there—close but not touching. Always not touching.

The ride up is quiet. Elevator soft and silver. You watch the floor numbers climb and try not to think about how his shoulder nearly brushes yours. His apartment is sleek, clean, dimly lit—him, in every way. Cool-toned. Quiet. Safe.

He hands you a blanket. Points to the couch. “You can take the bed if you want.”

You blink. “You’re giving me your bed?”

He shrugs. “You were almost attacked tonight. I’m not gonna add back pain to the list.”

“…I’m not fragile.”

“I know,” he says. And that—that—comes out rough. Like it costs him to say it. “You’re not. But I care anyway.”

Silence.

You stare at him. He stares back.

Then he turns—like he has to physically pull himself away from you—and heads to the kitchen. “You want tea?” he asks, opening a cupboard. “Chamomile? Peppermint? Something to help you sleep?”

“Do you ever sleep?” you ask, still standing there.

“Not well,” he says, then glances over his shoulder. “Especially not when you’re walking into danger with a straw in your mouth and no backup.”

You scoff. “That’s oddly specific.”

He gives a faint, crooked smile. Then hands you a mug. “Drink. Couch or bed—your choice. I’ll be out here if you need anything.”

You take the mug. Your fingers brush. He freezes.

You both do.

Then you take a step back. He exhales. Like that one inch spared him from crumbling.

You sit on the couch, curling up under the blanket. He doesn’t go far—just settles at the far end, close enough to hear you breathe, far enough not to cross the line he’s clearly drawing for himself.

“You meant it?” you ask softly. “What you said earlier? About… not being able to help it?”

He doesn’t look at you. Just stares straight ahead. “Yeah.”

You nod once.

Then: “Good.”

His head snaps toward you. Eyes wide. Disbelieving. But you don’t explain. Don’t press. Just sip your tea and look ahead, heart pounding so hard it rattles your ribs.

The Next Morning. LUXE HQ — Sublevel 4, Operations Command

Changbin slams a file onto the desk. “Okay. No, seriously. What the fuck.”

Chan blinks over his coffee. “Good morning to you too?”

“I claimed her.”

“You what.”

“I didn’t bite her. I didn’t mark her. I didn’t even kiss her. I’ve had literal breakfast sandwiches more intimate than this—how did I claim her?!”

Hyunjin: “You cuddled a little aggressively. Maybe that counts now.”

Changbin whirls on him. “I didn’t cuddle.”

“Sure, sure. You just cornered her against a bar with glowing rage-fangs and vowed eternal protection. Totally platonic.”

Seungmin looks up from his tablet, deadpan. “You’re all idiots.”

Everyone turns.

Seungmin sighs. “She glowed.”

“…Okay?” Changbin scowls. “So?”

“She glowed for you. Back. You both flared at the same time. That's enough.”

Chan squints. “Wait—flared like a synced pulse?”

Seungmin nods. “Uh-huh. That’s proto-bond activation, dumbass. Happens sometimes when a vampire's instinct collides with a compatible magic signature. If she didn’t resist—and you didn’t stop it—boom. Partial imprint.”

Hyunjin gasps. “You magic-matched?! Like in those scandalous shifter novels?!”

“God,” Changbin groans. “Why is everyone insane.”

“You imprinted,” Seungmin repeats flatly. “Like a duckling. Congratulations.”

“I didn’t imprint—”

“Too late,” Seungmin shrugs. “Duck-mode engaged.”

Changbin blinks. “But… she’s human.”

Seungmin doesn't look up from his tablet. “And yet. Duck-mode engaged.”

“Stop saying that!” Changbin practically yells. “What does that even mean?! I didn’t do anything! I didn't bite her! I didn't mark her! We didn’t even touch—okay, maybe her arm—BUT THAT DOESN’T COUNT!”

Chan slowly sets his mug down. “Okay. First of all—calm down. You're glowing through your shirt again.”

“Second of all,” Seungmin adds helpfully, “it’s not about species, genius. It’s about resonance.”

“Resonance of what?! She’s human. She’s caffeine and sarcasm and zero threat response!”

“She’s also a latent,” Seungmin says casually.

Changbin freezes. “A what.”

“A latent. Human with dormant arcane receptors. Rare, but not impossible. Probably doesn’t even know it.”

Chan nods like this makes perfect sense. “Makes sense. Explains the glow. Explains the surge. Explains why your bitey instincts went nuclear.”

Hyunjin sips his drink. “Explains why you look like you wanna chew drywall.”

Changbin runs both hands down his face. “Okay, so let me get this straight. You’re telling me I accidentally started a soul-bond with a human scientist who drinks iced Americanos like a war crime and actively hates that I exist?”

Seungmin: “Correct.”

Hyunjin: “Romantically hates you.”

Felix (just arriving): “Wait—did you guys tell him about the duck thing yet—”

Changbin lets out a guttural scream.

Felix immediately turns around. “Nope. Nope. Not dealing with that energy. I just got here.”

Chan sighs and looks at Seungmin. “What now?”

“Nothing,” Seungmin says. “We wait.”

“For what?”

Seungmin shrugs. “For her to walk in, glow at him again, and trigger phase two.”

Hyunjin lights up. “Ooooh. What’s phase two?”

“Denial,” Seungmin deadpans. “And then sex.”

Chan promptly walks into the wall.

Later that day...

Changbin walks into his office with the weight of twelve hours of emotional torment and zero hours of sleep on his shoulders.

And there you are.

On his couch. Legs crossed, tablet in your lap, stylus tapping in that specific rhythm you do when you're thinking—but also trying to annoy someone.

"—and technically, if you inject nano-trace silver into vampire bloodstreams in microbursts, you could mimic a detox reaction without permanent damage. But the ethics board won’t approve it. Cowards."

Changbin pauses in the doorway.

You don't even look up. "Also, your potted plant is dying. Again. I watered it for you. You’re welcome. God, do you ever hydrate anything?"

He stares at you. "How did you get in here?"

“I have a passcode,” you say sweetly, still not looking up. “You gave it to me. Remember? Post-bar-murder cuddle tea?”

He grits his teeth. “That wasn’t a cuddle, it was proximity-based grounding.”

“Sure,” you say, scrolling. “Anyway, I reorganized your research drive while I waited. You had like four folders labeled ‘fuckshitlater’ and one just called ‘bite?’ with a question mark. Are you okay.”

He groans. “No. No, I am not okay.”

“Because of the rogue vampire attack?” you ask, finally glancing up at him with infuriating innocence. “Or because of the whole soul resonance proto-bond imprinting duck-mode glow-surge sex-prophecy thing?”

He slams the door behind him. “WHO TOLD YOU?!”

You blink. “…Hyunjin texted me a duck emoji and then just, like, thirty fire emojis.”

“Of course he did.”

You fold your hands in your lap, lips twitching. “Soooo. Duck-boy.”

He glares. “Do not call me—”

You smile, absolutely evil. “Quackbin.”

He collapses into his desk chair with a groan like his soul is leaving his body. “I liked it better when you were scared of me.”

“No, you didn’t,” you say, voice soft now. “You liked it when I trusted you.”

That shuts him up.

For a moment, it’s quiet. Just the hum of your tablet and the static weight of your words in the air.

Then—

“I’m still not biting you,” he mutters.

You look at him over the top of your tablet. “Who said anything about biting?”

Silence. Too long. You go back to scribbling like you didn’t just send him into a silent breakdown spiral.

And Changbin's staring at you.

You’re not looking at him. Or rather—you refuse to look at him. Because the heat of his gaze is melting through your skull, and if you meet it, you will combust. Internally. Physically. Spiritually. Biblically.

So instead, you tap your stylus. Innocent. Unbothered. Professional.

“You reorganized my drive?” he asks, voice hoarse.

“Mmhmm.”

“And you saw the ‘bite?’ folder.”

“Mmhmm.”

Silence. Tension coiling like a wire between you.

“…You know,” he says, leaning back in his chair, voice low, rough, dangerous, “it’s really fucking hard to be a good man when you’re sitting on my couch like that, talking like you didn’t almost get mauled last night, glowing like you want me to finish what we started.”

Your stylus stills.

“I wasn’t glowing,” you whisper.

“Oh, sweetheart.” His voice drops a full octave. “You were fucking radiant.”

Your thighs press together instinctively. He notices.

His fangs throb behind his lips. His hand twitches. His desk creaks.

You should stop this. You should get up. Leave. Think. Anything.

Instead—

You slide your tablet to the side. Stand. Walk to his desk.

He watches every step. Like prey. Like worship.

“Binnie,” you murmur, placing your palms on the desk and leaning forward—into his space, into the flame, into him. “If you’re going to keep protecting me, maybe you should figure out what you’re protecting me from.”

His breath stutters.

And then—he’s up.

Chair shoved back. Hands on the desk. Caging you in. Not touching—but so close.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he growls.

“I’m not asking.”

Silence. Heavy. Electric.

Then—

“Last chance,” he whispers. “Tell me to stop.”

You tilt your chin up, lips parted. Eyes burning. “I dare you.”

He’s on you in a second.

Not kissing—consuming. Mouth crushing yours, hands still gripping the desk like they’re the only things keeping him from tearing the room apart. His teeth barely miss your lips. His growl vibrates straight through your chest.

You gasp. He shudders. Like that sound is his favorite drug.

One hand finally lifts—cups your jaw, thumb dragging along your cheek like you’re porcelain he’s terrified to break. Like he knows he will anyway.

“You’re mine,” he breathes against your mouth. “I didn’t even bite you and you’re—fuck—you’re already mine.”

Your hands fist in his shirt, yanking him closer. “So do it.”

“What?”

“Bite me.”

He stills. Completely. His pupils blow wide. The air between you crackles. “…You don’t know what that means,” he says. But his voice—his voice is wrecked. Strangled.

“Yes, I do.” You pull him down. “I’m not glowing because I’m scared, Binnie.”

And that’s all it takes. His lips crash back into yours.

He breaks from your mouth and growls, low and guttural against your throat.

“Tell me again,” he pants. “Tell me you want it.”

“I want it.”

“Louder.”

“I want it—” you gasp, and then—

He bites.

White-hot. Sacred. Feral. It’s not pain. It’s release. Your entire body arcs, grabbing at him, breathing him. He moans against your skin. Deep. Broken. “Oh, fuck—you're perfect—you were meant for me—”

You whimper and his hand’s already under your shirt. Already gripping your waist like he’s anchoring himself to the earth. He pulls back from your neck slowly, licking the blood, sealing the wound. His fangs glint in the light.

“You’re mine now,” he whispers, reverent. “Do you feel it?”

You do. Gods, you do. The pulse under your skin—matching his. “You feel it?” he whispers again. His breath ghosts across your lips. “Right here—” He presses his palm to your chest. “Right here where it started.”

You nod, dazed. Eyes wide. Glowing, just faintly, like your body can’t help but respond to his anymore.

And then—

He moves. Effortless. His arms sweep under your thighs and back in one motion, lifting you like you weigh nothing. Your tablet clatters to the floor, forgotten.

“Binnie—”

But you don’t get to finish. He's walking towards the couch where he sits—wide-legged, strong—on it like a throne. Settles you on his lap, thighs straddling his, your knees framing his hips.

You can feel him. Hard. Pulsing. Right there between your legs.

His hands grip your hips. Not pulling. Just holding. Like he still can’t believe you’re real.

“You sure?” he murmurs. “Because once we start—once I have you—I won’t stop at one night.”

You lean in. Press your forehead to his. Your breath fans his lips. “Then don’t.”

His resolve snaps.

The kiss is searing. Tongue, teeth, want. He’s everywhere, hands on your back, your thighs, under your shirt. Lifting it. Sliding it off. His mouth moves down your throat, tongue lapping over the healing bite mark like he needs it again.

“You smell like mine,” he groans. “You feel like mine.”

He lays you back across the couch. Kneels between your legs like he’s worshipping at an altar. Like his entire being has narrowed to you—the sound of your gasps, the curve of your waist, the way you already arch for him without shame.

He growls when his fingers fumble at the waistband of your pants. The fabric won’t budge fast enough, caught around your hips, and it tears a low, guttural curse out of him.

“Fucking—stupid—pants—” he snarls, tugging with enough force that the button snaps open, the zipper halfway down before his hands drag them down in one desperate, furious motion. “Why do you wear so many fucking layers, baby?”

You laugh—breathless, wrecked—until he leans down and bites the inside of your thigh. Not hard. Just enough to make your laugh stutter into a gasp.

“Not funny,” he mutters, voice dark, lips brushing your skin like a threat. “You don’t get to make jokes when I’m trying not to devour you.”

Your panties are next. Gone in one motion. He curses again when he sees the slick already glistening between your thighs.

“Oh fuck,” he breathes. “Look at you. You’re dripping."

You whimper. Arch. One hand threads into his hair, the other fisting the couch beneath you.

Changbin looks up—eyes glowing, fangs just barely showing. “Don’t worry, baby,” he purrs. “I’m about to ruin you.”

And then he lowers his mouth.

Tongue hot. Skilled. Starving.

He moans the second he tastes you—like it’s the first meal he’s had in a century—and you shatter against his mouth, hips bucking, body already twitching like he’s possessed you with just a single lick.

He groans again, deeper this time, as his tongue dips between your folds—slow, savoring, like he’s mapping every part of you. His grip on your thighs tightens, holding you open, steady, as he works you apart with practiced precision.

“God, you taste—” his voice is muffled, reverent, hungry. “Like I’ve been starving for this.”

You whimper, hands curling tighter into his hair, hips instinctively lifting toward his mouth. He groans in approval, dragging his tongue up again—slow, thick, unhurried. He lingers at your clit, teasing flicks that make your whole body jolt, then seals his lips around it and sucks.

Hard.

You cry out. He doesn’t stop. One hand slides up, spreads across your belly like he’s grounding you—his weight, his heat, his claim—and the other presses your thigh wider, deeper, closer to ruin.

The noises—his mouth, your breathless gasps, the wet drag of tongue and lips—are obscene. Worshipful. He eats like he’s praying with every lick, every suck, every growled “mine” that vibrates straight into your core.

Your body trembles.

You’re close. You know it. He knows it. And he doesn’t let up—just flattens his tongue and drags it over you again and again until your legs are shaking and your voice is breaking and—

“Binnie—fuck—I’m gonna—”

He growls into you, low and possessive, and that’s what sends you over. You come hard, bucking under his mouth, moaning his name like a chant, like a plea, like a promise.

He holds you through it, mouth still working you gently, easing you down from the high like he never wants to stop tasting you.

And when he finally lifts his head—face glistening, eyes blown wide, lips parted like he’s drunk on you—you don’t even get the chance to catch your breath.

Because he crawls up your body, slow and dangerous, voice a dark rasp in your ear:

“Next round,” he says, “I want to feel you clench around my fingers. Gotta stretch you out baby.”

You nod—barely a breath, barely a sound—and that’s all he needs.

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

His praise sparks something molten in your belly, your thighs already trembling as he kisses down your body again—slow now, like he’s savoring the aftershock. One hand strokes your inner thigh, the other cradles your hip, grounding you as his mouth ghosts over your navel.

“You’ve been holding back on me,” he says against your skin. “Didn’t know you could fall apart so sweet.”

You arch. Whimper. He grins, a little feral. A little in awe.

And then his fingers—warm, thick—slide between your folds.

You gasp.

“Still so wet,” he groans, like it physically affects him. “Fuck.”

The first finger eases in slowly, just enough to tease. He watches your face the whole time—like he’s cataloging every twitch, every flutter, every breathless moan. The second finger follows not long after, and you feel the stretch—tight, aching, divine.

“You’re already squeezing me,” he mutters. “God, you’re gonna feel so fucking good when I’m inside you.”

He moves them slow at first. Curling. Testing. Finding every spot that makes you jolt, your body clenching tighter with each drag of his fingers.

And then—he adds pressure. A twist. His thumb brushes just right and—

“Bin—!” you cry out, hips jerking.

“I know, baby,” he says, voice thick. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

His fingers keep working you open, steady, relentless, obscene in how perfectly they move inside you.

He grins—sharp, wicked, knowing exactly what he’s about to do. And you know it too. Because the moment his fingers thrust in again—deep, curling just right—he lowers his head back to your thigh.

Changbin sinks his fangs into your inner thigh.

The twin puncture stings for a moment—sharp, shocking—before it’s drowned out by the wave of heat that floods your body. Your hips buck against his hand, a broken moan tumbling from your lips as the blood rushes from the wound and straight to his mouth.

He groans. Loud. Filthy. Like the taste of you—your blood and your cunt and your ruin—is the single most divine thing he's ever known.

“Fuck, baby…” he pants into your skin, voice low, wrecked, drenched in hunger. “Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.”

And then—he starts drinking.

Slow pulls. Tongue lapping between sucks. All while his fingers keep fucking into you, faster now—deeper, harsher, relentless.

The pain and pleasure twist together—searing heat in your thigh, soaked heat between your legs—and it’s too much. Your body starts to shake, your hands scrambling for anything—his shoulder, the couch, his wrist, his hair—just to anchor yourself.

He doesn’t stop. He won’t stop.

“You were made for this,” he growls, lifting his head from your thigh, blood-streaked lips glistening. His fangs flash in the low light, eyes burning. “Made to bleed for me, to cum on my fingers, to take every fucking drop of what I give you.”

Your walls pulse around him as if to answer. And fuck, he feels it. “Oh, you liked that, huh?” he laughs, dark and breathless.

Your name leaves his lips like a prayer and a promise all at once—then he leans back down, licking the bite to soothe it, even as his fingers slam harder inside you.

His thumb circles your clit—rough now, merciless—until you’re sobbing his name, thighs trembling, your body a livewire of heat and overstimulation.

“Give it to me again,” he whispers, mouth brushing your thigh, his voice soaked in greed. “Cum for me while I’m still inside you—fuck, baby, cum while I’ve still got your blood on my tongue.”

You break.

With a strangled cry and your back arching clean off the couch, you cum—again—clenching so tight around his fingers he has to curse, biting back a groan as he feels you pulse around him.

He keeps fucking his fingers into your cunt, slowly, riding out the waves of your orgasm before pulling his fingers out slow—wet, shining, ruined—and licking them clean.

Every drop. Every flick of tongue. Like it’s the only meal he’ll ever need.

“Still hungry, baby. Don’t think I’m done yet.”

Your thighs are still trembling, overstimmed and slick, body twitching from aftershocks when you feel the shift—Changbin rising above you, the heat of him crowding close.

He’s panting, flushed, eyes blown wide with hunger as he shoves his sweats down in one desperate motion.

And when his cock springs free—thick, flushed dark, glistening at the tip with pre-cum—your breath catches.

“Oh my god—” you whimper, voice cracking, eyes locked on the size of him. “Binnie, I… that’s not gonna—there’s no way you’re gonna fit—”

He grins.

That grin. The one that splits his face in half. Filthy. Cocky. Dangerous. The one that says: he knew you’d say that.

“Why do you think,” he growls, sliding one hand down your thigh again, fingertips brushing your soaked pussy with reverence, “I made you cum twice on my mouth and fingers first?”

He leans in—grinding his cock just barely against your slick folds, dragging the tip through the mess he made of you. You twitch, hips jumping, a sobbed gasp tearing from your throat.

“I had to get you ready, baby,” he whispers in your ear, voice molten. “Had to soften you up. Make you all loose and wet and perfect.”

You whine. Beg. Legs spread wide, fingers digging into his back, helpless and aching and needy.

“I—Binnie, please, please—”

He shudders at your tone. Cock twitches against your slit, smearing more of his precum along your folds.

“Oh, look at you,” he breathes, licking into your open mouth like he owns it. “Begging so sweet, baby. So fucking desperate.”

His cock nudges at your entrance—just barely—and your whole body arches like a live wire.

“You want me to ruin this little cunt, yeah?” he asks, dragging his tip against your slit again, teasing, leaking, cruel. “Wanna feel me stretch you open? Fill you up?”

You nod, babbling now. “Yes—yes, Binnie, please, I want it, I want you—”

“Then take a breath,” he grunts, lining himself up. “Gonna give it to you slow, baby. Gotta feel every inch.”

And fuck—

The stretch. The burn.

His cock presses in, just the tip, and already your mouth falls open, head tipping back against the cushions with a broken moan. He watches your face. Watches the way your lips part, your lashes flutter, your fingers claw into his arms like he’s too much—

But you’re still taking it. Bit by bit. Inch by aching inch.

“That’s it,” he whispers, awed, watching you swallow him whole. “That’s my good girl. So tight, baby, fuck—”

Your cunt grips him like a vice, soaked and fluttering around his cock, and he has to stop—just for a second—jaw clenched, breath punched from his lungs.

“Jesus fuck,” he hisses. “You’re gonna make me lose it.”

He’s only halfway in.

And already—already—your walls are clenching around him like they can’t let go, like your body’s trying to pull him in deeper even as it struggles to take him.

Changbin groans—low, guttural—like it’s tearing through his chest. His hips twitch forward another inch, and you choke on a moan, body arching, back scraping against the cushions.

“Fuck, baby…” he pants, stilling there, halfway buried inside you. His eyes drag up your body, drinking in every inch like he’s starved for the sight. “You look so—fucking—good.”

His hand comes up slowly, fingers tracing your jaw, thumb brushing your parted lips. And then—

He wraps it around your throat. “Look at you,” he mutters, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. “Cock halfway in and already losing your mind.”

Your eyes flutter. A soft, wrecked sound leaves your throat. You try to move—hips tilting up, desperate to take more—but his hand around your neck tightens.

Still.

“You gonna let me in, baby?” he whispers, voice dripping with sin. “You gonna take the rest? Let me ruin you properly?”

You nod, barely able to breathe now. Lips parting around a gasp, fingers gripping his forearms like please, please, please—

And then—

He snaps his hips forward. All at once. To the hilt.

You scream. Your body arches, eyes rolling, cunt spasming around him so tight he growls, low and vicious, fangs flashing.

“Fuck— that’s it.” he bites out, hand still firm around your throat, pinning you.

You can’t speak. You can barely breathe. All you can feel is the burn, the stretch, the fullness—his cock buried so deep it feels like he’s rearranging you, like he’s claiming places no one’s ever touched.

He holds still, grinding just enough to make you cry out again, your whole body twitching under his.

“So tight,” he breathes, voice full of dark reverence. “So warm. You were made for me.”

His hand loosens, just a little—enough to let you suck in air, enough to let the tears gather in your lashes. And then his other hand finds your waist, gripping it hard.

“Now hold on, baby,” he rasps. “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t say anything but my name.” And the second your breath stutters under his hand—eyes dazed, lips red and kiss-swollen—Changbin snaps.

He pulls back just enough to feel the drag of your walls around him—tight, fluttering, soaked—and then he slams forward.

Hard.

You cry out, choked by his grip, back arching, legs trembling where they’re spread wide beneath him.

And then he does it again. And again. And again.

His pace is brutal—merciless—hips snapping into you with the force of someone barely holding on, cock pistoning deep with each thrust. You’re wrecked, voice gone to gasps and sobs, hands clawing at his back like you don’t know whether to pull him closer or push him away.

“Fuck, listen to you,” he groans, mouth right at your ear now, voice dark silk. “Whimpering like a little bitch every time I fuck into you.”

He grinds down between thrusts, making sure you feel him—every vein, every inch, every filthy promise his cock is making inside your cunt.

You sob his name, barely a sound—“B-Bin—”

His hand tightens around your throat. Your walls clench, pulsing, fluttering around him. “That’s it,” he whispers against your throat, and then—wet, open-mouthed kisses.

He devours the side of your neck—tongue dragging over skin, lips sucking marks into the curve of your throat, his fangs grazing every so often like he’s teasing the idea of biting again.

“God, you feel so fucking good.” he pants into your skin, hips hammering into you.

His free hand grabs under your knee, yanks your leg up over his hip, angle shifting—

And fuck—

He hits that spot. Again. And again. And again—

“Bin—please, I—!”

“Oh? Gonna cry for me?” he taunts, tongue licking over a fresh bruise blooming on your neck. “Go ahead. Cry while I fuck you dumb.”

Your whole body’s shaking, throat going raw from the sounds he’s dragging out of you. You’re gasping around his grip, every thrust shoving the air right back out again.

“Gonna fill this pussy up,” he groans. “Breed you like you were meant for it.”

Your moan—sharp, cracked, desperate—makes his thrusts get rougher.

The couch creaks. Your skin slaps against his. The room is full of nothing but obscene, messy, feral sounds. And when your body finally breaks, cunt spasming hard around his cock, stars bursting behind your eyes—he feels it.

He growls, deep in your throat. “Oh you’re cumming? Fuck, that’s it, squeeze my cock—take it—fucking take it, baby—”

Your orgasm crashes into you with devastating force. Your vision blurs, body going taut, your scream caught beneath his hand around your throat as your cunt clenches hard around him—tight, pulsing, desperate.

Changbin snaps.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck, that’s it, baby—”

His hips stutter, rhythm breaking as your walls milk him, suck him in deeper, tighter—your whole body shaking beneath him, back arched like you’ve forgotten how to breathe. His fangs flashing as he drives into you, cock twitching with every thrust.

And then—he cums. Hot. Deep. Endless. He growls, low and filthy, his whole body curling over you like a beast as his cock jerks inside you, painting your insides with thick, pulsing ropes of cum.

You moan—wrecked, breathless, barely conscious—feeling every pulse, every spurt. But he doesn’t pull out. Not yet. Instead, he rocks into you again—slow now, but deep—like he’s riding out the high, dragging both of you through the aftershocks together.

“Still twitching, baby,” he murmurs, voice rough silk, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your throat. His hand releases your neck—just enough to let you breathe, to suck in broken, wet gasps between sobs and moans.

“You feel that?” he whispers, cock still moving inside you, slow and obscene. “Feel how fucking full you are? God, you’re leaking already.”

You whimper, helpless, every inch of your body undone, trembling as he thrusts once—twice—just enough to push his cum deeper.

“Just a little more,” he breathes. “Let me have a few more, baby. You can take it. You’re being so fucking good.”

And fuck, you do.

You let him roll his hips, dragging his cock through your oversensitive cunt, both of you panting, covered in sweat and come and the kind of pleasure that breaks people.

Each stroke slow, reverent, dragging you both through the final waves of high until you’re trembling and gasping his name like it’s the only word left in your vocabulary.

And finally—finally—he stills.

His forehead drops to yours, eyes closed, chest heaving. His cock rests deep inside you, twitching once more before it settles, his cum slowly seeping out around him.

He kisses you—soft now, messy and lingering before pulling back. His breath evening out before yours does. You’re still trembling—body slick, wrecked, stuffed full and stretched wide, lips kiss-bruised and pulse still fluttering where he bit you. But it’s the way he holds you afterward that undoes you completely.

His nose nudges yours. “Hey,” he whispers. “You okay?”

You nod—barely. He shifts just enough to cradle your face in his hand, thumb brushing your cheek. “I need words, sweetheart.”

Your voice comes out cracked. “I’m okay. I’m… more than okay.”

His eyes search yours. Devour you, even now—but it’s not hunger anymore. Not like before. It’s reverence. Wonder. Like he still can’t believe he gets to touch you, much less have you.

He presses a kiss to your forehead. Then your temple. Then down the bridge of your nose like he’s mapping your whole face in devotion. “You didn’t just let me feed,” he murmurs. “You gave. That’s…”

He swallows hard. “That means something.”

You blink up at him. “I know.”

And that’s when it hits him. The weight of what just happened. What he is to you now. What you are to him.

“Come here,” he whispers, voice gone hoarse. He pulls out slowly, careful like he’s afraid he might hurt you, and you whimper at the loss—already aching. He hushes you instantly, curling you into his chest, one hand gripping your thigh.

He kisses the bite mark on your neck like an apology.

You're still tucked in his lap, legs draped over his thighs, your body humming from every place he’s touched you. There’s a strange quiet between you now—intimate, heavy, not uncomfortable. Just full. Like something sacred has been spoken without words.

“Mine,” he murmurs again against your skin, soft this time, like a prayer.

And then the office door opens.

“Hyung, I need to talk to you about the security issue at the northern—”

Jeongin freezes. Absolutely freezes. His eyes go wide.

He sees your shirtless body curled into Changbin’s chest, the half-buttoned shirt hanging off Changbin’s shoulders, the damp marks on his throat, your thighs, everything.

He turns. Immediately.

“NOPE. NOPE. NOT AGAIN. WHAT THE ACTUAL—”

“Jeongin,” Changbin tries.

Jeongin throws a hand in the air, walking backwards out the door like he’s warding off a vampire exorcism. “DON’T EVEN. I SWEAR TO GOD.”

You choke on a laugh and bury your face in Changbin’s chest. He groans.

Jeongin’s voice echoes from the hallway. “YOU WERE THE SANE ONE, HYUNG. THE ONLY ONE. WHAT IS THIS—CHAN HYUNG 2.0??? I NEED A VACATION. I’M BOOKING A FLIGHT TO MALTA. FUCK YOU. FUCK THIS WHOLE COURT.”

Seungmin’s voice drifts in from further down the hall. “You’re not going anywhere, Jeongin.”

“I DESERVE PEACE!”

“No one told you to barge into Changbin’s office without knocking.”

“I KNOCKED! I ALWAYS KNOCK! THEY NEVER LISTEN!”

You’re trembling with laughter now. Changbin sighs and kisses your temple. “We might’ve... soundproofed the room.”

Jeongin’s distant shriek: “SEUNGMIN LET ME TAKE A SINGLE DAY OFF—”

“No.”

“WHY IS THIS A SEXUAL COURT NOW? IT USED TO BE BLOOD AND BUSINESS AND NOW IT’S BITE MARKS AND BONDING—”

You finally break, giggling uncontrollably against Changbin’s chest. He just groans and hugs you tighter.

“…He’s never gonna let this go,” you murmur.

“Nope.”

“…Should we lock the door?”

“We’re soundproofed, baby. We don’t need to lock shit.”

You glance up at him. He smirks.

🏷️ taglist: @cybergracie , @jupitermarss , @basicginn , @dhvnigvil , @emkvlixsx , @collin-thegreat , @somuchpanicverylittledisco , @yourfavoriteakutagawakinnie

[bluetimeombre]

: ̗̀➛ Call it what you want to

You're an up-coming star, staring in some hit movies like Hunger games Ballad of songbirds and snakes and now Wonka, along the Timothee Chalamet.

[i'm obsessed with my man and just need to ignore the fact he's dating someone that isn't me. anyway, you're an up-coming actress who stared in the new hunger games movie and now you're also staring in wonka, the people love you and maybe, so does a co-star of yours] not proof read. this was very fun to write so maybe i'll do more, if anyone likes it. or just for me

_________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐

liked by... tayrussell, joshandresrivera, tomblyth, sadiesink_, tchalamet & others

yourusername: wonka press tour starts now!

809k likes. 304k comments

user: wait, you're in wonka?!

user: I LOVE YOU!!

user: mother giving us content, as always

tchalamet: now you've posted can you come up and help me

yourusername: no

tchalamet: pls!!!

user: omg she really said no to timothee chalamet, who does she thin she is?

user: slayyyy

user: isn't wonka supposed to suck

tomblyth: from one press tour to another, i see

yourusername: girls got to earn a living

tomblyth: she doesn't let the grass grow

user: say hi to timothee for me!!!!

user: omg how is she getting all the hottest guys in hollywood rn? gurl leave some for us

wonkamovie: 😍😍

balladofsongbirdsandsnakes: 😍😍😍

_________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐

you were flicking through comments by your friends when your phone started to ring, the familiar picture of your co-star flicking up on your phone. quickly, you dimissed yourself from your assistant and took the call. 'yes?'

'I need your help.'

'Timothee, you're old enough to zip up your own jacket,' you tease, leaning on the wall.

'I don't know what jumper to wear, what are you wearing? we'll coordinate.'

you'd opted for something of your own style. a jumper with pinks and blues and a white flowering skirt with a ring almost on every finger. this was only your second big press tour and sitting next to timothee chalamet every day for it was enough to make you nervous. so nervous you woke every morning wondering if you'd throw up. it didn't help you were also surrounded by others you'd looked up to, like olivia coleman and hugh grant. how were you supposed to keep your cool for months. even if now you were considered just as big a star.

'don't you have a stylist for this?' you ask, looking at the crew around, ready to go but waiting for him.

'there's three options and i don't know which one to go for. can't you just come up.'

you could, sure. go to timothee's hotel room and see him probably shirtless. once you'd have dreamt of it, but things were different, now you just didn't have a silly celebrity crush. now he was your co-star and very off limits.

'option two now come on, please.' quickly, you end the call and pick up your coffee, heading to the room where you'd be sat for the next eight hours answering questions with timothee.

you were there first, shaking hands with the interviewer and introducing yourself to her. you took your seat, making little chatter before timothee chalamet walked in, calm, cool and collected. completely different to your flushed and smiling expression.

you watched as he quickly said hello to everyone in the room and greeted the lady who'd be conducting the interview.

timothee turned to you, arms out wide and waiting. laughing, you put your coffee down and stood up, giving him a hug. you shared small pleasantries before he took his seat next to you, shuffling around and settling in. only then did you realise how much your jumpers looked the same, both smudges of similar colours. you blushed more as timothee watched, silently wondering what could make you so red. as if he had no idea what he did to you just by sitting down next to him.

'I have had scrub scrub stuck in my head since seeing the movie,' she- charline, said as you and timothee laugh. 'do you guys have a favourite song you got to perform?'

'I mean, pure imagination was quite a surreal experience. you know, getting to sing something that was so ... iconic, it was-it was a lot of fun. and a lot of pressure, but, in a good way,' said timothee.

'you killed it,' you assure, casually.

'thank you,' he smiled.

'i really enjoyed you've never had chocolate like this number. that was just so fun, the dancing and all,' you say, timothee nodding and agreeing.

'for a moment was fun to, i guess,' added timothee. 'we got to dance.'

you grin at the memory. 'we did.' you remembered the a million takes, timothee singing practically to you while prancing around. it was your favourite scene to shoot because it was such an easy and happy scene. you didn't have to think about it, just held timmy's hand as he twirled you around the place.

'and i know we're here to talk about wonka but i just have to say-' she gestured to you, 'congratulations on hunger games, biggest movie in the world.'

you wave her off, thanking her as timmy claps for you. 'thank you, thank you.'

'i was wondering what was your favourite song to film there on that set and how does it compare to singing on this one.'

ranting about yourself or your achievements was always hard for you. your stardom and come so quickly with hunger games and wonka, so much so you felt like you didn't deserve half of it.

'i mean, for hunger games it was all live. i sang them there and then so that's daunting in itself, um. i loved filming pure as the driven snow, just because i got to- essentially- sing it to tom. it was just him and me and the crew, like for those shots there was no extra's so that was great fun. a special moment. and singing it to him made it a whole lot easier. whereas on this movie, luckily it was all like pre-recorded so, not so daunting. didn't have to sing in front of timothee chalamet,' you say.

he listened carefully to you, seeing your smile at mentioning tom blyth, your co-star from the hunger games. he'd never met the guy, he was probably lovely- from the amount you talked about him. 'you've got a great singing voice.'

'thanks man.'

'this cast is just so insane and obviously you two got close during filming,' says charline, gesturing to the two of you.

timothee nudged you with his head, like he'd done a thousand times before knowing how much you secretly loved it. just like a horse, as had been quoted.

'who's more british, olivia or hugh?'

'hugh, easily,' you say. you loved all of hugh's movies, but you'd never say that to his face.

'you know, i'm gonna go and say you,' says timothee, turning to you.

you drop you jaw, pointing to yourself. yes, you were british, but more so than than the hugh grant seemed impossible. 'me?'

'yea, i mean, hugh grant is like a walking union jack- and i mean that in the best way possible, but you seem so much more like british. you know, wicked sense of humor and the charm and- you love london,' he pointed out.

'i do love london,' you agreed.

'did you have fun filming in england, timothee?' she asked.

they want on and on to talk about filming the movie, answering questions in depth and it was sure the two of you had great answers, listening intently together and everyone could tell. your chemistry was there, your smiles and answers together were almost so perfect it was like it was practiced and the fans ate it up!

_________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐

liked by... zendaya, mtv, kyliejenner, yourusername, wbpictures & others

tchamalmet: WONKA!!! coming soon

tagged: yourusername

1.1m likes, 609k comments

user: he posted! he posted!

user: we are getting FED

user: i just know this is all yourusername influence

user: not kylie liking...

user: statistics! statistics!

liked by yourusername

yourusername: bring back little timmy tim!

yourusername: out of all the pictures you chose that one

user: anyone else think her and timmy are getting too close

user: like fr she stealin my man

user: i love them!!!

user: i swear something is going on with her and tom blyth

user: she's just like us!

user: LOVE!!!!!

user: her and timmy >>> him and kylie

user: plssss, i love kylie

user: is wonka a musical

user: TIMMY I WANT TO HAVE YOUR CHILDREN!!!

user: fave bob dylan song?

_________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐

liked by... tomblyth, rachelzeglar, tchalamet, hunterschafer, zendaya & others

yourusername: ballad of song birds and snakes is number one movie? more like i'm the number one most grateful person out there for this chance and being trusted with my girl lucy-grey!!! thank you, thank you, thank you!!

tagged: tomblyth

1m likes 477k comments

tomblyth: lots of love my dear !

user: pls the second picture was so unncesary she just wanted to post it

user: MOTHER

user: parents are parenting

user: I LOVED THIS FILM

user: tom blyth is honestly so hot like wtf

rachelzeglar: my luv <3

yourusername: omg my gf everybody!!!!

joshandresrivera: funny how you don't post a picture of me

yourusername: it's funny because i don't like you

joshandresrivera: tomblyth you gonna let her talk to me like that??

tomblyth: she's the boss

user: how is she so amazing in everything

user: wonder how she got this job? she's literally as plain as a plank

user: hi!

user: the film was insane, i'm obsessed

user: i need this film injected into my veins

user: she's so good at singing, get her on broadway!!!

tchalamet: very proud

yourusername liked tchalamet's comment

user: why would you post the second pic unless they're clearly dating

_________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐

user: pls why do i ship them so hard!!

user: lol it looks like he's just refusing to answer questions without her

user: is nobody gonna talk about how they were basically wearing the same jumpers?

user: no because i thought the exact same thing

user: someone pointed it out in an interview and timothee said it was 100% planned, they're so cute

user: doesn't he have a girlfriend?

user: isn't she with tom blyth? they look like they're together?

user: they haven't confirmed it

user: they don't need to did you see her post on instagram?! it was all just him

user: no but the way she's just constantly blushing around him

user: so would you if you were sat next to the timothee chalamet

[rkiveinmarvel]

pixie dust - joaquin torres des. joaquin is your back seater; partner; friend; maybe lover? yes, lover. air force! reader notes. this is fluffy story about our pretty boy! major ca:bravenewworld spoilers! sam and bucky being older brother vibes, brief mention of injuries, just fluff, teasing, and funny moments falling for our falcon. also inaccurate bnw timeline!!

hi! this is supposed to be a crack fic but i can't help but more background; the roles i used for the characters are from top gun (yes, that's what i referenced) this is essentially you selling joaquin's suit after what happened during the brave new world --- he is so fun! (i <3 u danny ramirez)

w.c: 1.6k

Joaquin Torres, is a man with many words and has a lot of dreams. Being part of the Air Force, being a Falcon, being part of Avengers, and being useful to everyone — especially, you. Torres met you upon being part of the Air Force, he was your backseater and your second eyes. Essentially, he would show you respect, but it doubled when you introduced him to Sam Wilson. The thing is you knew Sam, hell, you knew the Avengers; therefore in Joaquin’s doctrine, you’re also an Avenger. That’s why he needs to be useful to you and to impress you.

He knew you were strict, you commanded the air with such power and control, so, he was more than thankful that you introduced him to Sam because that simply means you trusted him but nothing prepared him upon seeing you outside of air force uniform, how casual you talk and tease Sam and Bucky, nothing prepared him for it.

While a lot of cadets hoped to have a good shot with you, you were teasing Bucky like there’s no tomorrow, you’re textpals with the hawkeye, and Sam is simply not Captain America to you, to you, he’s just Sam. It surprised him—especially, the time where you laughed at his joke while Sam was discussing a mission about the flag smashers or the time where Bucky jumped out of the place to help Sam chase flag smashers causing him to crash.

“I bet your ass, Bucky would’ve been dead if it wasn’t for the serum.” You rolled your eyes in chuckle as you two saw Bucky screaming as he fell down the plane and Red Wing following him. “Loosen up, Torres. I’m not in a position to say something in order. You’re an equal, during this time, and by the way, your shoelace is untied.”

For a man with many words, he lost some that time. 

Honestly, being the Falcon is a lot harder than he expected to be, he asked Sam and he asked the internet how to fill the step the Sam’s falcon left — so, when Sam trained him, he can’t help but burn himself to be the best version; for someone, who commanded respect and build position as front seat, you were there to support your back seater. 

“Torres, take a break. No Falcon can have a flight with shit energy.” As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, he likes your company—no, he likes you. His front seater, the pilot, and the Avenger* (he considers that you are one) in no defense or complaint he did take a break, as you gave him your assessment, he just stared at you and nodded absentmindedly.

He wanted to be yours and for someone who dreamt of becoming useful to everyone—his priority was you. He wanted to be seen, acknowledged by you. After two years of training to become the Falcon, he finally did—he hopes the Red Hulk issue would be the break he has and he will ask you out after him and Sam figure it out.

So, here you are now with him in Captain America’s base as you stitch the wound that Sam had gotten after his brief encounter with the sidewinder. As Sam shares his plan, Joaquin is already packing his stuff and ready to back him up. You didn't like that: not because you don’t trust the two capabilities but because you’re not gonna be able to help this time, due to the fact that you’re with Bucky’s campaign. So, when Sam got the stitches he needed, he packed as you talked to Torres.

“Hey, Torres.” He looked up at you. “Yeah?”

“You gonna back him up? You sure? Isaiah barely trained you, you sure you can han—”

“Okay, I know you said I’m barely getting used to the suit but Sam needs me, don’t worry too much, you should worry about your congressman, I saw his pictures, he looks stressed.” He yaps but he stopped when he saw the worry in your eyes. 

Here’s the thing, you know Torres likes you and you hoped that he knows that you feel the same way too, yet neither the two of you do something about it—for another, Torres saw you as his superior that he needs to prove something while you, on the other hand, don’t want to push Torres fast, wait for him to figure it out. But in moments like this, a conversation should be present some other time.

“What? You’re really that worried?” He asked softly.

“If I say yes would you still leave?” 

“...Depends.” You sighed at his response, you can’t blame him—he wants to prove Sam that he is ready, he wants to prove to you he can protect you too. That despite him being a back seater in a jet—he’s all front to you now. But all you replied: “You do know, Sam had faced this shit before and you don’t have the super serum like Walker or Bucky…”

Neither of you don’t confirm or deny the feelings you two have but moments like this, the verbal and nonverbal cues you two have—is something so bright and noticeable.

“I’ll come back. Okay?” There he said it—an assurance that he will come back, he will be okay, he will be fine; in that moment, you just nodded. “You better. It’s gonna suck if Lucas gonna replace you as my backseater.” No, it’s more like please be safe and come back, I want you back and no one else. It’s unnoticed but you both knew it. It’s more than the partners in jet, yes, it’s definitely more than that.

Bucky is taking a break upon shaking hands with people whom he will never remember their names, sooner or later—but nothing prepared him seeing you all panicked as you told him the situation that Sam and Torres faced. He knows something is up with you and Torres so, he knew he had to check on Sam too.

“Hey, we’re gonna check on them.” He simply offered a little comfort as you two entered the car. You just nodded as you recalled the news and information you received about what happened. “You can stay. Don’t worry about the campaign. I’ll call if I need something.”

“Buck, you barely call Sam.”

“....No, trust me. I’ll call if I need something.” He smiled awkwardly.

As you two enter the private room, Sam and Bucky share a hug and include you; after their little talk, you were left behind. “I’m sorry I couldn’t keep your boy safe.” You had chuckled at Sam’s words. 

“Well, if you didn’t. He wouldn’t be here, Cap.” Sam smiled and nodded as you two watched Joaquin get operated on. “You’re listening too much to Bucky's PR Team.” He added, as you scoff in laughter. “It’s kinda useful.”

After two weeks of Sam solving the Red Hulk case, you sit on the sofa of Captain America’s headquarters as you scroll the news release about Sam’s success and Bucky’s candidacy, as you were about to get water—the hospital called, that he is awake. You, Isaiah, and Sam drove to the hospital, as Isaiah gave flowers, Sam gave him some pep talk then finally, you.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” You both had said at the same time, the moment you entered his room. He had this look on his face where he looks in pain yet sometimes relief while yours is mixed with disappointment and relief. You walked closer to him, as you wanted to tell him a lot of things but all of them got burned as he simply said. “I am okay.”

In that you felt yourself so small, the rank and the stripes you had suddenly slipped away from you. Here, you’re just a person—being vulnerable, he was okay and he was alive. In a brief moment, Joaquin chuckled, as you sat on the chair and held his hand: it was warm.

“Couldn’t let Lucas have my seat behind you.” He said, in that you had chuckled, he’s back—Joaquin is back, he’s okay.

“I thought I lost you.” You had whispered. Joaquin nodded as he held your hand that was on his. “I wouldn’t let that happen, not when I know Lucas is waiting to get a seat behind you, not when I haven’t bought you my favorite empanadas, and not when I haven’t made you my girl and introduce you to my mama.”

The beeping of the machine that supported his recovery remained in silence as he said those words, he shot his chance as you smiled. “Figures.” You shortly replied, as he smiled. “I like you.” You see this happening but in a different setting, like a date, but here you are, he is recovering—admitting he likes you while you can’t help but worry more.

You both chuckle as you bring his hand to your lips as you kiss it. “Well, you better recover fast, take me out on a date to those empanadas you like and maybe introduce me to your mama.” In that Joaquin nodded. “Can we use my suit to carry you to the house? Or the restaurant? I bet we’ll look badass.”

“Yeah, about that.” He glanced at you. “I sold the suit. We need it for the hospital bills.”

“What do you mean?” Of course, you didn’t. You and Sam just agreed he’s not allowed to use it for a while. “Well, you need to recover first, Joaquin.”

“Yeah, but how will we help Sa–”

He was cutted off when you kissed him so, shortly—leaving a stupid smile on his lips and blushing ears. 

“Recover first and maybe if Sam needs some help from you. We can use Pixie Dust instead.” In the stillness of the vicinity of him and you, he had smiled. Finally, something real. 

For almost half a minute he spoke again: “You didn’t actually sell my suit, right?” You laughed. “Of course, I didn’t. Falcon shall rise again.” “You sound like Sam.” “Well, he has an amazing commentary, so, why not.” You two smiled at each other as he smiled—“I’m glad to be back, mi vida.” 

wow new post, i am rushing ⚘ masterlist 1 | 2 | 3 ₊˚⊹♡ taglist: @yesiamthatwierd, @bitchimasnake-sss, @cjand10, @reemoony, @vibraniumqueen

[takenbypeter]

My Blond Pretty Princess

Benjamin Poindexter x reader

Words: 595

A/N: got this after someone commented that Dex was their blond pretty princess in one of my posts and idk if they wanna be tagged but I thought it was adorable to call him that

Did Dex love the idea of you going with your friends to a club all by yourself? No. But did he know that it would be wrong to do anything to stop you? Yes. And while his original plan was to go with you, (just to make sure you were safe), work had to thwart his way. Fortunately he had just about finished up when his phone rang. 

Your contact photo filled his screen and he paused instantly thinking the worst. Without getting too ahead of himself he picked up the phone, hearing the sound of muffled music and cars in the background. Then came your voice, “Dex!” He moved away from his phone as you practically shouted in his ear. “I miss you! I’m not having any fun without you!” 

Dex’s smile grew crooked as he relished in the fact that you wanted him there. Someone missed him. And not just someone. You. “Are you still there?”

“I’m sitting outside on the curb.” 

“I’ll be there soon,” is all he said before he took off. It didn’t take long for Dex to reach you. And as soon as he pulled up sure enough there you were perched on the curb. 

Putting the car hazard lights on he got out and opened the passenger side before kneeling to your side. 

“Hey,” he said and your head slowly turned towards him. Your eyes widened in excitement at the sight of Dex as a smile spread along your face. “Hey.”

“Are you okay? Can you stand?”

You nodded, your head began to feel heavy while you started to push yourself up off the ground. “I’m only a tiny bit tipsy but I’m fine.” Is what you said but your swaying movements that prompted him to grab your waist, proved otherwise. 

With one hand around you he walks you to the car and gently sat you in the passenger seat. Only after making sure all your limbs were inside, he shut the door then joined on the other side. 

The car ride home was surprisingly quiet on your end. In fact Dex was the one pulling the conversation from you. 

“Did you have fun?” The question was genuine. 

You shrugged, your eyes closed while your head lay against the headrest. “It was alright at first but then it just got boring, and then some people tried to join our group but I wasn’t really about that. I didn’t really want to be there with anyone except you.”

Dex’s cheeks rose at knowing that you felt the way he constantly felt. You fell quiet again but he noticed your head turn to his direction. 

He kept his eyes on the road in front but could see you staring at him from his peripheral. 

“What is it?”

“Do you know you’re my pretty princess?”

Dex tried his best to contain his laugh but your slurred words genuinely caught him off guard. 

“I thought I was a knight in shining armor.”

“Sometimes but you’re my princess…you know why?” You waste no time in sharing the answer with him. “Cause a princess protects her kingdom and keeps it in order. She helps her people but she also needs help from a knight. That’s just like you. You protect me but sometimes you need help too.”

“So does that make you the knight?”

“Absolutely,” your word drifted off as you faced forward again and rested your head back as sleep was beginning to catch up with you. 

“My blond pretty princess,” were your last words as you drifted off into la la land. 

[star-girl69]

I Did Something Bad

Clarisse La Rue x Fem!Demigod!Reader

—-

synopsis: you somehow become the target of a deadly vendetta, and it ends in an overnight stay in the infirmary, a lot of blood, and a lot of your scary girlfriend being her scary self.

a/n: save me clarisse “touch her and die” la rue save me save me save me save me save me save me… this is a completely self indulgent fic and no i will not apologize. love y’all!!!!!

inspired by an ask @nvirskies sent me

I Did Something Bad - Taylor Swift

warnings: not proofread, VERY VIOLENT AND GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF Y/N GETTING INJURED!!!!! BLOOD!!!!! WOUNDS!!!!! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED, anyways…. DANNNNNYYYYYY MY BABY!!!!! HES BACK!!!!!, ares cabin bonding time <3, FOUND FAMILY, y/n is crazy too, insane power couple who are insane together!!, y’all know what’s going on…… protective clarisse, possessive clarisse, insane clarisse, murderous clarisse, again clarisse gets a bit too into capture the flag, swearing, attempted murder!, LOTS of violence, kissing, clarisse hates talking about her feelings but she will do it for y/n, tell me if i missed anything!!

—-

Clarisse loves capture the flag.

It’s the one place where she really gets to be in her element. That’s where she prefers to be- in the moment, hard and fast, a flurry of swords and adrenaline and the feeling of someone surrendering.

Of course, Clarisse is never the one surrendering. You don’t think you’ve ever seen someone surrender to her.

Clarisse loves capture the flag.

And that love is also shared by her equally violently-minded siblings, which is why you’re sitting on her lap in the middle of the Ares cabin, listening to everyone scream and shout about tactics and plans and things that are just general boring.

Clarisse, of course, listens to everything. Silently humming to herself, drumming her fingers against your stomach, rolling her eyes and scoffing silently at some of her siblings ideas.

They all shout out ideas, but everyone knows that Clarisse has the final say.

You should probably be preparing with your own cabin- but this is just so much fun.

The tension in the room rises significantly after Nelson shuts down another one of Carrie’s ideas. Carrie has a mind made for the strategy of battle, where Nelson is all tough war and pain.

Clarisse likes to brag that she’s the perfect mix of both.

“I’m bored,” you huff, leaning back into your girlfriend. “Can they start punching each other again? Or something entertaining?”

She laughs and wraps her arms around your waist, kissing your shoulder. “You’re so violent,” she mumbles. “I’m supposed to be the violent one.”

“I jus’ think it’s really funny,” you shrug. “Like, can you blame me? It’s objectively funny.”

Danny, your favorite of Clarisse’s siblings, skitters through his older siblings and throws himself onto the couch next to you.

“Did they start fighting yet?” he asks, practically bouncing in his seat.

“No,” you sigh, dramatically.

Clarisse puts her arm around his shoulder, and you know she feels ridiculously proud over the fact that she’s the favorite of the most lovable member of the Ares cabin, and the fact you’re literally draped over her.

Not your fault she’s so comfy.

“Hey, how you feelin’ about tomorrow?” you ask Danny.

His face hardens. “I’m gonna fuck a bitch up.”

“Oh, my Gods,” you mutter, listening to Clarisse chuckle and pat his back.

“Hell yeah,” she smiles.

“Good!” you say after a second, feeling slightly disturbed over the 11 year-old’s colorful language. But, who are you to stop him?

Clarisse sighs after a moment, and you look up to see Carrie and Nelson finally at each other’s throats. Besides for the fact it’s just so funny when the siblings fight, they should get all of the anger out now so they can work as a team tomorrow.

“Well, no, Nelson, we aren’t gonna fucking ‘kill them with kindness,’ because that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Hey, fuckers,” Clarisse says, but they’re too absorbed in the fight to hear her.

You scramble off of her, climbing over Danny, watching in amazement as he opens the bag of pretzels he did not have in his hand a second ago- stuffing one in his mouth and holding it out to you.

These pretzels might have been buried in between the couch cushions. But they’re sealed, so who cares.

“You know what, fuck you, Carrie!” Nelson shouts, pushing her back.

“Askin’ for it,” she laughs, winding up and punching him straight in the face.

You can’t feel bad for the crunch, because Nelson should have know Carrie was gonna punch him- he could have at least put in an effort to stop her. Instead, he just stood there and took it.

“Oh,” Matty winces, sliding next to you. Why the hell are random things just appearing? Did he come out of the cushions too? Probably, seeing as he’s always falling asleep. “Askin’ for it,” he mumbles, shaking his head.

Nelson recovers from the hit and jabs at Carrie- but she stands there, hand on her hip, completely still.

Clarisse catches his arm.

He’s breathing out heavily, and the room goes pretty much silent- except for you, Danny and Matty chomping on pretzels in the corner of the couch.

“You’re fuckin’ embarrassing, Nelson.”

He pulls himself away from her and huffs, heading to the bathroom to deal with his bright red cheek.

Clarisse sighs heavily.

“Gods, can’t have one night without someone punching someone.”

Carrie looks around the room with a smug smile, scoffing when Clarisse shoulders her as she walks past. She lays down in your waiting arms, kissing your hand as you wrap them around her.

“Gettin’ on my nerves,” she mumbles, closing her eyes and leaning into you.

“I know,” you soothe, turning around and making a silly face to Danny at her dramatics.

—-

Nelson is obviously still angry the next day. His helmet doesn’t cover all of the nasty bruise on his cheek, a sickening purple against his tan skin.

Him and Carrie swap glares across the the throngs of red helmets.

“Okay, Carrie, stop,” you huff. “He might actually kill you. You’re the one who got a punch in- let it go.”

She turns to glare at you, now.

“Tell him to stop staring at me.”

“Well, you can help by looking away first.”

“Fine,” she mumbles, putting her helmet on and tightening her grip on her sword. Chiron made his usual speech around 10 minutes ago, and Clarisse has finally finished updating everyone- more like yelling incoherently at everyone- about their positions.

But you have a similar strategy.

The blue team has the brains of the Athena Cabin, but the red team has all the brute strength.

Clarisse huffs, walking over to you and Carrie.

“Okay, ready?” she asks, reaching over to tighten the straps of your armor- even through they’re perfectly fine- by habit.

Carrie let’s out a deep breath. “Yes. Very ready to fuckin’ pummel those blue shits and pretend they’re Nelson.”

“That’s the spirit!” you smile, slapping her shoulder. She rolls her eyes and steps away from you, smiling slightly.

Danny and Matty walk over, and your little band is complete. You hunt in the woods just south of the flag, deterring a lot of hopefuls. The older campers know to come up with sneakier ways to get by, but Clarisse is otherwise confident in those she placed by the flag to really protect it.

You strike out into an offensive stance, pointing the end of your blade straight at Danny- and he quickly counters with his own impeccable stance.

“Oh, yeah, they don’t stand a chance,” you smile, and he returns it.

—-

You take your normal routes through the woods.

With the added weight of you and Danny, the group is not as stealthy as they could be- but Clarisse is a secret teddy bear who doesn’t like to be away from you for long, and Danny is too young to be set loose, left to watch the big kids work, occasionally jumping in for a few swings.

Leaves crunch under your feet in the otherwise silent forest. You’ve already come across a few stragglers, and before you could even raise your sword the Ares siblings had disarmed them. Your heart squeezed seeing the absolutely heartbroken look on Danny’s face- he was promised that this time he could really fight.

And after you pulled Clarisse off to the side and reminded her of her deal- Danny was leading the group, with you and Clarisse behind him.

He marches tall and proud, sword pointed out, even though Clarisse scolds him and says his arm will get tired- he’s young and doesn’t listen to his half-sibling.

You smile, watching him, admiring how carefree he is. The walk continues mostly in a stealthy silence- Clarisse, Carrie and Matty has mastered the art of walking silently- so your cover is lost by you and Danny.

Of course, whenever you try to convince Clarisse that maybe you should go somewhere else- she looks at you like you’ve suddenly turned into a female Minotaur.

Clarisse, her hand in yours right now, has a hard time understanding the concept that she can’t be with you all the time. That you might get hurt, that she can’t always stop it.

It’s sweet how constantly concerned she is over you, it makes your stomach twist so good.

She squeezes your hand, bringing you out of your reverie. Voices.

“Danny,” you whisper, almost silently, kicking the back of his leg. When he turns around, frown on his face, you point towards the direction of the voices- and now footsteps.

You all stop in your tracks.

Danny practically jumps up in down, you smile wide, and Clarisse signals to Carrie and Matty, urging you and Danny closer to the action.

When they come into the clearing, a few Hermes kids dressed in blue bandanas, swords in their hands. They’re all strong, you’ve seen them around- recognize them vaguely as potentials that lost to Clarisse in ugly sparring matches.

The siblings have disappeared into the trees.

So it’s just you, unsuspecting, and Danny.

You can see the triumphant looks on their faces.

Except for one of them.

Nicky, maybe? You don’t care enough about him to know his name. But there’s something more in his eyes that you notice immediately, something similar to the passion Clarisse gets in her eyes at the mention of this game.

Danny jumps forward, sword swinging just the way his blood knows, the way his siblings have taught him meticulously.

They seem momentarily surprised at the force his small body can produce, quickly countering with their own jabs, swords clashing together. The other focuses on you.

You’re not worried, you know the siblings are just letting the two of you have your moments before they really come in and you can sit back and watch Clarisse fight. Muscles rippling, sick smile on her face, spear glowing with electricity.

He comes at you and your swords clash together, the force of it making your teeth ring- Gods, he’s strong. He pulls back and you do the same thing a few more times, neither of you able to get the upper hand- until he finally seems to realize his height advantage.

He swings his sword down on you, pressing down hard- and with gravity on his side you have to put all of your focus into stopping that downward sword.

You don’t see his foot coming out to kick you back.

You only feel it, boot in your chest, wind knocked out of you, groaning as you slam into the ground.

“Fuck,” you breathe, tasting blood in your mouth.

“Y/N!” Danny shouts, and that’s when you see his sword coming down on you again. He does it on purpose, that much is sword, the strategic placing of his sword slicing through the top of your arm.

He doesn’t mean to kill you. He means to hurt you.

His purpose isn’t winning the game, you realize as the blade tears through skin, his purpose is to hurt you. That’s what you saw in his eyes.

Delight that his prey was right in front of him.

The realization washes over you like a wave- but like the real ocean, another one comes- an overwhelming feeling of pain, blooming outward like a flower.

He bites his lip in concentration, standing over you as his blade sinks into the dirt. He smiles wide, hitting his target.

You scream.

It’s a quick stop. The clearing is filled with the sound of your screams, swords stopping in midair- everyone realizing simultaneously that you’re really hurt. That this boy hurt you on purpose.

Something cuts through the air, wind in your ears, swiftly burying itself through Nicky’s armor and into his side.

You’ve realized in the last day that men are stupid. First, it was Nelson not expecting to get punched, and now it was Nicky not prepared for a retaliation after hurting you.

The thick armor slowed down the spear, so it unfortunately stabs his side and falls right out.

He yells in pain, ripping off his armor, revealing a small cut. Nothing compared to yours, but you can faintly recognize the fire in his eyes before Matty is leaning over you and Carrie is wrapping a bandana above the pain in your arm.

You hear the sounds of something happening, someone fighting, skin on skin.

You hear all of this, you see all of it, but all you can feel is the burning, burning cut in your arm. It feels like he cut it off. Your mind is hazy, you know blood is gushing, you never knew something could hurt this bad.

You faintly realize you bit your tongue when you went down. Blood spurts from your mouth when you cough, when you groan in pain, when you say her name like a prayer over and over again.

“Clarisse,” you moan, legs twisting around, trying to get away from the pain that you can’t escape from. “Clarisse, Clarisse, please, Clar…”

Matty pulls your head into his lap.

You can tell it’s bad, you can see the queasy look on his face. You clench your fist- the one you can feel, at least- to keep from screaming, heels digging into the dirt. You’re still trying to get away. But you can’t. You can’t get away from this all consuming pain.

“It’s okay,” Danny whispers, suddenly appearing next to you. He voice shakes, he doesn’t know, he can’t tell you anything reassuring.

“Can you go find someone, Danny? One of the Apollo kids, anyone?”

He ignores Carrie, starring at you for a second longer.

“Y/N,” he mumbles, his voice quiet, finally able to act like the young boy he is.

“You can go,” you breathe, somehow finding the strength to make him believe you’re okay. “Go help me, okay?”

His little footsteps disappear into the woods faster than you’ve ever heard him run, even when they have his favorite brownies for dessert.

You let out a sob.

“D-did he cut it off?” you moan. “It feels like he cut it off, please tell me he didn’t… he didn’t cut my arm off…”

“Oh, fuck, no,” Carrie breathes, pressing down agains the wound to try and stop the blood from gushing out- but it doesn’t really help. It’s just too much. “I mean, it’s deep and it’s nasty, but you’ve still got an arm, don’t worry.”

She laughs, awkwardly, nervously. You can feel even more of your arm drifting away, blood pouring out onto the ground.

“Hey, hey, no,” Matty mutters, lightly hitting your face.

“Wha-”

“Can’t fall asleep, Y/N,” Carrie says, nervously. “Sit up against Matty, come on, huh?” you lean against Matty, head clearing now that there’s fresh air in your system.

Your eyes focus on Clarisse.

Except she’s not anywhere near you, she’s 10 feet away, punching Nicky so hard you’re surprised he’s still standing.

Carrie cringes. “Okay, maybe don’t look at that.”

But you’re sort of entranced by her. She’s not outwardly angry, her face reveals nothing- just a mask of hard, unrelenting focus. It should scare you, how much concentration she puts into her deadly punches, blood flying with each hit she lands. Her knuckles are red, his face is a mess, but it’s exhilarating to know she would do this for you.

A sickening crack rents the air. “My fucking nose, fuck, fuck, screw you, you fucking bitch! Fuck-”

The smallest smile creeps it way onto her face. She wipes her mouth, leaving blood on her lips- but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“I can keep going!” she shouts back, grabbing his shirt. “You wanna do that shit? I’m only getting started. I’m gonna throw you around, then I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you.”

“Wait! Wait, okay, wait, shit,” he breathes, holding his hands up in surrender. Blood pours from his nose, down to her hand bunched in his shirt. He’s taller than her, yet he’s surrendering.

“You’re pathetic,” she hisses, pushing him back. He hits the ground with a groan, trying to grab for a rock, a sword, anything to defend himself against Clarisse and her fury.

Clarisse loves capture the flag.

One of the reasons why she does is because she gets to let out all her anger. She looks at you, but not in your eyes- she looks at the wound on your arm. You can see the red pouring out of the corner of your eye- but you choose to ignore it, instead focusing on the way the fire inside of her gets relit at the sight of your blood. She has plenty reason to be angry now.

She grabs her spear, sauntering over to him, laughing at the way he can’t even try to get up.

“So fuckin’ stupid,” she smiles, tilting her head. Then the tip of her spear is pointing right at his neck, she’s standing over him the way he did to you. “How’s it feel?” she smiles.

He coughs, hissing in pain.

“I’m scared, Clarisse, okay? You got your fucking revenge, but it wasn’t me.”

She laughs, loud and boisterous. “I just saw you cut her, dumbass. I really should kill you, just as a favor to the world.”

“Paid me,” he coughs. “Drachmas, in exchange for hurting your girlfriend-”

She presses the blade against his throat, he yells out.

“Who?”

He stays silent.

“Who?!” she yells, kicking his stomach.

“Nelson!” he screams. “Nelson! Nelson paid me, please, Clarisse-”

She moves the blade away, and he hisses- she probably just barely drew blood.

“I’m not done yet,” she whispers, deadly promise dripping from her words. She turns around, fades out of focus for a second, and then she’s right next to you.

Her hands are cupping your face, she looks sick, seeing you like this up close- but all she does is kiss your forehead. Like you, she doesn’t want to look at your flesh and blood.

“I’m here, I’m here, oh, fuck. Gods, what the fuck,” she mumbles, looking very pointedly away from the wound, finally seeing how bad it is up close.

“Clarisse.”

“I know,” she whispers, smoothing your hair back. “I know, baby, I know, but it’s gonna be okay.”

Danny runs into the clearing, shouting “just over here” while healers follow him, immediately groaning at the smell of blood, the sight of it.

Clarisse switches places with Matty, holding you against her, kissing your head again and again, muttering about how brave you are.

You almost laugh at the odd looks the Apollo kids give her, unused to seeing the big bad Clarisse so soft. But they just don’t know her like you do. She doesn’t love them like she loves you.

One of them starts to clean the blood, and your eyes drift shut as the other starts to mend your skin back together.

—-

You wake up with familiar curly hair in your face.

You spit it out, groaning, mouth feeling fuzzy, everything feelings fuzzy.

“Clarisse?” you mumble, eyes not even open, but you wake up with that hair in your mouth everyday, and you’ve memorized the weight of her arm around your waist.

She sits up immediately, jumping out of bed, standing up and fixing her messy hair like someone’s gonna be there.

“Um, hello? I was speaking, crazy girl.”

“Oh, thank Gods,” she mumbles, blowing hair out of her face and sitting back down. “Thought we got caught.”

You look at her, then your surroundings-

“Oh, holy shit,” she says, staring at you like a deer in headlights. “Wait, you’re awake. You’re awake!”

She throws her arms around you, burying her face into your neck, reverberating with the sound of your laughter.

“You make it sound like I’ve been in a coma for 10 years.” Your heart drops. “Have I… been asleep for a while?”

“Um,” she says, softly, biting her lip as she extricated herself from your neck. “Capture the flag was yesterday, so… no.”

“So you’re just being dramatic?”

“Possibly,” she smiles. “It’s not my fault you’ve taken over my entire brain.” She shows her bruised knuckles, split open, already starting to scab. “I said not to fix ‘em up. They don’t hurt that bad, and they look fucking cool.”

You grab her hands, relieved it’s only been a day, kissing the rough scabs. She blushes, although she tries her best not to, breathing in deeply.

“How are you feeling, baby?”

You look towards your totally healed arm, finally realizing that you know have full control of your hands, unlike yesterday. It’s wrapped in a bandage for precautions, but it feels totally healed.

“All good,” you smile.

“You gotta take it real easy for the next week or so, yeah?” she fusses, brushing hair behind your ear. “So you call me, or one of my siblings, anyone to help you with anything. No lifting heavy stuff, don’t do anything too fast- you might tear the healing.”

“I don’t suppose you’ll carry me around like a princess?” you giggle, laying back, inviting her into your arms. She gets back under the covers, head against your chest so she can hear your heartbeat.

“That’s not a bad idea, actually. Practical. Very safe.”

You hit her shoulder. “I’m joking.”

“Eh, I’ll change your mind.”

You smile, running your hands through her hair, enjoying the early mornings with her warmth against you, soft sunlight peeking through windows.

She sits up after a moment, laying her head back on the pillow, arm back around your waist. She just sits there for a moment, you can feel her admiring you. Clarisse doesn’t look at you. She traces your face with her eyes, imagining it was her hands, her lips, she admires you like she sees a reverence in your eyes that has nothing to do with your godly parent.

“Can you promise me something?” she asks, whispering softly, even though you’re the only two people around.

“What?” you say, staring at the ceiling, feeling like you might fall back asleep.

“Don’t get hurt. Like, ever again, please.”

You smile. “Okay, baby,” you mumble.

“I’m serious,” she smiles, nudging your cheek with her nose. “I… I was really scared. And I don’t like to feel that way, especially when it comes to you. I was angry, too. I was so fuckin’ angry I’m surprised I didn’t kill him. You can’t get hurt like that, not again, you just gotta let me protect you. Or else I might actually kill someone, Y/N.”

“I know,” you mumble. “I watched you.”

“Did I scare you?” she asks, voice soft. There’s no hint of your loving, smiley Clarisse in this bed right now. She’s worried, as if she could ever scare you.

“No,” you say, honestly. “It’s sweet how far you’re willing to go for me.”

“Yeah,” she mumbles. “You better like it. Do you know what I got for that? Eight months no dessert. Five months cleaning the fuckin’ stables.”

You barely hide your laugh. “Oh, my Gods, are you serious?”

“Yes,” she grumbles. “But, I’ve decided it’s fine. You’re my loving girlfriend, right? You can sit there all pretty so I have something to look at when I’m cleaning. And you’ll share your dessert with me, won’t you?”

“Yeah,” you mumble, turning your head. “I will.”

“I really love you. My perfect pretty princess,” she jokes, smiling lopsidedly, and you return it. “You’ll let me protect you, and maybe I can get some decent sleep at night, huh?”

When she presses her hand to your face and her lips to yours, you think nothing could possible ruin this moment. It’s just you and her, and everything that’s beautiful.

“You always protect me, Clar,” you smile.

She smiles, lips grazing yours. This is your Clarisse. The one who smiles just for you, who puts her rough hand softly against your face. This is your Clarisse, the one who would do anything for you, the one who wants to carry you around, the one who wants to protect you and hold you and never let anyone fuck with her baby.

The door slams open, someone is laughing boisterously, another person is groaning in pain, and a familiar voice is shouting your names.

“Clarisse! Y/N! Clarisse, Clarisse! Y/N, Y/N, Y/N!” Danny shouts, dragging out the last syllable of your name. He jumps onto the bed by your feet, even when Clarisse frowns, looking at you like a puppy dog who’s just brought a dead bird to your doorstep.

And as you look at the scene behind you, Nelson being laid on another bed, Carrie being helped into the corner- laughing hysterically, knuckles split open.

Nelson’s face is practically unrecognizable.

You suppose Danny really did bring something unsavory like a dead bird, dropping it right at your feet.

“So, we all woke up right?”

Your eyes whip to Danny, shocked as he know launches into a story about Carrie waking up to Nelson saying he hadn’t been called to the Big House yet, maybe he would get away from it- but swiftly received punishment in the form of Carrie’s fists. With Clarisse in your bed, no one had the guts to stop them, and they fought for what must have been 10 minutes- Nelson very obviously losing.

“And, now we’re here,” Danny sighs, breathing out after his long and embellished rant. “But you’re awake, Y/N!”

He looks at your skeptically- specifically, at your arm.

“Can I hug you?”

“Oh,” you smile, your heart twisting with such a fondness for this wonderful little kid. “Of course you can, Danny,” you smile, opening your arms wide.

“Yes, just be careful,” Clarisse cautions, her arm around your waist. “Watch the arm, huh?”

“He’s just a baby, Clarisse,” you mumble, breath messing his hair.

“He’s 11.”

“Baby,” you reinforce, squeezing him tighter.

“Y/N… you’re crushing me,” he groans.

“Oops,” you say, letting him go. “You’re just too cute,” you coo.

Clarisse scoffs from next to you. You smile, kissing her cheek. “You’re beautiful. Scary, dangerous. Not cute, though.”

She hums. “Yeah, you’re right.”

Carrie walks over, sporting her split knuckles, also opting to let them heal naturally like Clarisse. She shows them off with a wide smile, even as Nelson screams in the background when they reset his nose.

Matty rubs his temples.

You smile, looking around at your very dysfunctional, very awkward, but loving family-adjacent.

“Hey, did we end up winning the game?” you ask.

Clarisse snorts. “Oh, nah. Without us, they were lost. Who cares, though?”

“Yeah, I liked beating Nelson up much more than I would have liked winning,” Carrie smiles.

“Next time,” Danny starts, “Can I lead again?”

Clarisse squints at him. “…Maybe.”

You wink at him, nodding subtly.

“Okay!” he smiles.

Clarisse kisses your forehead.

“I love you, pretty baby,” she mumbles.

You smile. “I love you too, scary baby.”

—-

clarisse when she sees y/n get hurt: oh so the only natural response to to THROW A FUCKING SPEAR AT SOMEONE

appreciation for the fact she threw it from like really far away and just tore through his armor likkkkeeee

nelson and nicky sitting in the infirmary together hugging each other terrified clarisse and carrie are going to come back for more

nicky does not sleep at night anymore SHE SAID SHE WASNT DONE

—-

shout out to my baby danny he carried this fic fr

shoutout to y/n for getting WRECKED so we could have this beautiful moment w clarisse

shoutout to matty for being his beautiful self

shoutout to carrie for being her violent self

and finally shoutout to clarisse for being overprotective and insane

—-

clarisse after she actually convinced y/n to let her carry her around everywhere: 🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗

bitch is so happy…

—-

taglist:

@lvrue @t-wylia @laughingcheese037 @kroumi @urdeadpoet @colezb @rey26 @harmzilla @elliewilliamsbae @amberfreemansburntface @kyuupidwrites @neverwaakeme-up @shark1008 @liballer @heyimadison @nvirskies @pnsteblnme @mar2ss @restellsss @ravisinghs-wife @marsconer @evangelinexo @randomhoex @luvrrish @rebecca37 @saltair-and-palemoonlight @ace-spades-1

[ankababy]

A Home (part 23)

Part 1 Part 22 Part 24

Chishiya x reader x Niragi

Finally someone who sees your potential.

Then, still in the middle of the party, a guy came towards you. He was an executive, someone important in the Beach’s little hierarchy, but he wasn’t someone you needed to know deeply. Not yet, at least.

“Niragi.” the guy started, his voice smooth. “There’s an executive meeting called. Hatter wants you there. He also requested that—” His eyes flicked to you. “—you join us.”

You felt a little spark of excitement. You didn’t know what the meeting was about or why Hatter wanted you specifically there, but your curiosity was piqued. Plus, there was something thrilling about being called into a room full of power, to be part of whatever they were planning. And if it involved you, well, you were always up for it.

“Great.” Niragi muttered under his breath, barely loud enough for anyone to hear, but you did. You always did.

The guy just stood there, silent for a moment longer, before a sigh slipped past his lips.

“You happy now?” Niragi muttered, voice low. It wasn’t a question aimed at you, not really.

You nodded cheerfully, too oblivious or too excited to notice the tension in his voice. “Yeah, of course!” you said, your smile bright and infectious as always.

The executive glanced at you briefly again, clearly a little surprised at how easily you took the news. He probably expected you to hesitate, question the sudden call, maybe even challenge the order. But no.

Niragi, though, didn’t seem to share your enthusiasm. He looked away, his jaw tightening, and you could practically feel his mood souring by the second.

“Fine.” he said finally, his voice dripping with something close to sarcasm.

But the way he said it didn’t sound like he meant it. It sounded like he was resigned to something he didn’t want to deal with. You saw the corner of his lip curl, a little sneer forming, but he made no attempt to fight the order.

The executive didn’t seem to care about Niragi’s attitude, nodding. “Good. We’ll be waiting for you both in the meeting room.” he said, then turned and walked off without another word.

Niragi let out another annoyed sigh. This one was louder, and the scowl on his face deepened. You couldn’t quite figure out why he was so upset. The fact that you were called too, or something else entirely?

“I don’t know why I bother.” he muttered under his breath, too low for anyone else to hear, but loud enough for you to catch.

You tilted your head, sensing the weird shift in his mood, but you didn’t say anything. You didn’t want to poke at it. Instead, you flashed a smile.

“Come on. It’ll be fun.” you said lightly.

He didn’t respond immediately. Just a sneer before he rubbed the back of his neck, irritated. He didn’t want to go. That much was obvious. But it didn’t matter. He had to.

You smiled at him and took a step closer, ready to head off.

Niragi followed as if the entire situation was a chore he couldn’t avoid, but it wasn’t like you cared about his mood—at least not right now. There was an adventure waiting ahead of you, and you weren’t going to let anything, least of all Niragi’s grumpy attitude, get in the way of it.

~

You were seated in Niragi’s chair again. He just stood behind you, close enough to cast a shadow over your shoulder, hovering over the Beach’s favorite little sunbeam.

You didn’t belong here, not really. Not by title, not by rank. But you were there.

Dressed in pale pink and still damp from the pool, legs crossed delicately, your hair pulled back in a messy clip that somehow made you look even more ethereal, you sat like you didn’t have the faintest idea how much power you suddenly had. There was the unmistakable shape of Niragi’s teeth on your collarbone, half-visible just under the strap of your swimsuit. No one commented on it. No one had to.

Your presence was a statement.

Everyone watched you, and of course, Hatter himself. Eyes flicking between everyone but always returning to you. He was smiling, as he often did, that same half-manic, half-enlightened grin that made people both love and fear him.

“Quite the turnout.” Hatter said, finally, as he spread his arms like a showman presenting his finale. “And with a new guest of honor.”

He gestured to you, and several eyes—again—cut toward the bite on your collarbone.

You smiled, sweetly, innocently, as if the eyes crawling over your skin didn’t mean anything. As if you didn’t feel Niragi standing behind you, hands twitching slightly, like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to pull your chair back or punch a hole through the wall.

“Thanks for inviting me.” you said, chipper, folding your hands neatly on the table. You sounded like someone who’d just been asked to tea. Not like someone sitting in on a meeting of killers and tacticians.

Mira let out a soft laugh, delighted. “You’re very composed.”

You tilted your head slightly. “I just like knowing things.” you said. “And I’m pretty good at listening.”

At that, Chishiya shifted slightly, just enough to glance at you out of the corner of his eye. No smile. But there was something else. Recognition. You were good at listening. Too good. He hadn’t decided yet if that was a problem.

“I thought this was a strategy meeting.” Aguni grunted, leaning forward. “Not a tea party.”

Aguni, c’mon, we know you like Y/N too. Who doesn’t?

Ann cut him a quick look but said nothing. She was watching you too carefully to interrupt.

“It is.” Hatter said, still smiling. “But the girl’s proved herself useful. Delivering messages, gathering intel, talking to the right people. She’s got connections that none of us do. Even the dumb ones like her.” He winked at you, and you laughed, like it really was a tea party.

But Niragi—behind you—did not laugh. He just shifted, once.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. Not for you, anyway. You were too busy watching everyone, your big eyes bouncing from face to face, absorbing everything. The games, the plays, the war behind every line of dialogue. You had no idea what cards they were playing, but you were the one everyone was looking at, and wasn’t that something?

Chishiya leaned forward slightly, his eyes on Hatter. “What’s the purpose of this meeting?”

Hatter clapped his hands once, sharply. “To make sure we’re all on the same page. Card collection. Border progress. Internal control.”

You listened. You weren’t dumb. You leaned back just a bit, letting your shoulder rest against the armrest of Niragi’s chair, unconsciously claiming space like you had every right to be there.

And Niragi stayed behind you.

He hated this. Not you. Never you. But the way people looked at you. The way Hatter smiled at you like he owned your time. The way Mira cooed at you like you were a doll she could pick apart at the seams. The way Chishiya’s eyes lingered too long. Niragi wanted to put a bullet between everyone’s eyes.

But he said nothing.

Because none of them, not even him, could take their eyes off you.

The meeting rolled on from that point. Hatter spoke in half preacher, half CEO.

You sat there, legs crossed, arms neatly folded in your lap, nodding when appropriate, silent and smiling as though you belonged in every room like this. And in a way, you did. You had that impossible, golden kind of presence—one that made people listen to you, not because of power or fear, but because you meant it when you spoke. Because your eyes never lied, and your mouth always had something sweet to say, even when everything around you was violent and twisted.

But that didn’t mean you were stupid.

Far from it.

You watched everyone. Every twitch, every blink, every little tell from every person around the table.

You loved them. All of them, in different ways. Not romantically, not really—though the lines blurred there, didn’t they?

Especially with those two.

Chishiya and Niragi.

Your boys. Your… favorite tragedies.

You knew what they were. Not in some naive, cutesy way—but deeply, intimately. You understood them better than they thought. Maybe better than they did.

You had seen that crack in Chishiya. The one he didn’t want to show. When you fell asleep beside him back at the apartment, or held his hand in the hallway, or smiled too long while asking him therapist questions. He wasn’t made for soft things like you. And yet… he didn’t pull away. Not really. Because maybe some part of him wanted to be studied by you. He just wanted to be understood. He longed to be understood.

And Niragi—fuck. Rage and need, teetering on the edge of self-destruction. He was sick in the head and he knew it, used it like a weapon. He didn’t understand softness, but he understood you. You who were soft but not weak. Gentle but not passive. You didn’t flinch from him. You touched his face like he was a boy who maybe just wanted to be loved.

That fucked him up worse than anything.

So yeah. You watched the room with wide, sparkly eyes like you were a butterfly in a war room. But you were playing the game too. Just in your own way.

Hatter leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head as he spoke, “We’re close. One day, we’ll have enough cards to make our final push.”

“Final push for what?” you asked, voice soft, genuinely curious.

There was a pause. Not tense.

“To complete the deck.” Kuzuryu said evenly. “To see what happens.”

“To win.” Hatter said, eyes gleaming. “Whatever that means. Emigrate.”

You nodded, processing, your mind working even as you smiled. You glanced over at Chishiya. He was watching Hatter with the same look he might give a poorly written math problem. Dismissive. Already moving five steps ahead.

Niragi leaned forward slightly behind you, hands braced on the back of the chair. You could feel the heat of him.

The conversation moved to logistics. Manpower. Intel. Control. You let it wash over you, tucking away every detail, cataloging expressions, voices, like a librarian.

You were happy here, in a weird, broken kind of way. Among the chaos. Among these monsters and maniacs. You never quite fit in with the normal world anyway. You were too much of something. Too soft, too kind, too weird, too alive.

But here?

Here you were worshiped. Or wanted. Or both.

And even if they didn’t say it—Chishiya and Niragi both wanted you. In different ways. In dark ways.

Niragi wanted to own you, protect you like a rabid dog guarding the one hand that didn’t hit him. You were the only softness in his scorched world, the only thing he didn’t want to destroy. And that terrified him more than anything.

Chishiya didn’t want to care about you. But he did. You were this beautiful mess of feelings and chaos, all the things he’d surgically removed from himself to survive. And now? He was starting to wonder if maybe he’d made a mistake.

The meeting began to wind down, voices growing quieter, more tired. Hatter gave a final flourish with his hands, “Well, then. Let’s keep the pieces moving. And let’s hope we survive long enough to see the end.”

People stood. Some filed out. Others lingered.

You stayed seated a moment longer, glancing up at Niragi with a little grin, tilting your head. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer, just looked down at you with eyes like gasoline fire and something else. Something that scared him too much to name.

You stood, slowly, smoothing your light skirt(AN: I see Y/N always wearing some light, see thru, pretty clothing above the bikini. Just to be cute.) giving a nod to the rest of the room. “Thanks for letting me sit in.”

“You can sit in again.” Hatter said, clearly pleased.

“She’s not a fucking executive.” Niragi muttered under his breath.

But he didn’t stop you.

You had started to turn, your soft smile ready for anyone else you passed on the way out, ready to float back into the madness outside and play the same part you always played—kind, beautiful. But then—

“Not you.” Hatter said smoothly. “Stay.”

And just like that, the air in the room changed.

Every pair of eyes landed on you again. Yours flicked up, curious, but not confused. If anything, you looked almost pleased to be asked. You turned back, gently as always, your expression bright and open.

Niragi’s jaw twitched.

Chishiya didn’t move a muscle, but you could feel it.

“Alone.” Hatter clarified, flicking his gaze lazily to the rest of the room.

No one protested. No one dared—not even Niragi, who, for a second, looked like he might say something. But Hatter didn’t even glance his way. He didn’t have to. Power bent the space around him like gravity. And Niragi might be the firestarter, but even fire needed oxygen. Hatter was the one who decided who breathed here.

Niragi rolled his eyes and scoffed under his breath, turning on his heel. Chishiya didn’t look at you—just shoved his hands into his pockets and slipped out like a shadow. You watched them both go, not saying a word, not asking them to stay.

You knew better. Knew when not to interfere. You were sweet, not stupid.

And once the door clicked shut, the world felt like it had changed color. The stillness was different now. Warmer. Stranger.

You turned your gaze back to Hatter, smiling softly as you stepped forward, your little platform sandals making little quiet noises against the floor. You didn’t sit in the chair again. You slid onto the table instead—right in front of him, ankles crossed, skirt falling neatly over your knees.

“You wanted to talk to me?” you asked.

“I always want to talk to you.” Hatter said, smiling like a man who had everything. “But yes. This time, specifically.”

You tilted your head, all attention. “About what?”

He leaned back. “You’re very loved, you know.”

Your eyebrows lifted, but you didn’t answer right away. Your hands rested beside you on the smooth tabletop, the bite mark on your collarbone visible like some badge.

“You’re like sunshine in this godless place,” he continued. “and sunshine is dangerous when you’re trying to control the weather.”

You smiled gently. “That was poetic.”

“I’m a poetic man.”

“I think you’re an ambitious man.”

“And what do you think you are?”

You paused. Thought about it. “I think I don’t fully understand everything.” you said honestly. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not watching.”

Hatter’s smile was warm. “I don’t underestimate you, little star.”

“I don’t underestimate you either.”

He studied you for a long moment, eyes roaming your face. You didn’t flinch under the weight of it. You didn’t try to flirt or joke your way out of the tension like you did with so many others. Here, you were open. Still sweet. But still.

“Do you love them?” he asked suddenly. Not cruelly. Not sharply. Just… honestly. The way one might ask about the weather.

You didn’t pretend not to understand.

Your lips curved softly. “I do.” you said. “I think I could love anyone, if they gave me enough time.”

“And if they’re monsters?”

“Then I’ll find something in them that isn’t.” you said, lifting your eyes. “Even if it’s just a tiny piece.”

Hatter exhaled, like the answer pleased him.

There was a pause. One where he didn’t speak, and neither did you.

“You don’t belong to anyone, do you?” Hatter asked.

“No.” you said.

He nodded, slow, thoughtful. “But they want you to. Both of them.”

You gave the tiniest shrug, your eyes flicking to the door. “Let them want. I’m not something to put in a cage.”

Another pause. And then, a laugh. Low and genuine. “You’re going to burn this whole place down, aren’t you?”

Your smiled, soft and honest. “I hope not. I like it here.”

You just let the quiet settle again, your legs swinging gently off the table, brushing the polished surface like a child on a park bench, casual and harmless and completely disarming.

Hatter hadn’t moved either, head slightly tilted as if you were something fascinating in a museum. Not to possess, no—he knew better than to believe you could ever be possessed. But maybe… to keep close. To admire.

“You’re thinking something.” you said softly.

“I’m always thinking something.”

You tilted your head in that gentle, playful way you did—and your eyes turned a little sharper. A little brighter. You let your fingers trail across the edge of the table, like you were tracing out invisible thoughts in the wood.

“I could teach you something.” you said, as though offering a cookie.

He raised a brow, amused. “Oh? What’s that?”

“How to get what you want without making people feel like they’re being taken.” you said sweetly. “How to make them love you for it.”

“I already know how to manipulate people, sweetheart.” he said, smiling as he sat up straighter.

“Mm, I know. But you do it like a king, not like a god.” You paused. “Kings command. Gods are adored.”

That made him still. You could see it—the flicker in his expression, the small curl of interest tightening at the corners of his mouth. He didn’t laugh at that. Didn’t wave it off.

You turned slightly to face him better, leaning forward on your hands just a little, eyes wide. “You’ve got the power.” you said. “You’ve got the clothes and the voice and the throne. You’re magnetic, Hatter. But you’re also trying too hard.”

He let out a quiet, amused breath. “So I’m not a god yet?”

“No.” you said, with that gentle kindness you always carried. “But you could be.”

The silence that followed hung between you like a held breath. And then, slowly, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he reached out and placed his hand on your thigh.

Just above the knee.

And you didn’t move away. Your body remained soft, warm, calm. You didn’t even blink. Your eyes simply dropped to his hand, then up to his face again. Still smiling.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t justify it.

You just laughed a little under your breath and said, “See? You’re already using the tools I’m handing you.”

His fingers tensed slightly. “You think this is a tool?”

“I think everything is a tool.” you replied easily. “Words. Looks. Hands. Especially hands.”

And for a long moment, neither of you spoke. His fingers remained there, unmoving. Your leg stayed relaxed under his touch. And your eyes—so wide and sweet—were not innocent at all.

You weren’t flirting. Not really. You weren’t manipulating him either, not the way others might think. What you were doing was far more subtle. You were showing him the blueprint. Of people. Of power. Of what worked.

You were still just being sweet, helping him. Helping him to get what he wants.

“Tell me,” you said, gently. “what are you really trying to build here?”

“A kingdom.” he answered. No hesitation.

“And what’s a kingdom without people who’d die for their king?”

He smiled, slow and strange. “You think I should be loved?”

“I think if you want to last, you’ll have to be.”

“And you?” he asked, voice dropping a fraction. “Would you die for me?”

“No.” you said. “But I’d make everyone else want to.”

God, you were terrifying in the kindest way.

He exhaled like you’d just opened a new door in his mind. And still, his hand stayed where it was—not moving, not pushing, just… resting. Warm.

“You should smile more.” you told him kindly. “You’ve got a really good smile. But people are scared of it.”

“They should be.”

You giggled. “Maybe. But wouldn’t it be more fun if they smiled with you while you crushed them?”

He actually laughed then. Low and real.

Another silence. Comfortable this time.

Then, you turned your head slightly and said, “If I were you, I’d move that blonde executive guy piece soon. I don’t know his name, but you sure do. He’s good, but he’ll waver if you let him sit too long. He’s restless.”

“And what about you?” he asked, voice dipped in curiosity again. “What would you do with you?”

You smiled. “I’d give me attention. Trust. A little space to feel important.”

“Anything else?”

You looked him right in the eyes. “Nothing else.”

He didn’t reply. Just looked at you. Maybe for the first time, he was seeing you—really seeing you—for what you were.

A field of poppies that made men sleep forever.

The softest threat in the world.

He stood then, offering you a hand. “Go on, little star.” he said. “Go shine on someone else.”

You took it, light as a feather. “Thank you.” you said sweetly, standing with grace. “I like talking to you.”

He bent down, just slightly, and kissed the back of your hand. Not flirtation. Not seduction. Respect.

“You’ll do fine.” you said sweetly. “But if you need help… you know where to find me.”

And with that, you turned and left—the door swinging closed behind you like the end of an era.

He didn’t stop you.

He just stood there, thinking of gods.

Niragi was leaning against the wall when you stepped out. Just to the right of the door, half-shadowed by the dim hallway light. Gun over his shoulder, like he hadn’t been waiting at all. But you knew better.

Niragi didn’t wait for people.

He hunted them.

But there he was. Waiting. For you.

You smiled—so soft, so damn sweet it could knock the wind out of someone if they weren’t braced for it. The kind of smile that made people want to be good. Or worse, pretend they already were.

“There you are.” you said gently, like he wasn’t the one who had been lingering in the hallway like a phantom for who-knows-how-long. “Did you hear anything through the door? Are you here to interrogate me?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you with something tight in his jaw, like the sight of you physically hurt. His eyes dropped to the faint red bite mark on your collarbone, still visible above the fabric of your bikini top and your little throw-on wrap.

He put that there. And it looked so good on you.

“Wasn’t eavesdropping.” he muttered, pushing off the wall. “Not my style.”

You tilted your head. “Sure it is. You just make it look cooler.”

He didn’t even crack a smirk. He looked annoyed you knew him that well. Like that was more intimate than anything physical could be.

You started walking, and he followed. Of course he did.

He always did.

You didn’t look back, but you knew his footsteps by now.

“Were you bored while I was inside?” you asked, glancing over your shoulder finally, all cheek and light.

He didn’t say anything for a second, just walked beside you now. Closer than before. Your arms brushed once. His eyes flicked to that spot like it betrayed something.

“…What did he want?”

You glanced up at him. “Hatter?”

“No, the fuckin’ frog on your table.” he said dryly. “Yes, Hatter.”

“He wanted to talk. Just me and him.”

Niragi’s tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek. His jaw flexed, hands curling slightly at his sides. But you kept your voice soft, disarming.

“He likes me.” you added gently. “That’s all.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” he muttered under his breath.

You reached out suddenly, without thinking, and touched his hand. Just your fingertips grazing over his knuckles.

“And you don’t?” you asked, lips curving.

He jerked his hand away, barely. But not in the usual way—not violent or disgusted, just… scared. Like you burned hotter than his own fire and it terrified him how much he wanted to stay close to it.

“Don’t start with me.” he warned.

“I’m not starting anything.” you said, walking again. “You came to me.”

He didn’t deny it.

You were the sun. You were the goddamn sun in this place. And he hated it. Hated that you made his teeth grit just by existing. That you smiled at other people and meant it. That you touched him like he was something good.

He hated that he wanted to be good, just for you.

He hated how impossible that was.

“Let’s walk a little more.” you said softly, brushing your shoulder into his.

He let you. Didn’t snap. Didn’t move away.

You kept talking, not about the meeting, not about the cards, not about plans. You talked about the shape of the clouds outside the window earlier. About how the light hit the pool just right this morning, like glass. You told him weren’t sure what you’d do if your frog and lobster started fighting.

He listened. He really did. He didn’t say much, but you felt it in the way his walking matched yours now. In how his shoulders relaxed by a fraction. In how his eyes flicked sideways at you and stayed there longer than they should have.

“The bite.” he said suddenly. “Everyone fucking saw it.”

You looked down at it and gently pressed your fingers to the bruised skin, then smiled. “Oh. That. Well, yeah. You left it. What, want me to put a Band Aid over it?”

He looked like he wanted to snarl. Or maybe drag you into the nearest wall. Not to hurt you—no. He’d never hurt you. But to claim something. Make it impossible for people to look at you without remembering who got there first.

“You shouldn’t let people stare.” he muttered.

“They stare no matter what.” you said softly.

You were right. Of course you were.

Everyone stared. Everyone wanted you.

And he knew, deep in that fucked-up little heart of his, that you were too much for this place. Too good. Too soft. Too fucking perfect.

But still, somehow, you walked beside him.

Like he was worthy of that.

Like you chose it.

And Niragi had never been chosen. Not once. Not until now.

He didn’t reach for your hand. He couldn’t.

But he walked beside you, and when you bumped your shoulder into him again—barely, barely there—he didn’t move away. He stayed close. Like he’d burn down the world if you asked.

And maybe you would. You, with your laugh and your little frog.

Maybe one day you’d ask.

And he’d be ready.

You didn’t say anything for a little while. Just walked.

The hallways were nearly empty now, the moon and the party lights bleeding in through the windows, but you glowed more. And Niragi walked beside you like some fucking feral animal on a leash made of pink ribbons and sugar—and he hated it, and he loved it, and he hated that he loved it.

The way your fingers brushed the walls sometimes as you passed. The way your hair bounced a little with every step. The way you hummed under your breath, no real tune, just the sound of you filling up the silence.

He could’ve killed you for that.

He could’ve dropped to his knees.

He could’ve done both in the same second.

He stole a glance at you—not a glance, really. It was more like a gaze, hungry and territorial and scared all at once. You didn’t notice. You were too busy rambling again, about how the ceiling tiles were weirdly shaped in one hallway and how the water in the kitchen tap tasted slightly like lavender, and that you thought someone had stolen one of your lip glosses, but it was okay because you had, like, five more in your drawer.

And every single word felt like you were threading soft little thorns through his ribcage, stringing them tighter and tighter until he could barely breathe.

He wanted to ruin you. No—cover you. Drown you in him, like his mark on your collarbone wasn’t nearly enough. He wanted to rip your sweet voice in half with his mouth. To be the only one you talked to like that. To be the only one who got to see your stupid little smile.

He thought about your room. That big fancy space he got you, and you somehow made soft and warm with your dumb frog tank and your glittery hair clips and your weird fucking lobster.

He thought about the way your perfume smelled on his clothes after he touched you.

He thought about you in that fucking bikini. Not just how you looked in it—fuck, you looked good—but the fact that you smiled like that at someone else while wearing it. The way other people looked at you like you were some prize, like they had a chance. Like they could even dream of being wanted by you.

He wanted to break all of them. Right in front of you.

Not because he didn’t want you to talk to people—no, he liked that. He loved that. Loved watching people orbit you, beg for your attention, try to make you laugh. Because in the end, it was always him you walked back to.

Niragi—violent, blood-coated, trigger-happy Niragi—was utterly owned by someone soft. By someone who could spend the morning naming her animals and the evening giving advice to the most powerful man on the Beach, and still find time to pat him on the chest like he was something worth touching.

He was diseased with it.

You were beautiful. Not just in your face or your body—he didn’t give a shit about that kind of beautiful. It was in the way you made people around you human, even the ones who didn’t deserve to be.

You were the only soft thing in this place he didn’t want to destroy.

He hated that, too.

“Hey.” you said, breaking the silence again. “You’re quiet.”

He blinked, dragged himself back from whatever sick shrine of you he’d just built in his head. “You’re loud.”

You laughed. “Fair. Where are we going?”

He didn’t even know.

Didn’t care.

“Anywhere.” he said.

You nodded like that was good enough. Like walking next to a loaded gun with a god complex was your daily treat. Like you weren’t just safe, but right here.

Like you belonged.

And Niragi felt it again—that twist in his stomach, the sharp ache of wanting something he didn’t think he was supposed to have. Not even sex. You. The way you looked at him like he wasn’t broken beyond repair. The way you touched him like it was okay that he was a fucking monster.

You weren’t stupid.

You knew what he was.

And you still smiled at him like this.

He clenched his jaw, turned his head so you wouldn’t see whatever expression was about to crawl up his face. It wasn’t a smile. Wasn’t a frown. It was something monstrous and devoted and absolutely feral. Like something rabid guarding its first real treasure.

“You okay?” you asked softly, catching it anyway.

No. He wasn’t. Not even close.

But he looked down at you and nodded.

He wasn’t gentle. Not with anyone. Not with anything.

He barked, spit, bit, dragged people by the collar when he wanted something. Respect, loyalty, obedience—he took it all through fear. Controlled it. Crushed it. That was how you stayed on top here. You didn’t ask for space. You carved it out with bullets and bodies.

You had never lifted a weapon. You never needed to.

You never needed to. (Unless he was the one who put it in your hands)

Because the world carved itself out for you.

And Niragi… he was part of that world now, folding for you in ways he didn’t understand and didn’t want to look at too hard. Because when you smiled at him—when you tilted your head, glowing dumb and soft and sweet like it wasn’t him standing there, like you didn’t know what he’d done with those hands—it made something in him kneel.

And he hated it.

But he couldn’t stop.

The way he let you slide into his seat at the executive meeting, legs crossed as if you belonged there—that should’ve pissed him off. That should’ve made him grab you by the wrist and pull you away, because that was his. His chair. His name. His place.

But he didn’t.

He just stood behind you, teeth grinding, eyes locked on the soft curve of your back, your shoulders, that ridiculous collarbone he’d marked with his own mouth like a wild fucking animal. He hadn’t even realized what he was doing when he let you sit—it was automatic.

It was instinct.

Any other girl, he’d have dragged back up by her hair. But you? He stood behind you like you were something sacred, like you were meant to be looked at.

Worshipped.

And when someone talked over you during that meeting—someone who clearly didn’t understand that you were there because the king said so—Niragi’s hand had twitched toward his gun.

Just a twitch.

But it was real.

He didn’t pull it, because you were there.

Because you were the only leash that ever sat comfortably around his throat.

You could say something as dumb as “lobster” and suddenly the chaos in his brain would quiet like a lullaby. He didn’t understand it. Couldn’t wrap his head around it. You were nothing like him—not cold, not cruel, not jagged and cracked from the inside out.

And maybe that was why he couldn’t stop looking.

Because in a place like this you were still soft. Still smiling. Still offering advice to Hatter, and you were sweet enough to kiss someone’s cheek after a win.

And Niragi?

He wanted to fall apart under your hands.

He wanted to press his forehead to your stomach and stay there.

He wanted to crawl inside your skin and make sure no one else could have you.

He didn’t say that, obviously.

No. What he said was—“You always talk this much?”

And you’d smiled—beamed, really—and said, “Only when I like the company.”

He didn’t know what to do with that.

Didn’t know what to do with the way that made his stomach twist and clench and ache, like you’d laced something sharp and warm through his ribs and yanked.

So he said nothing. Let the words rot in his mouth like cherries gone too sweet.

But the truth?

He would’ve killed for you.

He would’ve lined the entire Beach with bodies and fire if someone so much as made you cry.

And not just because you were beautiful.

Not just because you looked good in that ridiculous bikini, soft and glowing and untouchable.

But because you were his beautiful.

You just didn’t know it yet.

And maybe he didn’t know how to tell you.

But his actions did. His silence behind your chair. The way he let you tug him by the wrist like he was just another pretty accessory to your night. The fact that he hadn’t blown any guy’s face off for looking at you wrong.

You didn’t know what it meant when a man like Niragi let you do something.

But he did.

And it was terrifying.

Because the thing about monsters is they don’t give—they keep. They cage. They burn anything that tries to take what’s theirs.

And Niragi was a monster, through and through.

But for you?

He might’ve become a temple.

One that worshipped quietly, obsessively, and with loaded guns.

And all you had to do was smile.

~

Worship. What a dumb word.

Niragi thought it tasted cheap. Too soft on the tongue, too close to the things he hated—kneeling, begging, bleeding for something other than violence. He was a fucking killer, not a monk. And yet, there was no other word that truly fit the way he looked at you.

Worship. Obsession. Possession.

Take your pick.

He’d never call it that out loud. He’d rather put a bullet through his own skull than admit it in those terms. But the way his hands twitched when someone looked at you too long, the way he watched you from doorways, from balconies, from shadows with the cigarette burning down between his fingers… yeah.

It was worship.

Chishiya did it too. You just didn’t see it. He wore his devotion with a scalpel’s precision—never touching, never speaking it, but letting it hang in the air between you both. You didn’t even need to smile at him. Just exist. That was enough.

And Kuina—poor fucking Kuina—she tried not to want it. She really did. But even she wasn’t immune to that gravitational pull you carried around with you. The softness. The goddamn glow. The way you touched people like they weren’t already covered in blood and ruin.

But only one of them had you now. And it was Niragi.

You stood wrapped in his blanket on his balcony, the air clinging to your skin, hair messy from sleep, eyes squinting at the soft sunlight. You looked human. Not otherworldly, not the usual radiant little thing floating through the halls of the Beach like the goddamn messiah. Just… you.

And for a moment, he hated how much he liked that.

He smoked without speaking, elbows leaned on the cold metal railing, the cigarette barely staying in his fingers from how hard his grip was clenched. You stood next to him, barefoot, sleepy, the blanket hanging off your shoulder in a way that showed off the curve of your neck—the same one he’d bitten last night with too much hunger and not enough shame.

The mark was there. Still red. Still his.

You hadn’t tried to hide it.

And fuck, that did something to him.

He didn’t talk, but you did. Of course you did.

You always talked. About the seagulls. About how the sky looked different from this side of the building. About how you liked the breeze and how it smelled like soap and salt and something old. About how his room was “so unfairly nice.”

And how you’d looked for him this morning.

He had no idea what to do with that information.

You told him you’d padded through the halls, looking for him. Him. Of all people. With your arms folded over your chest, still half-asleep. And when you found him in his room, he let you in.

That’s how you ended up here. On his balcony. Wearing his blanket. Talking too much.

And he let you. Because it was you.

He kept his eyes trained on the horizon. Pretended he wasn’t listening when you mentioned saving another bug. Or when you said you’d been thinking of naming the frog. Or when you asked, very seriously, if lobsters had dreams.

You were insane. And perfect.

“Hey.” Your voice cut through the quiet again. Soft, curious. Always curious. “Can I have one of those?” You nodded at the cigarette.

He scoffed, finally glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “You don’t smoke.”

“Maybe I do.” you said, wiggling your brows, which made him nearly choke on the drag he just took. You looked at him again, more carefully this time, and asked: “You okay?”

What a dumb question.

But coming from you?

It was like prayer.

He didn’t answer. He never really did. But his hand reached out and tugged the blanket a little higher around your shoulders, then flicked his half-finished cigarette off the balcony like he was done pretending he cared about anything other than the warmth of you standing next to him.

“‘Course I’m okay.” His voice was rough. “You’re here.”

You smiled.

And it was that same look again—the one that made his stomach turn inside out and his brain go fucking static. Like he couldn’t even hold onto his thoughts long enough to feel anything but this—the heat of you, the sound of you breathing, the idea that you came looking for him.

God, what a weak fucking thing to admit.

But maybe, under it all, that was what worship really was.

Letting someone see the worst parts of you and still wanting them to stay.

Even if you didn’t know what you were doing to him.

Even if you never said it.

You were doing it anyway.

He scoffed, turning his face away.

“No.” he muttered. “You can’t have a fucking cigarette.”

The refusal wasn’t cruel. Just blunt. That signature Niragi harshness that never really went away, but right now it didn’t bite the same. It was lower, closer to annoyed worry than rage. And you blinked, caught off guard by the answer. Not by the no, but by the softness underneath it, buried.

“Why not?” you asked. You were holding the blanket around you like a cape, standing barefoot next to him, sunlight hitting your hair and that sleepy tilt to your mouth. You weren’t really challenging him—you just liked asking questions. It was who you were. Always reaching, always curious, always wanting to know people, even the ones who didn’t want to be known.

He looked at you from the side, jaw tense. A quiet beat passed.

“It kills.” he said. And then, with less bite: “It was you who wanted me to stop, no?”

Your face shifted. Genuinely surprised now. You blinked again, softer this time, and tilted your head like you were playing the moment back in your mind. Yeah… yeah, you did tell him that once.

And he remembered.

He remembered.

“Oh.” you said, voice gentle now. “I wasn’t serious about the cigarette. I just wanted to try one. But okay.”

You didn’t ask again. Didn’t pout or whine or try to pry it from his hand. You just stood there, blanket swaying against your calves, as content as ever. If anything, your smile got a little brighter. The fact that he remembered what you said—that you’d gotten through to him, even a little—was enough to make you feel warm all the way through.

And Niragi… Niragi hated how good that made him feel.

Because he did remember. He remembered everything you said to him. Every tiny thing you ever did. How you tapped your fingers against your leg when you were anxious. How you always turned around when someone called your name, even when it wasn’t for you. How you never said someone’s name without softening your voice, just a little.

He hated that he knew all this. That he cared.

He leaned back against the railing again, letting the silence take up space between you, but he couldn’t stop watching you. That fucking blanket, swallowing you whole. Your bare legs. The ghost of his bite mark still shining red against your skin like a goddamn brand. The way your hair fluttered in the morning.

He wasn’t afraid of death. Never had been. He’d stared it down more times than he could count. But you—you made him scared of a different kind of ending.

One where you weren’t standing here anymore.

One where you stopped looking at him like that.

He growled low under his breath, trying to shake the thoughts off. The softness. The panic. He could kill a man with a flick of his wrist but couldn’t handle the way his chest squeezed when you did something as simple as smile at him.

What the fuck had you done to him?

You stretched your arms high above your head like a cat, yawning so hard your eyes watered, and mumbled, “M’gonna steal your food if you have anything in your mini fridge.”

He didn’t say no. He never said no to you.

“Help yourself.” he grumbled.

And you padded off inside, dragging his blanket across the floor behind you.

He watched you disappear.

Lit another cigarette.

And didn’t take a single drag.

~

The sunlight danced off the water behind you as you went up to Kuina and Chishiya at the pool, glittering against your skin, and the oversized black sunglasses sliding down your nose only made you look more otherworldly.

Kuina spotted you first. She always did. Her eyes caught the movement, tracked the sway of your hips, the way your towel bounced at your thighs, your wet hair twisted up into a lazy bun that still somehow looked good. But it was Chishiya who stiffened.

Because you were heading straight for him.

You didn’t even hesitate. Just closed the distance. And then you were there.

Clinging.

Your arms slipped around one of Chishiya’s, wrapping around him like ivy. Soft and secure. You leaned your head on his shoulder for a second, just long enough to let your affection settle into his skin, before straightening up again, tugging him down a little by the arm.

You were practically whispering when you spoke. “How’s the plan? Any updates? Or is that top secret info still?” Your voice was quiet, but full of that same lighthearted charm, like you were gossiping and not whispering about literal treason.

He didn’t pull away.

He should’ve pulled away.

Instead, Chishiya just glanced down at you, mouth a flat line, and for a moment Kuina saw something in his eyes. Something soft and sharp and possessive, and for once, it wasn’t hiding. She looked away quickly, trying not to feel that pang behind her ribs. Because she was your friend. She didn’t want to be bitter. But fuck, it was getting hard not to be.

Chishiya kept his voice low. “We might have a shift. Something in motion soon. But not here. Not with all these ears.”

You nodded like it made sense, eyes flicking around the pool. You knew better than to think you weren’t being watched. You were always being watched.

You turned slightly, adjusting your grip on Chishiya’s arm like you didn’t even notice the way his shoulders tensed under your touch.

“Okay.” you whispered. “Just wanted to make sure you weren’t ditching me because you’ve already fled the Beach and I didn’t get the memo.”

Kuina snorted, her arms crossing over her chest. “If we were gonna ditch, we’d at least take the lobster with us.”

You beamed, bright and full of delight, because you loved when they remembered your pets. “He’s doing great, actually. Started kicking the frog’s rocks around yesterday. Power move, honestly.”

Chishiya raised a single brow. “Did you name him yet?”

“I’m waiting for him to tell me.” you said, completely serious. “You don’t just name a lobster. That’s disrespectful. You wait. You listen.”

Kuina smiled behind her hand. Chishiya didn’t smile, but he didn’t roll his eyes either. And from him, that meant everything.

For a moment, the three of you just stood there—an odd little triangle.

And then you tugged gently on Chishiya’s sleeve again, whispering, “Hey. Are you okay? Like… really okay?”

You weren’t asking like someone who just wanted reassurance. You meant it. You were always checking in on people, even when they didn’t deserve it. Especially when they didn’t deserve it.

Chishiya didn’t answer at first. His gaze lingered on you—your sincerity, your softness, the fact that your hair still smelled like Niragi. That bite on your neck still fresh. And somehow, you were still looking at him like he mattered.

“…Yeah.” he muttered. “I’m fine.”

You turned to Kuina. “Do I have time to get another drink before the Beach implodes?”

Kuina nodded. “I’d say you’ve got five minutes. Maybe six if Hatter starts monologuing again.”

You laughed, light and bright, and pulled away from Chishiya’s arm with one last squeeze. “Okay. Be right back. Don’t betray me while I’m gone.”

And you disappeared back into the crowd, just like that.

Both of them watched you go—Chishiya’s gaze locked on your back, Kuina’s smile fading slowly.

You were the eye of the storm. The sunshine. And neither of them, no matter how smart or dangerous or ruthless they were, could stop circling you like moths to a flame.

They didn’t stand a chance.

A guy, drink in his hand, sunburn on the bridge of his nose, shirt open to the fourth button looked at you.

“You.” he said, grinning, pointing his cup at you. “You’re that girl.”

You blinked, then smiled, slow and warm as the recognition sank in. “Oh my god. The tunnels! That one game with the switches. You almost fell into the spike trap because you thought red meant stop and green meant go.”

“It does mean stop and go.” he grinned. “They just messed up the system. You saved my life, actually.”

“And you still almost fell into it.” you teased, folding your arms with a tilt of your head. “Some reflexes.”

He laughed, loud and bright, and you took a sip of your drink with a smile like you’d just gotten away with murder. He wasn’t flirting in a gross way, not really. Just playful. Casual. And most importantly, harmless. You didn’t feel like you were being hunted. That was a rare gift in this place.

Across the pool, Kuina tilted her head, her tongue clicking once against the roof of her mouth. “Who the hell is that?”

Chishiya didn’t answer. His eyes hadn’t left you since the guy walked up.

Your laugh—that laugh—cut through the air again. You leaned into the conversation, tilted your head back, nodded along, made some stupid hand gesture that made the guy laugh too. You were all pink again today. That soft bikini. That light sweater thrown over your shoulders. That bite on your collarbone still purple and sharp against your skin.

Chishiya didn’t do feelings. Not the loud kind, not the obvious kind. But you weren’t just a feeling. There was no escaping the gravity of you. Not for Kuina, not for Niragi, not even for Chishiya—who’d spent his whole life above it all.

You were leaning in again, bumping your shoulder into the guy’s like old friends, laughing as he offered to go grab you another drink.

Chishiya’s thoughts were static. Loud, high-pitched white noise.

That guy didn’t know what you liked to drink. Didn’t know your tells, the little nervous things you did with your fingers when you were lying. Didn’t know the color that looked best on you. Didn’t know you had a lobster and a frog. Didn’t know you wanted to decorate your (ex) apartment with all pink. Didn’t know you used to be a therapist.

Chishiya did.

Chishiya knew.

And he was going to kill that guy.

(He won’t. But he wanted to.)

Kuina glanced at him. “You’re really bad at hiding this.”

“Hiding what?”

She just smirked, then nodded back toward the pool. “She’s not yours, you know.”

He didn’t respond. Because she wasn’t wrong.

And yet, when that guy came back with a drink, when you took it with your sweet little “thank you!” and leaned on the edge of the bar, when you didn’t look back once—Chishiya felt something in his chest snap.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a thin, high-tension line pulling taut.

And he stayed silent.

Because he didn’t get to pull you back. He hadn’t put his mouth on your throat. He hadn’t marked you.

But god—he wanted to.

After a while, you walked back to them like nothing had happened.

“Hi.” you greeted, voice soft and sweet, arms already stretching out as you reached them. Without even asking, you curled yourself into Kuina’s side, head pressing against her shoulder. She barely reacted anymore. Just leaned into it, automatically, like your gravity pulled at her too hard to resist. Her arm slung around your waist, fingers pressing lightly into the fabric of your soft pink top/sweater/the fuck it is.

“You missed me?” you asked, looking up between the two of them with a playful little smile.

Kuina snorted. “You were gone for five minutes.”

“And you missed me every second. I get it. You don’t have to say it.” Your tone was dramatic, teasing, but the warmth in your eyes made it clear that you were so happy to be with them again.

Then your gaze settled on Chishiya. Your body didn’t move from Kuina, but your attention locked fully on him, like a spotlight. “You too.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just stood there, hands tucked in his hoodie pockets. If he’d been burning inside before, it didn’t show now.

“I missed you.” you said, completely unashamed, your voice as honest as a confession under a starless sky. “I always do.”

Still, nothing from him. Not even a flicker of expression. But Kuina noticed how he shifted his weight—how his foot edged a little closer. You noticed it too, but you didn’t say anything. You never called him out. That was part of your genius. That was part of why people loved you.

Because you didn’t need anything more than this. Just being near them. Just watching Chishiya breathe, just feeling Kuina’s warmth under your palm.

They could give you nothing and you’d still give them everything.

And it made Chishiya sick.

Not because he didn’t want it—god, he wanted it, wanted you—but because it felt like you cracked him open without trying. Like he’d spent his life building walls no one could climb, and you came skipping through them with a smile and a frog in hand.

You tilted your head at him. “Are you mad at me?”

“No.” he said flatly.

You giggled. “You are.”

“I’m not.”

Kuina rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like “both of you are insufferable.”

But you just tucked closer into her, nuzzling her shoulder for a second before letting your eyes flutter back to Chishiya. “Well. Whether you’re mad or not, I still love you.”

You threw around “love” like it was candy. But he felt it differently. Every word from your mouth stuck to his ribs like honey. And every time you touched him—even just his sleeve, even just your shoulder brushing his—he felt it like a curse.

Because he wanted to be made of stone. But when you said “love” he was nothing but flesh.

He looked away. But you were already smiling at Kuina again.

“You smell good.” you told her, burying your nose in her neck.

She laughed, exasperated but obviously loving it. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“So many things.” And then you looked between the two of them again, a little more serious this time. “I’m really glad you’re here. Both of you. It’s so dumb, but… I always feel better when you’re around.”

Neither of them responded. Kuina swallowed. Chishiya’s gaze dropped to the ground.

You, of course, just kept going, like your mouth could never stop once your heart started talking. “I was thinking earlier… maybe this place is only survivable because I’m not alone. Like if I didn’t have anyone, I’d just melt into a puddle in the hallway.”

Kuina muttered, “you already do that” but her voice was gentle.

You smiled, rubbing her back lightly. “I know. But you two—you’re like… little anchors. Or like—like… those weighted blankets. You know, the ones that help people sleep? I feel like that around you. Even when you’re moody.”

Chishiya inhaled sharply through his nose. Kuina let her head tilt against yours.

“And I know you’re planning important stuff and I’m not, like, the most useful person in strategy or whatever, but I just… I’m really proud of you. Of both of you. And I want to help however I can. Even if it’s just… being your emotional support lobster.”

You managed to make both of them feel like the only two people in the world.

Chishiya hated how much he wanted to reach out.

Kuina hated how much she wished you’d stay leaning against her forever.

They both wanted to pull you closer.

They both thought the other didn’t deserve you.

And neither of them said a word.

Before you could keep talking—before another string of affectionate nonsense could come off your tongue like honey—someone stepped up to your little circle under the sun. It was a girl, probably another one of Hatter’s messengers, one of his hoes, sunglasses too big for her face.

You blinked up at her, lifting your head slightly from Kuina’s shoulder, hands still half-curled around her.

“Hey.” the girl said, a polite smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Hatter wants to talk to you.”

“Oh! Really? Now?” You smiled.

She nodded. “He said it’s not urgent, but he wants to speak in private.”

And of course you lit up immediately, almost bouncing, barely untangling yourself from Kuina without pushing her into the fucking pool. “That’s so nice! Okay. Okay, yeah. Thanks for telling me!”

The girl just tilted her head once and turned to go, clearly expecting you to follow—but you turned back around, just for a second. Looking at Kuina, at Chishiya, heart beating like it always did when something was happening.

Kuina was already watching you with something complicated in her gaze—jealousy, admiration, worry—but her smile was there, soft on her face. “Don’t let him charm you.”

You grinned. “Me? Never. I’m the one with the real charm around here.”

Then your eyes slid to Chishiya, and your heart did that stupid thing again. Like it always did around him.

Still no visible expression from him, but you watched his gaze shift up and down your frame, then settle on your face like a full stop at the end of a sentence. You didn’t know what he was thinking. You never really knew. But the way he looked at you was… intense.

“I’ll come right back.” you told them both, and you meant it.

And then you turned, following the girl through the crowd and the music and the warm wind that blew over the glittering pool.

~

Hatter poured himself a glass of something golden and smooth, and you were curled up in one of his armchairs, legs crossed beneath you, gaze floating over every inch of his ridiculously luxurious room.

You dragged a finger along the carved arm of the chair, nails painted with tiny glitter hearts. “This is such a vibe.” you murmured, grinning.

He laughed—short, low. Then he turned toward you, swirling the glass in his hand as he leaned a hip against the edge of the desk. “I’ve been thinking about what you said.” he said, voice heavier now. Charisma.

You blinked. “Which part?” you asked lightly. “I say a lot of things. I think my brain’s on fire half the time.”

“The part about people.” he said. “The part where you told me how to use them. Told me how to pull strings without letting them see the threads.”

You tilted your head and offered a small, bright shrug, as if you hadn’t just been talking high-level manipulation. “I mean, it’s not that hard. People just want to be heard. Or adored. Or useful. You just have to find out which.”

“And what do you want to be?” he asked, studying you now.

You smiled, all sunshine. “I want to be adored and useful.” you answered honestly. “Why pick?”

“I think you’re dangerous.” he said, and it wasn’t a warning. It was admiration. Deep, appreciative admiration.

You beamed. “Thank you!”

“And I think I need dangerous people.”

Your legs swung a little from the chair. “You already have dangerous people. Aguni, Niragi, Mira, Chishiya…” You squinted at the curtain, then looked back at him.

“I think you’re the most useful person here.” Hatter said, finally sitting back down, across from you now, resting both elbows on the armrests. “You’ve talked to everyone. They trust you. They like you. You’re not a soldier. You’re not a manipulator. You’re just…” He gestured to all of you. “This.”

You smiled. “You make it sound like I’m a secret weapon.”

“You are.”

You rested your cheek in your hand, eyes sparkling. “You’re very sweet when you want something.”

His lips quirked. “Is it working?”

You shrugged, coy. “Depends what you want.”

He didn’t answer. Not directly. But his gaze dipped for just a second—over your legs, the curve of your throat, the faint shimmer of something expensive on your collarbone. Niragi’s mark was still faint, still there.

He saw it. Of course he did.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to. You just stretched a little, arms over your head, pink sweater sliding a bit off your shoulder, and then you asked, with perfect innocence: “So, what now?”

“I want you closer to me.” Hatter said.

You nodded. “Okay.”

Just like that. No fanfare. No questions. You knew how to play the game. Knew it better than most. It wasn’t about agreeing to whatever he meant. It was about letting him think you had.

You were dangerous in a way no one else here could afford to be. Because they all thought they were playing you.

And that meant none of them were watching you properly.

Just how you liked it.

He leaned back in the armchair, resting the crystal glass on his knee, eyes on you like you were something rare and beautiful that had just sprouted in front of him—something glittering, delicate, and completely unexpected.

His silence made your brows lift slightly. Your legs swung gently, the way they always did when you were comfortable.

“You want me to be the next one.” you said, like you were just naming clouds. Like this was the weather. Like it wasn’t the biggest unspoken secret between you now laid bare.

He didn’t even blink.

You tilted your head. “The next boss. When you get all the cards.”

There it was. Clear. Bright. Unapologetic.

His mouth curved, just a little. “You catch on fast.”

You shrugged, looking at your nails like this was nothing. “You’re not the only one watching people all day.”

That made him laugh. A short, quiet sound that sounded too tired to be flirtation. You knew it wasn’t. Not really. There were prettier people than you at the Beach. There were louder, crueler, more obvious options. But you were the one everyone watched without realizing they were watching. You were the one who got into every room just by smiling.

And somehow… here you were.

“I think Kuzuryu’s going to be real disappointed.” you said airily, crossing your legs. “Technically, it’d be his seat, right? He’s second by rank.”

Hatter didn’t correct you.

“But you want me,” you continued, running your finger along the curve of the table. “because Kuzuryu leads with logic. And you want someone who leads with love. Well, something that looks like love.”

He didn’t deny it.

“And I mean… yeah. I can do that.” you added. “People like me. I don’t even do anything and they still want to follow me around like ducklings. Even the scary ones.”

Hatter just watched you, quiet.

You leaned forward a little. “Do you think it’s weird? How fast this happened?”

“I think it’s exactly how it was supposed to happen.” he said, swirling his drink once. “You walk into a room and people turn toward the warmth. You don’t even try. It’s effortless. You don’t need a gun. You don’t need a crown. You just exist and they… orbit.”

You flushed, just a little, from the praise. Even if you knew it was true.

Hatter studied you for another long, slow moment. Then he said, voice quieter now, “You’ll make them feel safe, Y/N. Like there’s still something human left in all this.”

“Even if there’s not?” you asked.

He smiled. “Especially if there’s not.”

You gave a little sigh and leaned back in the chair, arms stretched along the rests like a child playing queen. “I’m gonna need better clothes.” you said. “Maybe something with rhinestones. Do you think being a leader calls for more glitter or less?”

“I think you can wear a paper bag and they’d still kneel.” Hatter said simply.

That… made you quiet for a moment. Because it was the kind of thing Niragi would think, maybe Chishiya too, but Hatter just said it, out loud, without flinching. It made your heart feel like it had been gently twisted.

“I’m good with people,” you said softly. “but it doesn’t mean I always know what to do with them. Are you sure?”

“Completely.”

“And you’re sure they’ll follow me?”

“Completely.”

You sat with that. Not smiling. Just breathing.

Then, finally, you nodded once. “Okay.”

And that was it. A single word, but it was the start of everything.

“Okay.” you said again, more grounded this time. “So let’s say you do want me to be the next one. Say you get the full deck. What happens after that? Do I have to sit on a throne or something? Give speeches? I’m not that good at speeches. I mean, I talk, I talk a lot, but like, formal stuff? I’ll need practice.”

Hatter grinned at that, slow and approving. “No thrones. No speeches. You just keep being what you are. People follow light. You’re all light.”

You tilted your head at him, voice a little lower. “It’s not just about light though. You don’t pick me just because people like me. You’re smarter than that.”

He gave a slow nod, like he wasn’t surprised you saw through it.

“You understand leverage.” he said. “You understand timing. You know who to be in every room. You don’t think you do—but it’s instinct. The way you survive. And people like you want to make things better. It’s rare.”

“I also carry lobsters in my purse.” you added, gently. “Let’s not forget that.”

That made him laugh again, full and deep. But it faded quickly, his gaze turning distant for a moment. He looked at you like he was memorizing something. And then he said it.

“Something’s going to happen to you.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I don’t know what. But it’s coming.” His tone didn’t change much—still smooth, still calm—but something about the way he said it sent a strange chill through the room. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his fingers laced. “I’ve seen too many players. Watched the way fate curls around certain people. And with you… it’s circling. Something’s coming. I feel it.”

You paused, staring at him, for once not having anything quick to say. You didn’t laugh, didn’t call it dramatic, didn’t offer some witty remark. You just… looked at him.

Because a part of you knew it too. Even in your silly, soft world full of frogs and lobsters and candy-colored swimsuits—you felt it. That hum beneath the surface. That something was changing. That something had to.

“…You think I’m going to die?” you asked, quietly.

“No.” Hatter said. “No. Not death. You’re too golden for that. But you’re going to change. You’re going to become something bigger than you ever meant to be. It’ll tear things apart.”

You stared down at your hands, soft fingers and perfect nails. You’d never broken a bone. You cried when you saw roadkill. You fell asleep holding stuffed animals. And yet somehow, people kept handing you their secrets, their loyalty, their knives.

Your voice was small. “I don’t want to tear things apart.”

He nodded slowly. “That’s why it’s going to hurt.”

You let that sit between you, heavy as concrete. The room felt warmer than before, despite the air conditioning. You blinked, eyes glassy, but not crying.

“Will you still want me then?” you asked. “When I’m not all glitter and sunshine?”

“I’ll want you more.” he said. “Because that’s when the world will finally see what you are. Not cute. Not sweet. But power wrapped in a pink bow.”

You looked at him, silent. And then—softly, because you meant it—“I don’t want to be alone.”

“You won’t be.” he said. “Not ever.”

That, somehow, scared you more than anything.

“Thank you.” you said. Not light, not playful—no dramatic hand gestures or air-kisses or quips. Just two words. Solid. Real. And full of so much fucking gratitude it made Hatter lean back, like maybe the weight of it surprised even him.

You didn’t just mean thank you for the compliment, or the belief, or the safety of the room. You meant thank you for seeing you. For noticing that beneath the softness, the pink, the love for frogs and the way you were always touching people like the world might shatter without warmth—there was something more. Something sharp. Something terrifying. Something that could change everything if it wanted to.

And he saw it.

You hopped off the table. You just stood for a second. Watching him. Letting yourself be watched.

“I won’t let you down.” you said. And you meant that too.

“I know you won’t.” His voice was quiet. “Go now.”

He didn’t say it unkindly. There was nothing dismissive in the way he said it. Just… trust. And the kind of calm someone has when they know they’ve made the right bet.

You turned, soft steps already moving toward the door, and you paused only once—your hand on the frame—just to glance back and offer one last radiant smile.

Then you slipped out.

Hatter sat there long after the door closed behind you. Fingers steepled beneath his chin, elbows on his knees again.

He had no illusions about people. He knew most of the Beach would turn on him the second it served them. He knew men like Niragi would shoot their way to the top if they could, and men like Chishiya would wait for the perfect second to pull the rug out from under someone’s feet. Everyone here was a loaded gun waiting for the trigger.

But you? You were a bomb. Not even because you wanted to be. You didn’t crave power. You didn’t manipulate like Mira or command like Aguni or dominate like Niragi. You didn’t move like someone with ambition in their veins. You moved like someone who just wanted to love things. Everything. Everyone. It made people give you everything.

And when someone like that finally realized how much they were worth?

When they stopped trying to just survive and started to use it?

That was the kind of person history bent around.

Hatter leaned back in his chair and stared at the door, a slow breath pushing past his lips.

You weren’t ready to be worshipped.

But you were already being followed.

And if there was one person in this whole godforsaken Beach who had the potential to burn the entire system down—

It was you.

~

You’d waited by the pool, your arms folded beneath your chest at first, eyes sweeping the crowd for a flash of blonde or a blue bikini. Kuina. Chishiya. Where did they go? You left them right here. But they weren’t anywhere.

You thought about going to look for them—briefly. But the mood, the lights, the people calling your name, pulling you into conversations like you were the center of gravity—it swallowed you back in.

Yeah, it was nighttime by now.

So you stayed.

The Beach’s golden girl, barefoot by the water, skin kissed by the lights around the pool. Your pink sweater was long gone, peeled off sometime around your fourth half-drink, now left on a chair somewhere you’d definitely forget. All that was left was your bikini, a soft pink shade that somehow made you look both divine and painfully human. Your body looked like it belonged here. Your laughter did too.

You twirled someone’s sunglasses on your finger. Spoke to a group of players and made them smile. Someone offered you fruit cut into little stars. Another said you should be on a card. Someone called you the Beach’s luck charm.

And then—

Fingers at your back. A palm, brushing slow against your spine, curling into the strap of your bikini top.

You gasped—not because you were scandalized, but because your first thought was it’s falling.

You twisted around quick, your hair whipping across your bare shoulders.

Niragi.

Already holding the back of the strap in place like the asshole he was, one finger looped under it, tugging just enough to make your heart leap, but not enough to really take it off.

“Scared ya.” he said, so fucking smug.

Your mouth parted, words caught between a scold and a laugh.

“Are you serious?” you breathed, hand going to your chest as if he actually had pulled it off. “Niragi, I will end you.”

“You’d need both hands.” he said, voice lazy, cocky, leaning in. “And I think you’d like them somewhere else.”

Your jaw dropped. “You are so—oh my god—”

He was already letting the strap fall gently back into place, smoothing it over with an unnecessary graze of his thumb against your back. His hand lingered. Too long. He didn’t move away.

“You’re so annoying.” you muttered, even as you turned your face up to him with the same grin he’d seen you give strangers all night. Sweet. Lovable. Angelic.

But Niragi? He got the real version of it. The version that wanted to smack him and kiss him in the same breath.

He didn’t take you seriously. Not right now. He was like a fucking high schooler—so immature, grinning like he just stole a candy bar, like you were his favorite game.

But could you be angry?

No.

Not when he looked at you like that. Not when you knew the way he’d stood behind you in that meeting earlier, let you take his chair.

Not when he touched you like you were something to be handled carefully, even if he didn’t say it.

You rolled your eyes and pushed at his chest with one hand, but he caught your wrist. Held it. Not tight. Just… there.

“Don’t wander off like that.” he muttered, barely audible over the beat of the music.

“I didn’t.” you said. “You wandered off. Left me all alone in your room in the morning.”

He snorted, gaze dropping to your mouth, then to your legs, then back up to your eyes. “You’re a fuckin’ walking target like that. Someone’s gonna try something.”

“Someone did, actually.” you said, smug, chin tilted up.

His jaw twitched. “And?”

“And I said no.” you replied, simply. “Why would I say yes to someone when the person I actually want is just—”

You caught yourself.

He watched the stutter of your breath like a predator. “Go on.” he said. “Finish that.”

You just smiled again.

“I’m gonna get another drink.” you said, pulling your wrist from his hand gently. “Coming?”

He stared for a second longer, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to follow or grab you again, say something wild, say stay here with me, but in the end—

He scoffed.

And followed anyway.

You leaned half over the bar, arms bare and glittering slightly from whatever shimmer you’d slapped on earlier, as the bartender handed you another tall glass—fruit, mostly, juice, something sweet.

Niragi stood just behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat off him again, close enough to let everyone else know not to get any ideas.

“I’m gonna get you a lava lamp.” you announced, spinning around to lean your back against the bar now, drink in hand.

Of course you were still talking. Like always. Like he wasn’t dangerous. Like he wasn’t the guy who would gut someone in the hallway over a bad look. Like he didn’t burn things just to feel something. Like he didn’t hate the world and himself and everything in between.

Like you weren’t the one thing he didn’t hate.

He blinked at you. “…What the fuck are you talking about?”

“A lava lamp.” you repeated, sipping. “You know. Those glowing blob things? I just feel like you need one.”

“What the fuck am I gonna do with a lava lamp?”

“Look at it, obviously.” you said. “It’s soothing. Mood lighting. You could stare at it instead of staring at people like you want to murder them.”

He stared harder now. At you.

“You think a lamp’s gonna fix me?”

“I mean.” you tilted your head. “It probably won’t make you worse.”

“You’re fucked in the head.” he muttered, finally, poking at his mouth with his tongue, his piercing sliding over his lips.

“And you’re not?” you said, tone light and sugar sweet. “Please. We’re so similar.”

He scoffed again but didn’t disagree.

He never disagreed with you when it came to things like that.

You started walking, slowly, along the edge of the pool, and he moved with you, just barely a step behind, like it was natural. And it was.

That was the thing—you two got along. It didn’t make sense. No one would believe it. But it was true. You two got along so well. It was alarming.

You rambled, talking.

And he listened.

He didn’t interrupt much, just let the sound of your voice keep going, like it helped his brain from spiraling too deep into the other things—the hate, the self-loathing, the mess of rage constantly buzzing in his pretty skull. With you talking beside him, the world didn’t have to be like this. It could be soft. Ridiculous. Weird. Human.

And Niragi? Niragi just existed beside you.

He hated himself. He hated his past. He hated how fucking easy you made everything feel. Like this was normal. Like he was normal. And god, he wasn’t. He wasn’t.

He didn’t deserve you walking next to him, glittering like sunlight, talking about lava lamps and sipping some fruity shit with your mouth so pink and soft.

But still.

Still, here you were. With him.

“You know,” you said suddenly, glancing up at him as you walked. “no matter how much of an asshole you are, I actually really like talking to you.”

He didn’t respond.

Didn’t need to.

The silence was heavy between you, but not awkward. Not anymore. His hand brushed yours once. Then again. Not by accident.

You didn’t pull away. You just looked up at him, smiling that tired, crooked smile that came out when you were relaxed, real. Honest.

And Niragi? He didn’t smile back.

But inside—somewhere under the chaos and the rot and the fucked up parts of himself he usually tried to drown in smoke—his heart ached. Burned.

Because he knew, right then, that if he had to be stuck in this world forever, if it meant he could walk beside you like this, laughing about useless shit like lava lamps and watching you sip stupid drinks—

He’d take it. Every time.

Even if he hated himself for it.

He would burn the whole fucking world down for you.

No hesitation. No mercy. He’d do it smiling, with blood on his hands and smoke in his lungs. He’d watch everything turn to ash if it meant keeping you warm.

Because he was that kind of broken.

The kind of fucked up that didn’t need a reason, didn’t ask for justification. The kind that saw something beautiful—someone like you—and thought, mine. Immediately. Permanently.

And god, he knew how wrong that was.

He knew he wasn’t gentle. Knew he wasn’t soft. He wasn’t someone you could show off. He wasn’t the kind of boy you brought home to your family—he was the one you kept hidden. The one whose hands had already killed, already torn through skin, already carved pain into the world and felt nothing.

But when it came to you?

Everything in him screamed. Every nerve. Every cell. He couldn’t ignore you. Couldn’t even breathe without some part of him aching from it.

And it wasn’t just lust, wasn’t just obsession—not completely. It was deeper. Sicker. Worshipful. He thought about you constantly. The way your lips moved when you spoke. The dumb little expressions you made when you were telling one of your never-ending stories. The way you touched everyone without thinking, like your hands belonged on people’s arms and cheeks and shoulders. And how he’d kill anyone who got used to that.

They don’t get to touch you like that.

Because you were light. And he was rot. A thing full of rage and bitterness and cruelty, the kind of man people crossed the street to avoid, the kind that would never get love in return—just fear, just submission, just sexual touches in the dark.

But you? You had smiled at him from day one. Unafraid. Curious.

You’d kissed him. Told him you wanted to. Said it like it was no big deal, like it didn’t mean everything. And that kiss had lodged itself in his skull like a bullet, still there, still bleeding. You didn’t know what this was.

But he did.

It was everything.

He watched you now, walking ahead slightly, your hair catching the lights from the party, hips swaying in that goddamn bikini that made him want to break furniture and bite through his fucking lip.

And it made him mad. Mad that someone like you existed. Mad that someone like him got to be near you. Mad that he wanted more than this, more than what you’d already given him.

He wanted your trust. Your time. Your whole body under him, around him, your smile made just for him. He wanted your loyalty, your softness, your everything.

And yeah. He was sick in the head. He knew that.

He would chain the sun for you if you asked. Would tear down every tower in this city and light the sky on fire just to make you laugh.

He would paint your name in blood and swear it was poetry.

That’s who he was.

And he hated it. Hated that you made him want to be seen. Hated that when you were around, he didn’t feel empty. He felt human.

He hated that he loved it.

“You’re staring.” you said, turning back to glance at him, head tilted. Innocent. Unaware.

“Yeah?” he said. “Get used to it.”

Because there was no world—no Beach, no Borderland, no Earth—where he would ever stop.

Hopeless. That’s what his heart was. Niragi—who had no business having one in the first place—felt it fracture in slow, quiet pieces every time you turned that sunlit face away from him, smiled at someone else, touched someone else.

He was too far gone.

He wanted mornings with you. Not just nights full of smoke and skin and laughter muffled into kisses, but mornings. That soft light through the window bullshit. Waking up with your hair against his chest, your legs tangled with his. You in a hoodie that wasn’t yours—maybe his, maybe stolen from someone else just because it made you look that cute.

He wanted to hear your voice in the morning before it smoothed out. Wanted to be the first thing you saw when you opened those ridiculous eyes. Wanted to make coffee with you and let you feed your stupid lobster and your frog, and act like any of this was normal.

Wanted to sit in silence with you. Wanted to hold your hand in a room full of people and never explain why.

He wanted all the things he wasn’t supposed to want.

Things no one like him deserved.

And the worst part? You didn’t even know. You never noticed how he was coming apart at the seams for you, how just the way you said his name could change the whole fucking temperature of his body. How badly he wanted to undo himself, completely, just to make you smile.

And then—fucking then—Akira.

Of course it was Akira.

He always looked clean. Cool. Smelled like expensive cologne and didn’t have blood on his hands. Probably never killed anyone with his bare fingers. The kind of guy who called you “princess” in his head.

Niragi knew the type. Knew he had nothing on him when it came to danger, but that was the issue, wasn’t it? You liked danger. You liked him. But Akira was safe. Akira didn’t bite. Akira didn’t bleed out at night in his head thinking about your laugh.

The guy nodded at Niragi. Nodded. Like they were boys. Like they were on the same level.

Niragi’s eyes didn’t move. Didn’t twitch. He watched Akira’s hand slide too casually over your shoulder, fingers brushing the soft skin of your upper back like he’d earned that right.

And you—too sweet to notice the shift—just turned to talk to him, light in your eyes, sun in your voice.

That was it.

Something in Niragi cracked so deeply it didn’t even make a sound. It was clean, internal, permanent. Like a light switch flipping off inside.

He didn’t growl. Didn’t scream. Didn’t grab the guy and snap his wrist like he wanted to.

Instead, his hand—steady, gentle, controlling—landed on your waist. He leaned in, teeth brushing your ear. “Aguni wants to talk to you.” he said. Voice soft. Controlled.

You turned to him immediately. “He does?” Like it was the best news you’d heard all night. He nodded, brushing a stray bit of hair from your cheek, then let you go.

He watched you walk away, smiling over your shoulder. Always smiling.

And then he turned.

No expression on his face now. Just something new behind the eyes.

He had never done this before.

Never willingly sought him out.

But right now? There was only one person sick enough, smart enough, and cold enough to understand what needed to be done.

And he knew exactly who to ask.

Chishiya.

❤︎︎ @lizntstoptalking @cherryheairt @fiction-fantasy-folks @monkey4lifer @psychicyouthfox @so-dramatic1 @mypsychoticlove @unhinged-sorcerer @rattymess @mocchii-writes @adanfore @scarlet703 @fluentgoddess @maxinehufflepuffprincess @onyxmango @bluerthanvelvet444 @risingofjupiter @enhasrii @potato-vagina @cherryyserenade @l5byrinth @soaplickerrr @sillyenemyarcade @miellette @sk1ndx0

[catsgut]

uhmm so… you asked for more scumbag!toji… i just… fucking his enemy’s (gojo’s) sister on gojo’s bed??? i’m sorry i’m thinking with my 😺 rn… even better if shes a virgin

THIS IS SO GOOD(ノ ̿ ̿ᴥ ̿ ̿)ノ you’re so smart hehe…. i made this kinda long? bc it was sm fun to write also i luv my baby so much i gotta treat her <3

warnings: drugs, geto and gojo are sleezey, toji is.. scummy, loss of virginity, SPITTTTT, dubcon kinda, size kink galore, blood, rough sex, UMMM INCEST SORTA HELLOOOOOOOOO

honestly, you didn’t care for your brother very much. he was condescending and didn’t have very good morals. you could tell his priorities were all wrong and twisted, but it was him or your parents, and you’d take satoru any day. at least he didn’t put almost impossible expectations on you. in fact, the only things he expected if you was to cover your share of rent and buy groceries.

and geto was nice enough. he, for some reason, was always up early enough to talk to you before you went to class. the conversations were normal for the most part, but the loud moans coming from his bedroom most nights were enough to keep you permanently pissed off at him. he seemed to think it was funny, constantly teasing you about how good he made “that bitch” feel. you couldn’t deny he was attractive, but he teased you too much to give it any thought.

you still went to college and tried your best to set yourself up for success, but it was hard when you had to come home to your man child brother and his equally immature roommate. the house constantly smelled like weed and you were worried it would stick to your clothes. you didn’t want anyone to get a bad impression of you, but of course that was impossible when satoru was your brother.

you knew they made most of their money through selling drugs, but you had no idea the extent to it. it wasn’t that they didnt want you to know, you were just always horded up in your bedroom whenever you weren’t in class. not once had you ever come out while they had people over, not wanting to have to hold a conversation with your brothers brain dead friends.

but tonight you just really had to use the bathroom. you tried your best to hold it, sucking the end of your pen and you tried putting your focus on studying, but as the time ticked on your bladder slowly started burning.

“fuck,” you groaned. maybe you could sneak into the bathroom without being noticed, so you put your house slippers on and slowly opened your door a crack. you could see geto sitting on the love seat facing another man sitting on the couch opposite of him. you hadn’t ever seen him before, but by the look of his back you could tell he was very big. his hair was dark and shoulders broad. they were talking in quiet voices, but the man sounded annoyed. you could slightly make out your brothers name being said in an aggravated tone.

tiptoeing into the hallway, you hurried into the bathroom and quietly shut the door. you didn’t know why your heartbeat was beating so hard, but nonetheless you were glad you made it into the bathroom unnoticed. you did your business and combed your fingers through your hair. looking into the mirror, you saw you looked tired with bags under your eyes. probably from all the sleepless nights studying.

quietly, you opened the bathroom door hoping they were still occupied with talking. not seeing anyone, you opened it fully and stepped out. you thought you were in the clear before you heard a voice.

“y/n?” geto called out from the living room, dread filling your body. shit. they never made you talk to any of the guests they invited over, so why now of all times? “yeah?” you called out, voice sounding small as you walked into the living room. the man was now facing you and you could make out a scar on his lips. he was handsome for sure, but looked scary, someone you should stay away from— you couldn’t help but feel butterflies in your tummy.

“yeah, geto?” you asked again looking over at your roommate. he smiled sweetly, something that always threw you off. “have you heard from your brother at all? he owes toji here a lot of money, but we can’t seem to get a hold of him.”

you rolled your eyes. that sounded like satoru. “um he’s probably with a girl or somethin’,” you rubbed your clothed foot against your ankle.

“that’s too bad,” you heard geto say, but you weren’t really listening. looking back over at the man you saw he was no longer looking at you. you were able to get a better view of him, seeing just how big he was. his tight black shirt hugged his body nicely and he was pairing it with some grey sweatpants. his legs were spread out and part of you wished you were between him.

you looked back over at geto and saw he was grinning. he gestured over to toji with his eyes and winked. you could feel your face heating up in embarrassment. “well i have a paper to write… so uh goodnight.” you looked back to toji and smiled politely before going back into the safety of your bedroom.

that night when you laid in your bed, you couldn’t stop thinking about toji. he looked exactly like the type of man you should stay away from, but it was that very reason that had you grinding down on your pillow that night.

a couple days had past and you hadn’t heard from your brother. this wasn’t uncommon as he liked to lay low when someone was searching for him, so you brushed it off thinking it was just your brother being the typical asshole he was. geto seemed to be gone a lot, too. that was more uncommon, but non of your business. it was actually nice to have the house to yourself for once. you got some cleaning done and even got all caught up on homework.

you were currently sitting on the couch scrolling through your phone when there was a loud knock on the door. it startled you, but you got up to open it anyway thinking one of them misplaced their key (something that happened often.) what you weren’t expecting to see was an angry looking toji. “c-can um i help you?” you tried to sound nice but it just came out frightened.

“no, but gojo can. he home?” his voice was low and you wondered if satoru had really fucked up this time. this time you tried to muster up all your confidence saying “no, he isn’t home. you can go now,” but that only seemed to annoy him even more.

he shoved past you, yelling your brothers name. the sudden action made you stumble back in fear of what he was going to do to. you didn’t have it in you to fight back only telling him again that he wasn’t here.

“well i guess ill hang around till he gets back. your brother owes me money an’ im not leavin’ till i get somethin’.” he sat his large body on the couch and sighed. you watched him close his eyes and cross his arms as if he was going to sleep.

“would you like something to drink?” you didn’t know why you were trying to be nice to him after he clearly invited himself inside, but you couldn’t help but want his attention. not saying a word, his eyes opened and stared at you. “we have water and um juice.”

toji continued to stare at you only he was smiling now. it didn’t look friendly, but that feeling in the pit of your stomach slowly started to return. “how about you hang out with me over here,” he suggested, beckoning you one with his ring and middle finger. you didn’t understand, but he was making a motion that looked similar to fingering a girl.

nervously, you went over and sat next to him. despite the uneasy feeling you were getting, this was the most exciting thing you’ve done in a long time. you’ve never been this close to a man like him. the way he stared down at you made you feel small.

“man you’re cute, you sure you’re gojo’s sister?” he smiled and for a second he looked kind. you giggled nervously at his question feeling your face heat up. “um thank you.” the tension in the air was thick and you weren’t sure if you could keep this up. you knew it was wrong to let a man talk to you like this, but you were too scared to do anything about it. if anything, you wanted more.

“my brother might not be home for a while.” you heard yourself say while fidgeting with your fingers. “you can still um.. stay here though.” closing your eyes, you could feel his hot breath on the side of your face. it didn’t smell the best, but the wet patch growing in your panties distracted you.

“i don’t mind spendin’ some time with you, little girl.” you gulped and looked back up to his to see his face was only a couple inches from yours. you could understand that you brother absolutely did not like this man, but that didn’t stop you from closing your eyes when toji leaned in. you opened your mouth obediently, letting his big tongue dig around in it.

toji chuckled at your inexperience and grabbed at your thighs. they were squeezed together, trying desperately to get some friction. “damn you’re a little slut,” he groaned into your mouth. “lettin’ a stranger touch you like this.”

you whimpered when you felt his fingers get tangled in your hair. you couldn’t lie that this was exciting. for once in your life you felt so good doing something so bad. this man could be anyone, could do anything to you, but you were counting on it. in this moment, he could be a murderer and you would spread your little legs for him.

your tongue was hanging out from between your lips, drool dripping onto your lap. toji was kissing and biting the skin on your neck, one hand in your hair and the other lifting one of your legs to your chest. he leaned down to peak under your skirt and you watched him grin.

you brought your hands up to cover your face when toji got down on his knees and spread your legs. he pressed his tongue against your panties and sucked harshly. you peeked at him through your fingers, eyes wide in pleasure.

your fingers could never make you feel this good. your whole pussy was now on toji’s mouth. he was being so nasty the way his saliva soaked your panties.

“u-um can we go to the bed… please?” the thought of geto coming home and seeing you like this made you shiver. you would never be able to live it down.

“anything f’this pussy,” he laughed and scooped you up by your armpits. he carried you down the hallway with ease and into a random room. you instantly recognized it at satoru’s, but toji didn’t seem to care. his shirt was already off by the time he set you down and that was enough for you not to care either.

“look at you turnin’ into such a little whore.” you lifted your tank top over your tits to show him your lacey bra. trying your best to look seductive, you pulled your panties halfway down your thighs. toji didn’t seem to care about your little performance, though, instead forcing you on all fours. your face hit the comforter of satoru’s bed and you were suddenly aware of how real the situation was. you could smell your big brother as toji slid his fat tip up and down your pussy lips.

“w-wait m’not read-“ your eyes rolled to the back of your head as he pushed himself in all the way. with a loud groan, toji began force fucking you into the mattress.

this was sex? you’ve never felt this kind of pain in your life. “shit— you a virgin?” you heard him ask after seeing blood on his cock. he still didn’t slow down, instead picking up his pace. one thing about toji was he loved fucking girls dumb. especially, virgins.

your fingers reached up to grab a pillow to bury your face into. the sudden guilt of fucking this man in your brothers bed brought tears to your eyes. “ssstru,” you tried to moan out to your brother, eyes crossing when toji propped a foot on the bed to get deeper angle.

“ha! you really are a slut! moanin’ out your brothers name while i tear this pussy up.” you whimpered at his words knowing he was right. you couldn’t hide the fact you were close to your orgasm with the way your pussy was leaving a white ring around his cock.

“ah ah!” your moans filled the room as he rammed into you. you could tell he was close too when he leaned forward to press his big chest against your back. “gnna cum in this kitty,” he groaned in your ear before biting it. you tried to protest but he covered your mouth with a hand. not long after you felt warmth filling your insides. toji’s pace slowed as he fucked his cum in you, babbling about how he was going to “knock you up as pay back.”

you were too fucked out to care, though, laying there as he pulled out and stood. you listened to him wiping his dick off with a random shirt he found before dressing himself and leaving the room. you listened to him rummage through the living room, probably for cash or weed. you listened to the front door shut and then a few minutes later you heard it open again.

dread filled your body when familiar voices filled the hallway near the door. your legs hurt too much to move, so you braced yourself as the footsteps neared.

no one said anything, already knowing of the situation. you laid there, silently crying, back arched and bare ass exposed with cum leaking out of your pussy, while gojo and geto stood in the doorway. geto looked unbothered as he stepped closer to get a better look, the tent in his pants and obvious sign he liked what he saw.

gojo on the other hand looked furious. he knew toji was up to no good when he saw his smugly leave his front door, not even asking him for the money he owed. he knew he took something of similar value, just not that he took this.

his eyes traveled down to your lower half and he understood why geto wanted a better look. you looked so erotic with cum leaking out of your hole and red hand prints on your ass.

gojo turned around and walked out of the room in denial, but deep down, he knew there was no other explanation for the hardness in his pants.

[yanderemommabean]

You did not in fact hear the last of the yandere opener and headliner, I just passively kept them in my brain with vague scenarios that weren’t worth sharing but now that has changed because I got tickets for a show in that same venue with a band that has similar vibes to them and now it’s gone from “What if they took me with them on their bus that night” to “What if they missed their chance and now have been staking out the rock shows in the city in hopes of finding me again.” (Also I felt I didn’t give the the headliner the attention he deserves so this is my apology to him.)

The two of them both simmering together in their want for me for months, resulting in them being a little more cooperative than they would be otherwise. They spent the rest of the tour picking up groupies that bear some resemblance to me to take the edge off, but they know they won’t be satisfied with cheap knockoffs. The only information they know about me is the name I gave to the opener when I met him at the merch table and the fact that I seemed to really enjoy their type of music. The headliner uses his connections to keep an eye on the reservations for as many rock shows in the city he can, and when the opener confirms one particular name as mine, they know they’ve hit the jackpot. And better yet, they have a few months to plan. They’ve waited this long, what’s a little more?

Day of the show, there I am by myself at the front of the line, scrolling though my phone as I wait for the doors to open. When I get a sense that someone’s standing near me, who do I see but the opener, who seems just as pleasantly surprised to meet again. We pass the time chatting away, with me none the wiser to the headliner behind the closed doors setting everything into motion. A little threat to security should they get in the way, a little bribe to the bartenders to look the other way should something wind up in my drink. By the time the crowd starts to pour in, he’s already taken his seat in a dark VIP table in the corner, watching me strut in with the opener’s arm slung around me.

Is he a little jealous that he doesn’t get to be the one cozying to me during the show? Absolutely, but he can begrudgingly admit that the opener was the one who built a rapport with me last time and is the ideal distraction. Less impulsive, less recognizable, less threatening. The fact that he was promised that I’d be bunking with him that first night if he let the opener have his fun tonight definitely didn’t hurt his resolve.

On his end, the opener’s on cloud nine from the moment I greeted him with a smile. With no barrier or merch table between us, he can smell my perfume, feel the heat radiating off my skin, hear every little giggle as he chats me up. It’s taking every ounce of his self control not to just pull me into a dark hallway and devour me, but he knows all good things come to those who wait. So he flirts and he dotes, taking in every word I say like it’s the new gospel, breaking down my walls bit by bit. As we stroll inside, he leans in to give me a quick kiss, saying he’ll be right back with our drinks and leaving while I’m still too flustered to object.

I don’t buy a single one of my drinks all night. Every time I start running low, there he is with a refill and an innocent smile, even as I tell him I should slow down, feeling dizzy and lethargic by the third drink. He coos that he’s seen me drink more than this before, I can handle more, he knows I can. Before the band performing that night has even completed their sound check, I’m wasted and incoherent, and just a little afraid as I finally pick up on how weird it really is seeing a man who lives a few hundred miles from this city again. Not that it does me much good as I collapse into his arms, the last thing I see being his eyes, gleaming with emotions I don’t want to think about.

For a second he holds me and just looks at me, moving some of my hair out of my face as he considers my unconscious form. It would be so easy to call off the deal, to snatch me away for his own fun. He wouldn’t even have to restrain me. I’d look so pretty, laid out on his bed for the taking, unable to protest or fight back. Just as he really starts to consider it, the headliner is there to grab his arm and start pulling him toward the fire escape. It’s for the best. The headliner would be insufferable if he felt cheated, and besides, it wouldn’t be half as much fun not getting to hear me cry and moan for him.

As I start to stir, the first thing I process is a tight pressure around my waist and a warm body behind me. Instinctively, I begin to shift and tiredly tug at my unknown restraint, only serving for it to get tighter as a low voice chuckles in my ear making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “‘Bout time.” My faculties properly returning, the panic quickly takes over my mind. Before I can get more than a quick thrash in, however, the arm around my waist pulls back and two strong hands grab my wrists, rolling me onto my stomach with a heavy weight pinning me down. It’s only as I’m forced into such a vulnerable position that I become starkly aware of my missing clothes. The stranger on top of me is slowly rutting against my ass, a prominent clothed hardness pushing into my skin in teasing, exploring motions. A deep groan of satisfaction comes from above me. “Fuuuck, you feel just as good as I’d imagined you would under me.” A particularly insistent thrust draws a whimper from my throat, and I feel the hands around my wrists tighten in barely contained excitement. “Maybe even better.”

My wrists are released, the man on top of me still planted too firmly on me for me to get more than a few squirms under him. My blood runs cold as I hear first the sound of a shirt being discarded somewhere in my periphery, and freezes solid at the unmistakeable sound of a belt coming undone. My struggle renews, but my arms are grabbed once more, yanked behind my back and secured together with the tight leather. Tears of confusion, fear, and humiliation begin to pour from my eyes, but all they get me is a condescending pat on the shoulder blades as I feel his hot cock now push directly against me, a hiss of pleasure slipping through his teeth. Not even bothering to get fully undressed, I feel the teeth of his jeans biting into my thighs as he slides his dick back and forth across my cunt, the head rubbing against my clit over and over again as I close my eyes and try not to think about how good it feels.

As he feels my cunt get wetter with every push against my sensitive bundle of nerves, the headliner can feel his mind go more and more blank. He’d dreamt for so long about what this pussy would feel like cupping his dick and none of those fantasies measured up to the real thing. Unable to hold back anymore, the hand that isn’t holding my arms hostage reaches down to adjust his angle, pushing directly against my hole. The reaction is immediate. My struggles renew yet again, panicked cries begging him not to do it, to let me go, but he’s barely even registering my words as he thrusts into me, his head finally consumed by the wet warmth he’s craved for months. He can’t help the deep groan that comes out overtop my pitiful crying, nor can he help the automatic push of his hips to force more inside of me, stretching me painfully as he sinks deeper and deeper.

When he finally gets all the way down to the hilt, he stops for a moment, panting, appreciating the sigh before him. My pretty makeup for the show smudged into his pillows, my shoulders heaving with painful sobs, my wrists still pushing against their restraints in hope of freedom. He’s never seen something quite so beautiful. One of his hands gently glides across my torso, taking in every curve as he gives my body a chance to adjust. His hand finally comes to rest firmly on my shoulder as he leans down until I can feel his hot breath against my face. His low, vaguely familiar voice murmuring empty platitudes into my ear, urging me to just relax and let it happen as his hips begin to stir in impatience.

Tired of waiting for me to hurry vu and accept him, the headliner pushes himself back up, gripping the belt tight and holding my hip as be begins to rail me into the mattress. Months of longing, of desperation, of frustration all coming out as once as he drives into my cunt, slamming into my g-spot again and again. I can’t even hold onto the mattress to ground myself, fingernails cutting into my palm as I try not to lose myself in the feeling. As I bite down my moans and whines, above me, he openly groans and rambles. “God, such a good tight little pussy. Knew you’d feel good, but holy shit, baby. You’re fucking divine. Taking me so fucking well, this is what you were born to do, huh?”

Between the filth spewing from how mouth, the thick cock pounding my insides, and my clit rubbing against the sheets with every rock of his hips, I never stood a chance. I cum within a minute, screaming into the pillow, body tensing and writhing as the high takes me over. Throughout it all, he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow. No, all he does is let go of my hip in favor of grabbing my hair, yanking my face up from the pillow. For the first time, I finally get a good long look at the stranger treating me like a living sex toy, and if I wasn’t already high off the nonstop waves of overstimulation, I’d have screamed again in horror at the sight of the renowned musician grinning down at me with a mad, loving gleam in his eye. “That quick, huh? Oh, we’re gonna have SO much fun with you.”

Across the hall, in his own bedroom, the opener lays back in bed, serenaded by the sounds of me crying in pleasure from the other side of the apartment the two had rented. While he regrets not taking me when he had the chance, he can’t deny the sounds of me being thrown over the edge over and over made for beautiful music. His own dick twitches from the confines of his boxers, but while he lazily palms over it, he decides against fully taking care of it.

After all, tomorrow is his turn, and he’d hate to spend that energy before the main event.

AAAHHH!!!! YES YES YES YES YES!!!! I love your brain!!! ugh I'm so addicted to how you describe things too, the way they grunt and taunt, how they roughly yank on the belt, how the zippers press against you- This was amazing!!!!

100/10 eating this again and again and again and again and again and again and-

-Mommabean

[alexanderlightweight]

I now love Wednesdays due to your open prompts. Perfect way to get over the hump mid-week.

My ask this week - does anyone from the shadow world see Alec in his peak mob-wife self? Like - do any other downworlders stumble across these meetings (or the yacht party) and what transpires?

(I'm thinking of an out of area 300 year old vampire or warlock seeing Alec in a corset vest & thigh high boots, draped across Magnus, wondering "what in the actual fuck is going on here?")

Who else knows about Alec as a mob-wife (I can't imagine Simon could keep his mouth closed)?

SFM/NSFW - your choice

As always, thank you for your writing!

i'm glad it can help! honestly it's what gets me through the week too and I really needed it today. so i'm having fun with the prompts ty.

i hope you enjoy this

<3 lumine

dressed to kill

Lily really wishes she was anywhere in the shadowworld than out here, in the mundane one. Her pantsuit is the only thing getting her through this, that and the fact that Raphael will owe her three more, from his personal tailor.

That’s worth mingling with the mundanes as she is. Trying to chase down a lead they finally have on a feeder den whose slipping yin fen into drugs, trying to bring down ‘willing’ blood bags.

It’s with the reminder that not only is it important to get this handled before someone more dangerous is called — and that three suits are on the line. So while she doesn’t have to smile, she also needs to keep her fangs to herself. 

The crowd is easy to enter with a simple encanto and once inside, well Lily is good at blending in when she wants to. That’s about the only thing that holds her together when she recognizes the couple seated together on a chair barely meant for one, let alone two.

It should look ridiculous but they just look intimate, like sharing the same space is better than breathing.

Lily only knows one couple who acts like that with such an intense aura and she certainly didn’t expect to see them here.

Simon's drunken rambling tirade suddenly makes less sense as reality than it did as a fever dream.

—

Mari is about to go talk to the new quality tester, Lily. She’s brisk and smart and she’s so no-nonsense that Leo can barely handle talking to her without retreating. However she’s new and probably doesn’t know anyone. Not only that but, well, Mari admires strong women.

Lily surprises her when she steps forward and bows to Magnus Bane. Nothing too noticeable or low but it’s a sign of respect on a woman whose face looked like she didn’t know what the word meant. Even now, the respect she gives is carefully measured out and seems well-earned and Mari wonders again, just what kind of life Magnus Bane lives.

The thing that surprises Mari is that Lily clearly doesn’t know how to handle Alec. She doesn’t seem to know where to look or how to handle his presence, even though she clearly knows Bane.

Actually, she knows Alec too. It’s clearer now, the more Mari watches. Lily is distinctly uncomfortable with looking at Alec and while Mari feels like it has to do with his clothes, it’s not because of what he’s wearing. Then Mari sees the almost helpless look Lily gives him — from the collar around Alec’s neck to his heels to his husband and realizes it’s because Lily doesn’t know where she’s allowed to look.

Clearly this isn’t as common a look as they’ve been led to believe, or perhaps it’s less common in business, which is where Lily clearly knows the two.  The thing is, Alec doesn’t treat anything like business so it’s clear that at some point a line is drawn, between whatever he is and who he is as Magnus’ husband.

Mari wonders between the two, if knowing Alec via business or as Magnus’ husband is worse.

—

“Poor dear, she looks like lightning will strike her if her eyes linger anywhere on you for more than half a second.”Magnus is laughing in Alec’s hair and then he murmurs, “though she’s not wrong.  Half a second is practically minutes for a vampire. Far too long for me to share the sight of you with anyone.”

“Didn’t we dress so that people would look at the both of us?”

“Yes, but I find this more amusing.”

Alec kisses Magnus rather than laugh as loud as he wants to. Of course that’s the reason Magnus decided to go this route and honestly, Alec can’t wait for the first time he wears something like this to Pandemonium.

Magnus is going to find no one being able to look at him hilarious and anyone who does look... well Magnus enjoys working out.

-

i hope you enjoy where I went with this, I didn't have the spoons to make up a new character so I borrowed Lily.

magnus really does change things based on his whims and alec's just straight faced: that was the plan all along. what are you talking about? he will gaslight you for his husband 100%

[sapphicantics]

Two Sides of the Same Coin | Chapter Two

Pairing: Regina George x fem!reader

Summary: After a nobody destroys the Jocks and insults the Queen Bee without a care or an apology, you get catapulted to the top of the social food chain next to aforementioned Queen Bee, Regina George, who now has to learn to share the spotlight with North Shore’s new bad girl. | Or alternatively, your ‘don’t give a fuck’ attitude sucks you and Regina into each other’s worlds sending you down a path you never expected.

Word count: 1.5k

Contents: mentions of violence, reader might be coming off a bit toxic but she’s meant to be cocky, angry!Regina, sexual tension???, explicit language, a little stalking, more shitty comebacks, think that’s all let me know if I missed any

Note: Well, this chapter took a different turn than I was expecting but honestly I think this is better than what was originally planned. Certain parts of this chapter made me cackle while writing and I hope it makes you cackle too so enjoy my shitty sense of humor

Intro - Chapter One

— — — —

Assuming it’d be a hell of a day might have been a little dramatic.

It’s been a day so far, sure, but nothing different than what you’re used to.

You’ve got a busted lip and your knuckles are sore from, for lack of a better term, bashing Christian Wiggins face in this morning and sending him to the nurse’s office. Perhaps, you’d feel guilty if it wasn’t for the fact that he busted your lip open first.

As often as you have been getting into fights, you thought someone would have noticed by now that you don’t ever throw the first punch - thus granting you the excuse of self-defense.

Though, even if they did know the jocks have far less self control than you and would never be able to refrain from reacting to the things you say.

Speaking of refraining from reacting, Regina has been watching you all day. She still is, right now. Well, technically Gretchen is watching you, but you know she’s doing it because Regina told her to and you know she’s gonna report back to Regina immediately because Regina told her to.

Seems a little obsessive of her, really.

Which is funny considering.

Whatever, you don’t have anything to do with that. If Regina wants to have her little minions following you around then that’s her business.

Also you’re pretty sure Regina intended for Gretchen to be discreet and not make it obvious that she’s watching you, but maybe you’re wrong. Maybe Regina wants you to know she’s watching.

That sounds like something she’d do as an act of intimidation, or even just for fun so you wouldn’t put it past her.

Either way, you know Gretchen is there.

You wouldn’t find this weird because you two do share this class. Normally, you guys sit on opposite sides of the room from each other, but Gretchen is now sitting three seats behind you - not too far away where she can’t see you clearly, but not close enough to where it’s obvious.

( Or maybe it wouldn’t have been obvious if you showed up to class on time, but since you didn’t it was immediately apparent that she switched seats. )

You ignore it because one: you don’t care, and two: what exactly are you gonna do about it? Gretchen’s already anxious enough having to deal with Regina’s bitchiness daily, you’re not about to worsen it by confronting her over something so trivial.

You catch her taking pictures of you and typing rapidly on her phone moments after you have this thought, and now you just have to confront her.

You catch her after the bell before she can escape the classroom, throwing your arm over her shoulder and steering her away from the door. She squeaks as you do so, tightening her grip on her belongings. “So Gretchen, mind telling me why you were taking photos of me when you thought I wasn’t looking?”

She stammers, her eyes widening. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about. I wasn’t taking pictures of you.”

“Right. So if I took your phone and went to your messages with Regina I wouldn’t find pictures with live updates you’ve been sending her during class?”

Gretchen’s hand tightens even more on her phone if that’s possible, her knuckles turning white with how hard her grip is.

That’s answer enough for you.

“Yeah that’s what I thought. Do me a favor,” you hum, leaning closer to Gretchen. “Tell Regina, and I want you to tell her word for word what I’m about to say, to stop acting like a little bitch and sending her minions to spy on me instead of coming to see me face-to-face.”

Gretchen’s mouth drops open. “I can’t say that to her! She’ll kill me!”

“You’ll be fine as long as you mention my name immediately,” you wave off her concerns which is kind of a rude thing to do, but the whole school already thinks you’re a rude person so may as well uphold the reputation. “Word for word, Gretchen. I’ll know if you don’t.”

That sounds vaguely like a threat that implies you’re gonna come after her if she doesn’t say it word for word. You’re not, but she doesn’t need to know that.

“Go on, Gretchen, you’ve only got a minute and a half before the next class starts, and I’m sure you know how Regina feels about being kept waiting.”

You take your arm off her shoulders and after a moment, she peels out of the classroom, rushing off to Regina.

You sigh and shake your head, you feel bad for that because Gretchen did not deserve your threats and she doesn’t deserve the ire she’s about to get from Regina.

You’d apologize, but you’re sure you’ll never be able to get close to Gretchen again after this.

It’s too late to take it back now so you exit the room and head off to your next class on the opposite side of the school.

— — — —

North shore doesn’t allow students to leave the school early without prior consent from a parent or guardian, or under special circumstances, which you have neither of right now. They don’t really have a way to stop you from leaving, but they will call home and Principal Duvall will pull you into his office in the morning for a lecture, and those are headaches waiting to happen that you’d rather avoid. So even though you’d rather be anywhere else, you’re spending your free period — your last class of the day — lounging around in the cafeteria.

You’re sitting criss-cross atop a table, elbow resting bent upon your knee while your chin rests in the palm of your hand. You’re staring out the window, a single earbud in while Hayley Kiyoko plays in your ear.

You hum along under your breath, a faint clicking noise drawing your eyes to the cafeteria entrance. The doors burst open and in walks Regina, her eyes honing in on you like a target. Her fury is palpable even from here and it makes you smirk knowing you’re able to get under her skin — knowing you’re the only one able to get under her skin like this.

Does this say a lot about you? That you find joy in making Regina angry?

Yes, probably, but why shouldn’t you find joy in calling a bully out on their shit.

Regina slams her hands on the table in front of you interrupting your thoughts. Her glare is intense, and if you were anyone else you’d be cowering under her gaze. Instead, you cock an eyebrow, completely un-phased by the blonde in front of you.

“Something I can do for you, George?”

“You think you’re such hot shit, don’t you? You think you can call me a bitch and get away with it; with no consequences?”

“Oh, no, does the big bad Queen Bee not like being called what she knows she is?” You pout mockingly at her. “Is that all it takes for you to lose your cool, being called a bitch?”

You laugh loudly at that.

It stokes the flames of Regina’s anger and she yanks you up by your collar, your shoes scraping the edge of the table before landing harshly on the floor as Regina slams you against the wall.

Huh, look at that. Prissy pink princess Regina George has the muscles to throw you around.

This is quite the development.

“Congratulations George, you’ve made it about two steps further than anyone else ever has. Think carefully about your next move, lest I let my instincts take over and I fuck up that pretty little face of yours.”

“You have no idea who you’re messing with. I will ruin your life.” She growls at you, ignoring your words.

“Threatening to ruin my life,” you tilt your head in amusement, leaning your face closer to hers. “Seems rather obsessive of you, George. Perhaps you wanna kiss me first. That’s quite on brand for you.”

Regina’s jaw clenches and her grip on you tightens. She goes to speak, but the bell ringing to signal the end of the day cuts her off and you smirk. “You might wanna let me go. If anyone walks by they’ll think you’re making out with me and then everyone will be calling you Sissy Liz, and we can’t have that, now can we?”

Wow, threatening to fight Regina and bringing up her old friendship with Janis — twice, in two different ways — all in a span of like forty-five seconds is absolutely insane.

Regina scowls at you, her eyes practically alight with malice. She doesn’t want to let you go because if she does that means you win, that means you get away with disrespecting her for the third time with no consequences, and no one wins against her, no one is supposed to win against her ever, but you’ve done it twice now and you’re about to do it again.

She shoves you harshly against the wall one last time at the realization and, wow, you’re really priding yourself at the moment because the fact that she’s still standing when anyone else would be on the ground right now speaks volumes to your self-control, but then anyone else would’ve hit you by now so maybe it speaks more to Regina’s intelligence that she’s not.

“This is not over.” With that she turns on her heel and storms away, leaving you with a smirk as you watch her retreating figure.

[dear-ao3]

hi. you did not ask for it but i feel inclined to share with you some bits and pieces of indycar lore.

-georgina. georgina is a mannequin that hangs on a bridge at barber motorsports park, one of the tracks we race at, during the 2024 race there she fell down in the middle of the race and onto the track, a driver ran her wrist over and shredded it, the safety team loaded her up into the back of their truck, and later the driver who hit her (scott mclaughlin) posted a photo of him holding her hand up.

-will power ‘double birds’. it’s self explanatory, will power is a menace in the purest form of the word, and he is NOT afraid to flip off fellow drivers or, most famously, race control.

-the firestone firehawk, aka murderhawk. highly loved by fans and drivers, the mascot for firestone tires (which is what indycar uses) who is always at indycar races, frequently seen looming ominously around whoever they can get their hands on, hence the nickname murderhawk.

-bus bros. cannot even begin to explain the depths of lore here but im sure someone would be happy to. once a youtube series and friendship between drivers and teammates scott mclaughlin and josef newgarden (highly recommend watching the videos, very funny) it ended rather abruptly after rumors about their demise had been circulating, teammates who once hugged after every race win won’t even sit beside each other anymore.

-the AMR safety team. that’s all. they are amazing and we love them, SO fast and incredible, if nobody got me ik the AMR safety team got me!

-santino ferrucci. we all hate the guy, hes an absolute asshole, homophobic, racist, etc. most recently he put hands on a driver and then called said driver’s teammate his ‘little boyfriend teammate’. there’s a video of it on indycar’s youtube channel called ‘tempers flare between santino ferrucci and kyle kirkwood’ if you’re curious.

-arrow mclaren curse. this team is just… something.. their drivers have good personalities, but oh my! is the team itself horrifying! and this year we had 4(?) 5(?) drivers that all had the same seat! obviously at different times but it was Scary.

-we all love the month of may. the indy 500 is held in may, which brings a whole month of celebration and racing, from the indy gp, to parades to practice to qualifying to so many other events to the 500 itself, it’s an amazing month full of so much energy i cannot even begin to describe.

-bus lot pranks. speaking of the indy 500, during may, the drivers live in a bus lot at IMS, in their fancy RV’s, it’s like a frat house, which obviously leads to pranks, my personal favorite is when they filled conor daly’s hot tub with orbeez.

-it’s also important to note that indycar is small, the community is small, the drivers frequently interact with fans both in person and online, which is great! but it also means watch what you say because there’s a very high chance a driver will see it, our series is welcoming and non toxic! we want to keep it that way. 

-david’s bike. david malukas signed for arrow mclaren, but never actually got to race for them because he broke his wrist biking. he frequently makes jokes about it as he is very chronically online. he is also dubbed lil dave, that has nothing to do with his bike i just thought it was important.

-the milk gimp.. an absolutely terrifying indy 500 ad from 2014.

-the hate cauldron. back in 2022 three andretti drivers all made contact with each other during a race, which led to chaos, thus the birth of the hate cauldron, theres a video of it on here somewhere, and also when it was reborn this year!

doesn’t even scratch the surface, i’m just running out of brain power here, also a team got raided by the fbi this year.

oh and indycar’s youtube channel has tons of full races posted, they’re currently uploading the ones from this year, i recommend watching the 2016 indy 500, and i’m sure people would be happy to share their fav races to watch !!

by george. thats a lot of fun facts. thank you very very much send as many as u want (again pointing you to @ainti-pretty to send any and all fun facts)🫶💞 particularly enraptured by the bike saga (is david...still in indycar? did he just get launched off the face of the earth except to meme on twitter?) and the bus bros drama. seems bonkers. also to clarify your social media point.........do you mean on like twitter/instagram. or have they infiltrated tumblr. thank u bestie 🫶💞

[shewhooncegripped]

Hey, Kromie. What do you like about each particular sinner?

What an unlucky and miserable question to immediately come across upon receiving a truth serum. I'll list my coworkers in order just to make it easier for the viewers.

Dongbaek/01 - I have two favorite sinners and Dongbaek is one of them. Even though she is older than me, Dongbaek treats me as an equal. I appreciate that Dongbaek feels comfortable to speak her mind around me. She's relatively quiet most of the time so it feels special to have a good enough bond that she is comfortable holding a conversation with me. There is a mutual understanding between us that we will not force the other to speak about something they'd rather not share, and I truly appreciate that there is never any pressure when we hang out. Dongbaek also always smells pleasant. Surprisingly, she appears to carry a strong scent of flowers no matter where she goes-- so it's actually pretty nice to be her bus seat buddy. My sense of smell is pretty strong so I'm glad that the people I sit next to don't have an offensive smell. Another thing is that on days I am not particularly feeling well as we are traveling, both of my seat buddies will let me rest upon them. The amount of care Dongbaek shows is extremely touching. I know she is awkward, but she is genuinely such a good person.

Gretchen/02 - Gretchen gave me a purpose after I abandoned everything I was familiar with... I really appreciate that. It's also really nice to have a source of knowledge to draw from.

Don Quixote/03 - My other favorite sinner. He is also the other sinner I sit next to on the bus. Don Quixote is very fatherly towards me, but he doesn't necessarily try to parent me. It's more of... A father friend. It's a type of attention and care I've never gotten before, so to have someone show genuine care like he does is extremely touching. I want to return the same attention to him but... I have zero clue how to show how much I care. Ah. Don Quixote and I also have the mutual understanding that we both hold secrets, but we don't let that get in the way of our friendship. He doesn't push me about my past before limbus company-- he saw my point of view while we were fighting Nagel und Hammer for the golden bough... But those flashbacks never actually shared why I did what I did. It just showed me as a monster. Yet, Don Quixote still treats me as human anyways. He doesn't ask for me to explain my reasoning, he's the first one to be open with me. We both know that we may share our secrets if we ever feel like it's safe to, but there's never any pressure and we don't let that get in the way of our bonding. I also think Don Quixote is an amazing storyteller. He has so many stories, and I'm not quite sure how he remembers them all... But the fact that Don Quixote has such a good memory is amazing-- it's certainly good entertainment for the road trip we perpetually seem to be on. Though, even if he isn't telling a story he's a good conversationalist. I cherish the conversations I have with Don Quixote and Dongbaek. Oh, I think Don Quixote also has really interesting hair. I think he brushes it quite frequently, it always moves so gracefully without tangles. I think it would be fun to play with his hair, but... It may be a bit embarrassing to ask. Hehe.

Yuzu/04 - ....Um... (Well, how do I explain this in a way that won't be wildly misconstrued by the anons... ) To start with, I really appreciate Yuzu's bloodlust and efficiency. I know we both tend to avoid each other... We kinda started off on the wrong foot and I have zero clue how to talk to her now... Erm. Her wrath is very interesting to watch. It burns very hot, and the way she burns across the battlefield is almost like art. (Ugh, I still have to say it...) I guess I also find her face aesthetically pleasing? She's cute. Don't take that the wrong way, though. You guys tend to take things too far, it's not like that.

Marie/05 - Marie is genuinely fun to fight alongside. She is a reliable partner to have in battle. Marie also gave me a hug during ladies night once... That was really nice. She hugs really well.

Jia Xichun/06 - I can always count on Xichun to tell me the truth, even if both of knows it's going to hurt. Xichun doesn't bother hiding what she thinks about me, and it's nice to not have to guess.

Catherine/07 - Catherine and I typically keep our distance from each other, but I do think she has very interesting opinions. We both came from different backgrounds, and even if she's a spoiled pretty princess... I guess it gives her a unique view of the world and allows her to notice things I typically wouldn't.

Queequeg/08 - Queequeg is honestly very intimidating-- she could probably crush my skull if I offended her. But... I think she's a good listener. I also think her tattoos are really nice.

Sonya/09 - ...While I think his dream is unobtainable, I do find it admirable that he is working so hard towards it. I think Sonya is quite a good entertainer during ladies nights, he's very good at keeping the conversation flowing.

Jane Doe/10 - Our manager is extremely caring in her own way. Jante is quite goofy at times, but I feel like she's becoming more reliable in her decisions.

Kromer/11 - ...I'm a sinner so I guess I have to say something good about myself? Uh... Oh gosh, it's actually kind of weird to put myself on the spot like this. I guess I like my eyes? They are something I can get lost looking at in the mirror sometimes. There's a lot of little details in them.

Penelope/12 - I think Penelope's attempts to mother others is quite amusing. She's awkward about it in an adorable way. Though... I can sense that she's someone important, but she doesn't flaunt her power. I find that extremely intimidating because I don't quite know who she is, but I do value the sense of secrecy she has.

Yuri/13 - Yuri has a very fun personality. It's nice to spend time with her. I do think she lets other people get to her too much, but that sensitive side is also what makes her such a nice person. I think Yuri puts a lot of thought into how she looks everyday, and it's nice to see her try to dress up even while she's in her work uniform.

[willowser]

bakugou + strawberries ; 2.7k ੈ‧₊˚ for our meet fruit collab ! ‧₊˚✧ ₊˚

mina suggests speed-dating.

first as a joke — you think — after the two of you spend too many weekends in a row watching sappy rom-coms on her couch while crying into a bowl of trail mix, and then a second time, and then a third time, after you refuse.

in her last attempt, she pulls out the big ones: her upcoming birthday. it will be so fun!! she tells you, with her big eyes and bigger pout, looking at you as if you'd hung the stars by saying yes. it's a cheap shot, really, because she knows you or anyone would do pretty much anything when it comes to mina the birthday girl.

— and that's how you find yourself here, sitting in too nice of an outfit to be spending your allotted time listening to a man bash his ex-girlfriend.

you might have found him a bit cuter if he wasn't doing that, or if he showed even an ounce of interest in you whatsoever. instead, he's treating this like a therapy session, and you're not getting paid for it.

when the timer rings, you're more than thankful. irritated enough, even, to spin around the room in search of mina — who is happily watching on as two men grapple with each other for who gets to sit across from her next. you suppose being a top hero is good for that, finding someone who is willing to give you their all.

to yourself, you sigh quietly and turn back to the little bowl of strawberries in the center of the small table, the flutes of champagne on either side of it. mina's bottle, you noticed, is almost totally empty; your last date hadn't even looked at yours, nor did he seem to think to offer you a drink.

it's not that you're jealous. really. you wouldn't even say that you're interested in dating right now, finding your job at the agency to be too much of a whirlwind to balance, anyway. you love mina: she's your closest friend, your home away from home, your cheerleader and personal hero — but working for her is nothing short of a full-time job.

sometimes your bed is a little lonely, when she's not staying the night in it after another rom-com evening, but you really can't think that you'd like someone in it, anyway, much less a stranger. it's hard to explain where your time goes, who it goes with; having to share that with someone, you think, would take more emotional energy than you have right now.

and maybe it also sorta, kinda has to do with the fact that the one and only man you're thinking of outside of work — is the same man you see inside of it every single day.

the very thought of bakugou has your stomach turning, painfully. the image of him in the late afternoons with the sun glowing in his hair, the gentle look he spares you as you wait for the elevator, how he'd looked at you today, when you told him where you and mina were going; you don't know how anyone could make you feel the way he does, at least right now.

the seat across from you is taken up suddenly, then, and you look up into the eyes of someone that looks — nice. a little shy, a little nervous, as they introduce themselves. they decide to pour you a glass of champagne, and they even tell you, openly, voice shaking, how nice you look tonight.

you smile so hard that your cheeks hurt, much to your own surprise.

"i'm actually allergic to strawberries," they tell you with a laugh, gently pushing the bowl closer to you. "that would be a hell of a first date, wouldn't it?"

you agree. "definitely one to remember!"

"well, in that case—" they joke, suddenly leaning forward as if they're going to pull it back towards them, and it's so earnest and sweet that you feel your heartbeat in your throat a bit. "i sound like i'm kissing up to you, but—you have a really nice smile, also."

you have to sit back in your seat, fanning your face dramatically as you both laugh. "wow, i'm not used to someone—"

"time's up, extra."

you blink so hard that your eyes are crossed when you open them, and you look up at the man standing there, waiting for his turn, just as the timer dings and the room comes to life with a bustle. the person across from you only frowns, too timid to say anything in response before they're getting up and casting you a regretful glance. they're barely a foot away before the chair is taken, so aggressively that it scrapes against the floor and shakes the table.

you can't believe what you're seeing. you can't believe bakugou is sitting across from you, right now, ruining everything.

"what—are you doing?" you hiss, though your feelings — with a mind of their own — flutter like butterflies in your stomach at the sight of him.

the scowl he gives you is ugly, as always, but his face is smoother than you remember it being today; freshly shaven, maybe. the cologne he's wearing is strong, woodsy, potent enough that it dizzies you from across the table, that you can only imagine how sweet it smells soaking into the soft skin of his neck. even the shirt he's wearing, you notice, is a button down that you've never seen him in.

"the hell do you mean?" he growls, face pinched as he leans closer, so that his voice doesn't carry as it usually does. "'s'it look like i'm doin'? saving you from some sorry dumbass."

"bakugou," you grit, though the room quiets as everyone takes their seats again, and you have to swallow back your annoyance so you don't draw anymore attention to yourself.

you're not dumb enough to think he'd get away without some people fighting for his attention, too, the same way they did to mina, and — as irritated as you are, suddenly, at his appearance — you're not exactly keen on sharing him, either.

"they were very nice, thank you very much,"

"psh," he rolls his eyes, a muscle in his jaw jumping. "couldn't even look me in the eyes to tell me to fuck off—"

"maybe because they were worried you would blast them through the window—"

"and i would have—"

"oh!" you clench your hands into fists and squeeze your eyes shut, trying to will your anger back down. losing your cool isn't a good look, especially in a room of people that are trying to get to know you. "are you serious right now? why are you here?"

"you really wanna spend our five minutes doin' this?"

and there's something about the way he says it — our five minutes — that has your stomach turning in that horrible way it always does, whenever you bite into the softer parts of him. the look on his face is pensive, nervous if you thought that he was capable of being nervous. his shirt, his shaven cheeks, his alluring cologne; he's here, right now, on a date with you. pushed his way into it, even.

you straighten in your seat and sit back, dropping your eyes to the table, ashamed at the fire you've just thrown at him. "can you at least tell me why you're here in the first place?"

bakugou is silent for long enough that you can't stand not to take him in, how appealing he is to look at, how your heart sings when he looks back. one shake of his head has him sighing and then he's leaning back, too, staring only at the strawberries.

"this is her birthday thing, ain't it?"

"yeah," you murmur in agreement quietly, fiddling with your own fingers in your lap as your nerves harden into bitter disappointment. he's here for the same reasons you are, you tell yourself: for your friend, only.

distantly, you try to remind yourself that this nothing out of the ordinary. that you shouldn't be thinking of him this way, getting so hung-up on someone that's never expressed an interest in you to begin with. there have been a few late night conversations in the stairwell, that ran longer than they should have, that revealed more than they should have — but it doesn't make him yours. not in the way you want it to.

in an attempt to swallow down your own sourness, you reach for a strawberry, picking through them until you find the fattest one, and then bite it to the stem. a little stream of juice sprays out, dripping down over your bottom lip as you scramble for your napkin. you lick after it before patting at your face, spreading the sugar, the sweetness.

bakugou leans across the table so suddenly that you startle, mouth twisted like he's struggling to say what he's about to say. "alright, look—"

the timer rings, horribly, but his ruby stare never dims, never leaves yours and yours never leaves his, either, as if you're both suddenly trapped in a weird limbo of in-between; in-between the quiet moments, in-between the loudest ones, in-between everyone else, together.

and then mina notices.

"oh my god, blasty, you came!" she shouts, springing up from her seat to wave at you both from across the room. her earrings jingle loudly, bracelet beads knocking together as she leans too far to the left, champagne-drunk already. it snaps the moment between you and him, worry filling the gaps as you think about how you're going to get her out of here, once the night is over.

bakugou sinks a little further into his chair, as if it will hide him, before grumbling to himself. cheeks reddening, you realize; strawberry-kissed. he heaves a heavy sigh before digging his fingers into his eyes, deep enough that an ache develops in your own, and he opens his mouth to speak again when someone else approaches the table.

"okay, time to switcheroo!" he sings, grinning too cheerily at you, enough to make you laugh at his enthusiasm.

it darkens bakugou, considerably; "piss off," is all he says, scooting his chair further into the table as if to claim it. he barely gets another word out before the man is starting to protest, and the look he gives him then is awfully viscious: nostrils flared, looking up from beneath his long lashes and furrowed brow, as if this stranger had pissed in your champagne. "i said, fuck off, before i howitzer you through the—"

"okay!" you interrupt, reaching across the table with both hands to close one of bakugou's. his fingers are curled dangerously, and you swear you can see little sizzles of steam slipping between your linked fingers. "let's just—do an extra skip this time, okay? how about you just gives us this one, and you go to the next table?"

the man frowns — which is a bit flattering — but ultimately takes the lifeline you offer, trailing away without another word down to the next table. you can feel the couple on the other side watching you and bakugou now, a little open-mouthed, and your heart quickens at the worry that they're noticing him, that your new five minutes are going to be wasted, too.

—but his hand hasn't moved from yours and his eyes have returned, full to the brim with some emotion you can't read. if you had to guess, you'd say regret, maybe, but you aren't sure how to take that, and so you don't.

you should let him go, literally and figuratively, but the solidity of your logic is no match for the soft beat of butterfly wings in your gut.

"what are you doing?" you ask him again, softly, surely, because you want to hear the answer whatever it is. he either needs to deny you, here and now so you can move on — or he needs to acknowledge the confliction on his face, the soft intertwine of his fingers into yours.

bakugou looks at you now the way he does in the stairwell, the way he does when the sun is painting you warm, too. "i told you," he murmurs, "savin' you from some dumbass."

"but why do you even care?"

another heavy sigh falls from him and you can feel your glass-fragile heart breaking when his hand slips from yours, a little roughly. it surprises you when he grabs the champagne bottle from the center of the table and pours himself a small glass, downing it in one, bitter go before filling up your flute, too.

liquid confidence, maybe; his cheeks darken, noticeably, before he's running a rough hand over his face, still struggling to wash out the words.

"why the hell do you think?" he finally says, though his harsh question lacks the abrasive tone his voice usually has; instead it's gentler, more sincere, bakugou — katsuki — in his rawest form. "why d'you think i do—any of this shit?" one hand waves around to gesture to the span of the dining room, but you know he means more than that, much more. "you think i spend that much time after work just 'cause i have time to waste? jesus."

"i don't know," you say, earning a flat look. "why do you?"

"why do you?"

you take the glass from the center of the table and peer down into it, how it bubbles. maybe you're playing dumb and maybe that's what's really bothering him, but — someone like bakugou deals in absolutes, and you need him to do it now.

the struggle is clear, though, across his face, thickening how he swallows and turning down his lips that much more. you feel a bit bad in the silence, when the timer rings and the muscle in his cheek jumps again.

before anyone can even approach the table, he simply sticks his hand out, and the man beside you was definitely watching on, because he doesn't spare you a glance before going around.

and maybe, you think, decidedly, that's enough.

"because i don't want to go home yet," you tell him honestly, trying to ignore the blood rushing in your ears with his mouth twists and he starts to squirm at your truth. "because i'd rather spend the night with you in a stairwell, than anywhere else."

there's a ludicrous amount of tension that leaves his shoulders then, so much that you didn't notice it until it was gone, and he slumps back into his chair with pink ears, now. the sight makes you smile, widely, as if the sight is a confirmation.

maybe for him, it is.

"yeah, well," he grumbles, eyes dropping to the strawberries before darting away, as if he'd thought of something he shouldn't have. "that's what 'm sayin', too."

"no, you're not!" you laugh, nose crinkling when he side-eyes you with a frown. "you're not hardly saying anything!"

"i'm here, ain't i?" he argues, huffing like a bull. "makin' a damn idiot of myself just to stop you from—"

"—going home with some dumbass?"

"well, yeah!"

"so you want me to be going home with you, then?"

"yeah! no! i mean—" he scowls when you laugh again, lip pulling up over his teeth as if he means to bite into your softest parts, too. the thought is more thrilling that you're willing to admit — at least for now. "quit laughin'!"

but it's not just you; across the dining room, you realize mina's giggling, too, turned around in her seat, ignoring the chatty man that wouldn't shut up about his ex. when bakugou turns around to glare at her, she nearly tips out of her chair by throwing her head too far back, and when he moves to stand up like he needs to help her, all she does is wave at him to turn back around.

and he does, to you, cheeks flaring as he grabs the bottle of champagne again, pouring himself his own glass to glare into. he mutters out another quiet, "jesus" before slamming both his elbows on the table, rudely, and holding his glass up for — what you belatedly realize is — a cheers.

behind him, the afternoon sun has long since set, replaced now by nightfall and stars that shine through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows — but he glows regardless, and the look he gives you is just as warm.