#and never once is she forced into masking

[sixeyesonathiel]

the prayer you left unanswered

chapter one: a prayer wrapped in silk

pairing — immortal knight satoru x goddess reader

synopsis : once, he vowed to be your knight. not for glory, not for reward, but simply because you were kind to him. because you smiled. you gave him your blessing—not a weapon, not power, but a fruit from the garden only he had ever been allowed to see. you told him it was a gift of eternal youth, so that he could live without fear, without loss, without the end. he swore he would return victorious. and he did. but you were no longer there to greet him. and so he lived, watching time erase you. watching new gods rise, new myths take root, until there were no traces of you left—not your temples, not your name, not even a whisper of worship.

then, in a world that has long forgotten you, he sees you again. no throne, no divinity—just a fragile girl with a face carved into his soul. a goddess who no longer remembers she was ever divine. no matter. gods can be made. worship can be forced. and his prayers can still be answered. you will answer. you owed him that much didn't you?

tags -> medieval to modern au, dead dove: do not eat, heavy angst, eventual yandere, eventual smut, religious imagery and symbolism, obsessive behavior, other additional tags to be added, majestic art by @/deltapork ♡

wc — 12.8k | series m.list | gen. m.list

a/n: reposting this fic cus it actually never left my mind hihi :3 series masterlist will be made tmr along with chapter two, this would have three chapters are only!! anyway enjoy this silly chapter 1, he will never be this pure again :P

the goddess was a name, nothing more.  

satoru had heard it countless times—murmured before meals, woven into bedtime stories, carved into the wooden charms his mother tied around his wrist for protection. yet, you had never once mattered to him. gods were distant, unknowable things, residing in shrines and prayers but never within reach. what use were you when his hands could wield a sword? faith would not make him stronger, would not carve the path of his blade through flesh and air. he had no need for whispered devotions, for incense curling in the wind, for the promise of divine favor when his own strength would always be enough.  

but today, satoru is seven, and he is bored. the day is too slow, the sun too high, casting sharp shadows on the training grounds. his instructor’s voice drags, each correction met with a roll of his eyes. training is dull, repetitive, the forms etched into his muscles like second nature. they tell him to refine his movements, to discipline his mind, to seek perfection, but he is already the best among his peers. his feet itch, his body hums with restless energy, and so he does what he does best—he runs.

the festival sprawls around him, loud and cloying, the scent of incense thick in the air, mingling with roasted chestnuts and sugar. lanterns bob overhead, their golden glow dancing across the cobbled streets, while laughter spills from the crowds gathered in worship. white, light purple, and dark purple lilacs bloom in abundance, spilling over windowsills in woven baskets, creeping along the temple walls, their petals carried by the wind like scattered prayers. even the masks worn by children bear their shape, painted in soft pastels as they weave through the throng, laughing.  

it is a kingdom suffused with your presence. your name lingers on every street corner, inscribed into the very bones of the city. they say the land itself flourishes beneath your mercy, that the rivers run clearer, the crops grow taller, the people’s hearts lighter beneath your gaze. and each year, on the day of your ascension, they celebrate—not out of fear or obligation, but out of love, genuine and steadfast. you are no distant deity. you are the breath in the wind, the warmth of spring after winter’s bite, the kindness woven into the daily lives of your people.  

but to satoru, you are still nothing more than a name.  

he weaves through the festival effortlessly, slipping past the rustling silks of festival robes and the outstretched hands of merchants calling for his attention. he does not care for the offerings laid upon the temple steps, nor the chants that rise and fall like the tide. his path is set elsewhere, drawn by the hush of the forbidden. past the praying townsfolk, past the flickering lanterns lining the sacred grounds, past the places where reverence holds dominion over curiosity.  

the temple looms ahead, its doors shut tight, towering and ancient, their surface darkened with age and carved with stories older than his name. the people kneel before them, heads bowed, hands clasped, their lips moving in silent devotion. their prayers do not interest him. he watches them for a moment, their stillness strange against the festival’s revelry, before tilting his head, contemplating. the temple is forbidden except for worship, but rules have never meant much to him. after all, what was the point of a goddess who could not even guard your own threshold?  

he glances over his shoulder once, twice—no one is watching. the weight of secrecy presses against his ribs, but it is not enough to deter him. instead, a grin tugs at his lips, sharp and reckless, the kind that always gets him into trouble. his pulse quickens, excitement thrumming in his veins as he steps forward. one hand rises, hesitant for only a breath, before pressing against the heavy wood.  

the doors groan beneath his touch, ancient hinges sighing as they give way. with a breathless laugh, satoru slips past their weight into the hush of the sacred dark.  

inside, it smells of old paper and candle wax, of prayers long since uttered. the air is thick with the scent of lilacs, their fragrance winding through the grand halls, clinging to the dust and the flickering candlelight. even in the silence, you linger—not just in the offerings and the whispered prayers, but in the very air itself. satoru barely spares a glance at the grand altar, doesn’t care for the golden chalices or the elaborate carvings of divine miracles. instead, his wide blue eyes catch on the paintings that line the walls and ceiling, stretching up into the domed roof. you are everywhere.  

not just in portraits, but in the stained glass that casts colored light onto the marble floors, in the vast ceiling fresco where you stand amongst the clouds, bathed in gold, your hair a river of stardust. satoru’s breath catches in his throat. this wasn’t what he expected at all. he never cared to listen when his mother told stories of the goddess, never sat still long enough to hear your name, only rolling his eyes when she and his father whispered prayers before meals. gods were supposed to be old, unknowable things—bearded men with booming voices, like the ones from the stories of warriors and kings. he had assumed you would be the same, a wrinkled old hag perched on a throne, wise and ancient and boring. but you are young, younger than he thought a god could be, your form captured in soft strokes of paint and glass, in the marble statues that stand like silent sentinels.  

your eyes are always lidded, as if you gaze upon the world with a mercy too heavy to bear. you are never depicted with your arms outstretched, never reaching, always existing in the space between. in one painting, you stand among a field of lilacs, their colors blooming in shades of white and purple, your robes billowing like mist. in another, you sit upon a throne of marble, your head tilted downward, eyes half-lidded in an expression that is neither sorrow nor joy. but it is the painting just above him that draws him in the most—the one where you hold a single dark purple lilac between your fingers, lifting it toward your face, your lips curved in a small, secret smile. your eyes are closed, as if savoring the scent, as if, in that moment, you are simply a girl holding a flower.  

“she’s so pretty,” satoru breathes before he can stop himself, the words slipping out in quiet awe. he barely notices the old priest stepping forward from the entrance of the hall, watching him with amused eyes. the man does not scold him, does not tell him to leave, only chuckles softly as he approaches. “satoru of the gojo family,” he says, voice warm with familiarity. “have you come to worship at last?”  

satoru scowls, turning back to the painting as if to hide the lingering wonder in his expression. “no,” he says quickly, almost defensive. his head tilts, his gaze tracing the delicate details of your painted hands, the way the lilac rests between them. he hesitates, then asks, “she’s a god, right? but she looks… younger than mama.”  

the priest’s smile is wistful, his gaze never leaving the painting. “she was not born divine,” he says, voice carrying something old, something knowing. “she earned it.”  

the priest tells him a tale—a story older than the kingdom itself.  

centuries ago, before the stone walls and towering spires, before the prayers and festivals, there was only a village. a small, fragile thing, clinging to the land like the last leaf in winter. the people endured harsh seasons, bowing to the mercy of the gods, taking what little the earth would grant them. but one year, winter never ended.  

the snows came early and never melted. the rivers stilled into ice, the trees withered, and the land, once golden with wheat, became a white wasteland. the people begged the gods for warmth, for an end to the unyielding frost, but the heavens remained silent. hunger crept into their bones, despair thickened the air, and soon, they stopped praying altogether. what good were gods that would not listen?  

but there was a girl. young, kind, too kind. born with a heart as soft as spring rain. where others cursed the cold, she carried warmth in her hands, tending to the weak, offering what little food she had to those who had less. she wove lilacs into crowns, placed them upon the graves of those who had succumbed to the endless winter, whispering that spring would come.  

one day, when the last of the village’s stores had been eaten, the girl went to the frozen river at the village’s heart. there, she knelt upon the ice and prayed—not for herself, not even for the village, but for the land itself. for the rivers to run again, for the trees to bloom, for life to return.  

and the gods listened.  

the ice cracked beneath her, but she did not sink. instead, lilacs bloomed from the frozen river, petals the color of dawn, of the first breath of spring. warmth spread from where she knelt, the frost melting in waves, rolling outward, chasing away the cold. the village awoke to the sight of spring breaking through the heart of winter, the river running free once more, its waters no longer icy and still.  

but the girl was gone.  

all that remained was the field of lilacs, growing wild along the riverbanks, untouched by time, their fragrance lingering in the air like a farewell. the people searched, called her name, but she had vanished with the last of the frost.  

and so they built a shrine by the river, then a temple, then a kingdom. centuries passed, she was named as a god of mercy, of sacrifice, of endless giving.  

satoru frowns. “so she just disappeared?”  

the priest hums, watching the candlelight flicker. “perhaps. or perhaps she simply knew that to bring spring, she had to leave winter behind.”  

the river still runs through the heart of the kingdom, winding through the fields that witnessed her sacrifice, where lilacs bloom in every shade, growing wild in the corners of gardens, woven into hanging pots by the windows of those who still whisper her name.  

the priest hums, solemn. “and because she is the youngest of the gods… unlike the others, she was not born divine—she earned her place. she ascended.” he pauses, then adds, “but ascension does not erase what came before.” his gaze lingers on the painting of the goddess cradling the lilac, her expression unreadable beneath the layers of paint and time. “the gods above her have existed since the beginning, formed from the heavens themselves, untouched by mortal grief or longing. but she…” he exhales, his voice turning reverent, “she walked among us first.”  

satoru tilts his head, squinting up at the painting, at the way your eyelids remain heavy as if caught in an eternal moment of thought. “so what?” his voice lacks the quiet reverence that the priest carries, devoid of the wonder that fills the halls. to him, gods are distant things, nebulous and untouchable, their power unshakable, eternal. what did it matter if you were once human? if anything, it made you seem lesser, not greater. no matter how many paintings adorned these walls, no matter how many prayers were whispered beneath candlelight, a god that had once been human could not be as strong as the ones who never had been.  

“so, she is… different from the others,” the priest replies, as if searching for the right words, careful not to step on the edges of blasphemy. “the gods above her have existed since the beginning, but she…” his gaze flickers to the domed ceiling, where you stand at the heart of the fresco, surrounded by light but never quite a part of it. “the gods above her were formed from the heavens. she was formed from us.”  

satoru frowns, tilting his head back down to the portraits. “so she’s weak.” his voice is matter-of-fact, as if he has already decided, as if strength and divinity are one and the same. what use was a god who had to earn her place? the other gods were omnipotent, their power unchallenged from the very moment of their existence. but you had to fight for it, had to struggle to ascend. if you had not been strong enough to remain human, then surely, you were not strong enough to remain divine. still, his eyes linger on the curve of your painted mouth, the soft tilt of your head—he thinks you’re awfully pretty.  

the priest startles, turning his head sharply to the young boy standing before him. “no, no, not weak, just—” he hesitates, as if unsure how to phrase it. how does one explain the weight of divinity to a child who has never needed to rely on faith? satoru is the strongest of his peers, the prodigy of his lineage, raised in a world where power is absolute. to him, strength is not something that can be earned—it is something you either have or do not. and a goddess who had once been mortal did not fit into that worldview.  

but satoru only crosses his arms, expression set in that stubborn way his mother often scolds him for. “she has to be if she got turned into a god as a kid.” there is no room for reverence in his voice, only the unyielding certainty of a boy who has never known weakness himself. to him, a child is a child, no matter how many statues are built in their name. gods are supposed to be omnipotent, untouchable. but you—you had once been a girl who knelt by a river, hands empty, prayers slipping from your lips like water. how could someone like that ever be strong?  

the priest sighs, rubbing his temples, his patience thinning like old parchment. “you shouldn’t say such things, young master satoru. but… perhaps that is why the rite of the divine knight is so important.” he gestures to the murals further down the hall, where knights kneel in devotion, swords gleaming beneath the goddess’s gaze. “to fight for the gods, to fight against the demons, to keep their blessings upon the land.” his voice turns somber, as if speaking of something much larger than the boy before him. "for even gods, young master satoru, are not beyond the reach of ruin."  

satoru perks up, eyes gleaming with sudden interest. “so like… a warrior for the gods?” the idea is immediately appealing—someone strong enough to stand beside divinity, chosen to wield their blessing. his fingers twitch at the thought, as if imagining the weight of a sword in his grip, the way it might catch the light. he pictures it easily, standing before a god, their power settling over his skin like a second layer, like armor woven from something beyond mortal reach. he’s already the strongest in the training halls, already faster, sharper, better—what more could he be with a god’s favor? what more could he take?  

the priest inclines his head. “yes. every generation, in each kingdom, a knight is chosen to stand against the demon, receive a divine favor of that kingdom’s guardian deity, and should one rise to slay the demon king, the god above all will grant them any wish.” his voice is steady, practiced, the kind of tone that suggests he has told this story many times before. it is a tale meant to inspire, to stir the hearts of young warriors and make them dream of glory. but satoru doesn’t care for the heroics, not really—his mind catches on something else, something far more interesting than just another tale of knights and demons. the god above all. any wish.  

his ears twitch at that. “any wish?” his voice is softer now, like he’s testing the words, weighing them on his tongue. the idea is a dangerous one, planting itself in his thoughts like a seed taking root. wishes are for children, for the weak, for people who don’t already have everything they could want—but this is different. this is something real, something tangible, something earned. he has never needed to wish for anything before, but suddenly, he wonders what it would be like to want something so badly that he’d fight for it.  

the priest nods, chuckling at his intrigue. “a tempting prize, isn’t it?” he is used to this reaction, used to the way young boys light up at the promise of something greater than themselves. to them, the path of the divine knight is the ultimate honor, a chance to carve their name into history. but satoru isn’t like the other boys. he doesn’t hunger for glory or riches, doesn’t dream of slaying demons just to prove his strength—he already knows he’s the strongest. no, he isn’t thinking of power at all. he’s thinking of you.  

he frowns at the vast ceiling fresco where you stand among the clouds, your hair spilling around you like stardust, bathed in golden light. you are everywhere—etched into marble, illuminated in stained glass, carved into the pillars that hold up the temple itself. even here, where you are most revered, there is something unreachable about you, something distant, as if you exist just beyond their grasp.  

this isn’t like the gods in his storybooks about knighthood—the ones with booming voices, swords in hand, crowned in fire and gold. those gods stand tall and proud, their radiance spilling from the edges of their forms like captured sunlight. but you are different. you are not depicted in motion, not wielding power or striking down foes. you sit, hands resting gently in your lap, a lilac cradled between your fingers like a secret. unreachable, he thinks. there is something in the way you are always portrayed—your gaze tilted slightly downward, as if watching over them, yet never truly meeting their eyes.  

aren’t you lonely?  

he asks it aloud. “doesn’t she get bored? all the gods up there must be a lot older than her. isn’t she lonely?” his voice is quieter now, curiosity threading through his words, and he doesn’t even realize how tightly he’s gripping his sleeve. he has never considered what it would mean to be a god before—not really. everyone always talks about how grand it is, how powerful, how eternal. but eternity sounds awfully dull if there’s no one to share it with.  

the priest’s expression is unreadable, his hands folding together in his robes. “gods are above such things.” it is a simple answer, spoken with the certainty of someone who does not question such matters. divinity is divinity—there is no room for mortal concerns like loneliness, like boredom. a god is a god, nothing more, nothing less.  

but satoru doesn’t believe that. he thinks about how boring it must be, sitting there in the sky or wherever gods live, with nothing to do but look down on them. even when he has bested every opponent in the training hall, when there is no one left to challenge, he still gets restless, still finds himself searching for something more. and he isn’t even a god. if you were a kid when you became a god, did you have friends? did you get to play? his fingers curl slightly. does she miss it?  

before he can ask, the priest continues, his voice dipping into something softer, something that carries the weight of old stories. “but the legends say that the demons possess a weapon—a god slayer, made to end even the divine.” his words settle over the vast hall, over the flickering candlelight and the lingering scent of lilacs, heavy in a way that makes satoru’s tiny shoulders tense. the fresco above them remains unchanged, you still bathed in gold, still serene, still untouched by the horrors the priest speaks of. in the light of the temple, you are an ethereal presence—soft, luminous, untouchable. your hair flows like a river of stardust, catching the light as if woven from the cosmos itself, endless and shifting, never quite still. your robes billow like mist, never taking a single true form, caught between divinity and something just barely out of reach. a god slayer? the idea slithers into his mind, curling in the space between his ribs like an ember waiting to catch fire.  

satoru scowls. “then why aren’t the gods stopping them?” the question leaves his mouth before he can think better of it, his brows furrowing in frustration. aren’t gods supposed to be strong? aren’t they supposed to be above things like this? what’s the point of being divine if a bunch of stupid demons can just kill them? his gaze flickers back up to your painting, to the way you hold the lilac so delicately between your fingers, eyes closed as if lost in thought. you don’t look like someone who could be killed. you don’t look like someone who should ever have to worry about something like that. but in every depiction of you, there is a quiet solitude—your eyes, always half-lidded, as if the weight of mercy is too heavy for you to bear. it bothers him. is she lonely?  

“because that is the role of the knight,” the priest answers simply, placing a heavy but gentle hand atop satoru’s snow-white hair. there is something amused in his tone, something knowing, like he has seen this kind of outrage before. “so instead of hiding in temples to hide from your instructor, perhaps you should get back to your training.” his voice is teasing, warm with familiarity, but satoru barely registers it. because his mind is already racing. a knight that can fight for them? a wish granted to the one who slays the demon king? he glances back up at you, at the painting that lingers above him, the one that sets you apart from the others. here, you are not seated upon your throne, not standing among fields of lilacs, not veiled in solemnity. here, you are simply a girl, lifting a single dark purple lilac to your face, your lips curved in a small, secret smile.  

it’s childish, naïve, so very seven years old, but his little heart swells as he looks at you. you aren’t smiling in most of the paintings, aren’t reaching, aren’t standing among the other gods like an equal. you look like you’re waiting for something, for someone. and someone has to protect you, don’t they? if the gods won’t stop the demons, then he will. the thought is so big it barely fits inside his tiny chest, but it feels right, like something unshakable settling into his bones.  

“fine then!” he puffs up, hands on his hips, chin lifted high. “i’ll be the strongest knight ever! i’ll fight the demons and make sure no one ever tries to kill her again!” his voice rings through the temple, louder than he means it to be, but he doesn’t care. it’s a promise, a declaration. he may only be a child, but he says it like it is absolute. like he has already decided that the world will bend to his will.  

the priest raises a brow, a flicker of curiosity in his expression. “oh? and what will you wish for?”  

he huffs, the answer already sitting on the tip of his tongue. “that’s easy! i’ll wish for her to be happy!”  

there is a pause. then, the priest only smiles.  

but then satoru suddenly gasps, eyes going comically wide, as if struck by the most brilliant idea in the history of ideas. his little hands slap against his cheeks before he waves them wildly, nearly hopping in place with excitement. “wait, wait! and also—” he drags the words out with urgency, as if he’s about to reveal a world-altering secret. the priest, who had already begun to turn away, blinks in mild surprise, amused by the sudden outburst. satoru’s mind races, gears turning at full speed, because what’s the point of being the strongest knight ever if he doesn’t use his wish wisely?  

the priest humors him. “also?”  

satoru nods furiously, white hair bouncing with the movement. “i want a lake of chocolate! right near my house! so i can have all the sweets i want forever!” the words spill from him like an unstoppable flood, as if the thought alone is too wonderful to contain. he pictures it instantly—a shimmering lake of melted chocolate, warm and sweet and endless. the very idea of it makes his mouth water, and his little hands curl into determined fists at his sides.  

the priest stifles a laugh, his expression caught between fondness and disbelief. “a lake of chocolate? that’s quite the wish.” he gestures vaguely, as if trying to imagine such a thing existing in reality. the temple, with its solemn air and towering frescoes, feels like an odd place to be talking about something so absurd, and yet, the way satoru says it—so certain, so absolute—almost makes it feel plausible. after all, he is a gojo.  

satoru beams, utterly unbothered by the priest’s skepticism. “i’ll even let her have some!” his voice is full of generosity, of pure, unshakable confidence, as if there is not a single doubt in his mind that the goddess would absolutely want to share his chocolate lake. in his imagination, it is perfect—golden light reflecting off the rich, dark surface, the air thick with sweetness. and maybe, just maybe, she’ll visit him one day, stepping down from your throne of marble to sit beside him, robes billowing like mist as you dip a delicate finger into the chocolate.  

he puffs out his chest. “i bet she’s never had chocolate before,” he declares, as if unveiling some profound truth. “so i’ll let her try it first! it’ll make her happy for sure!” his heart swells at the thought, at the image of you—this soft, luminous goddess with your half-lidded gaze and river of stardust hair—smiling because of him.  

the priest chuckles, shaking his head in exasperated amusement. “well, if anyone could make a god smile, i suppose it would be you, young master satoru.” his tone is teasing, but there is something warm beneath it, something that lingers as he watches the boy’s bright, determined expression.  

and just like that, satoru’s childish vow is sealed—to be your knight, to be the strongest, to protect you, and to share his chocolate lake with you.  

satoru’s mother immediately notices something is different.  

it is not a subtle change—no, satoru has never been subtle a day in his life. her son, who once whined and huffed and pouted whenever temple visits were mentioned, is now the one dragging her toward the gates before she’s even finished breakfast. the boy who once acted as if the gods themselves were personally inconveniencing him by demanding prayer is suddenly excited for the day of worship. not in a pious way, though. there is no newfound reverence in his eyes, no sudden inclination to mumble prayers under his breath or fold his hands with solemn devotion. instead, there is an eagerness, a spark of restless energy, like someone who has found a reason to care. like someone who has a secret tucked beneath his ribs, waiting impatiently to be revealed.  

“we have to get there early!” he insists, already tugging at her sleeve with all the urgency of a knight charging into battle. his feet barely stay still, shifting restlessly against the polished marble floors, as if every second wasted is a great injustice. “hurry, mama, we’ll miss the good seats!” his voice, usually full of mischief, carries none of the usual reluctance—no groans, no complaints, no playful bartering for sweets in exchange for good behavior. only a stubborn, insistent kind of determination. his mother lifts her teacup to her lips, taking a slow sip, watching him with an arched brow. his impatience is almost comical, like a puppy straining at its leash, tail wagging furiously at the prospect of adventure.  

she blinks, half expecting to have misheard him. “since when do you care?” her tone is light, amused, but her gaze is sharp with suspicion. this is the same boy who once threw an entire tantrum in the temple courtyard because he wanted to chase a stray cat instead of listening to the priest’s teachings. she remembers how he wailed dramatically about being ‘trapped in boredom’s clutches’ as if the walls of the temple were a prison and he a wrongfully convicted man, how he always managed to run off elsewhere more interesting to him before she can drag him inside. now, here he is, practically vibrating with anticipation, his hands curled into eager fists at his sides.  

satoru puffs up his chest with importance, chin tilted high like a knight about to make an oath. “since i made a very important vow,” he declares, his voice brimming with self-importance.  

her brow lifts. “oh?” she hums, intrigued. “and what exactly did you vow?”  

but satoru only grins, far too pleased with himself, and dramatically places a finger to his lips. “secret,” he announces, his blue eyes twinkling like he holds the fate of the kingdom in his small, chubby hands. he even tilts his head slightly, lowering his voice as if a great many spies might be listening in on their conversation.  

across the grand hall, half-hidden behind marble pillars and heavy velvet drapes, the servants whisper among themselves. ‘the young master has taken an interest in worship?’ ‘perhaps the priests finally frightened him into behaving.’ ‘no, no, did you not hear? he has a vow now.’ their voices are hushed, but fond, filled with quiet laughter and warm amusement. because who could not adore him? even at his most exasperating, satoru is a force of nature, too brilliant, too sharp, too full of life to be ignored.  

his mother sighs, exasperated but charmed, as she reaches out and ruffles his unruly white hair. “okay, mr. mysterious.” she teases, ignoring his squawk of protest as he swats at her hand with a grin.  

the fabric of her robes shifts as she rises, the deep indigo silk catching the morning light, embroidered with delicate lilacs in silver thread—a symbol of devotion, of mercy, of the goddess whose name lingers in every whispered prayer. her hair, a soft muted gold, has been gathered into an intricate braid, pinned with a silver ornament in the shape of a blooming lilac. it gleams under the sunlight, a gentle contrast to the pale-haired men of her household, like the last light of dusk against winter frost. this is how she has always dressed for temple visits, a quiet nod to tradition, to reverence.  

whatever this is, it won’t last—he is still satoru, after all. a boy of whims and fleeting fascinations, forever chasing after whatever captures his attention.

the temple is more crowded than usual.  

the great hall hums with whispered prayers, a low murmur beneath the flickering candlelight. nobles and commoners alike kneel before the altar, heads bowed, hands clasped in quiet devotion. the scent of incense clings to the air, thick and sweet, mingling with the soft floral fragrance of lilacs—white, light purple, dark purple—arranged in delicate offerings along the altar steps. beyond the rows of worshippers, towering stained glass windows scatter fractured light across the temple floor, bathing the marble in shifting hues of violet and gold. the frescoes stretch high above, vast and celestial, capturing your likeness in careful strokes of paint, each detail painstakingly rendered. it is a sacred place, meant for reverence, for silence, for stillness.  

but satoru is not still.  

his mother nudges him, a silent reminder to bow his head, to sit properly, to at least pretend he’s paying attention. he does—for exactly three seconds—before tilting his chin back up, eyes darting across the temple’s grand interior. there’s just so much to look at. the gilded altar, the way the candlelight wavers in the breeze, the shifting reflections of stained glass dancing across the polished floors. his gaze flickers from one thing to the next, restless, curious, taking in details he hadn’t cared to notice before. he doesn’t even mind sitting through the long prayers today—because you are here. everywhere.  

he already knows what you look like—he’s seen the paintings, the frescoes, the stained glass depictions of you before. three whole days ago, in fact. but that doesn’t stop him from staring.  

you are just as pretty as he remembers.  

his gaze lingers on the stained glass windows, watching how the light catches on the delicate details of your form, casting you in ever-shifting hues. the frescoes above are even grander, stretching across the high ceilings, their colors softened by time but no less breathtaking. and there, at the very center of it all, is his favorite depiction—the one where you hold a single dark purple lilac, your eyes closed, lips curled in that small, secret smile. you don’t look untouchable here, don’t look distant like the other gods with their outstretched arms and golden radiance. you look... peaceful. content. like you’re savoring something only you understand.  

satoru leans back slightly, trying to get a better look without earning another scolding from his mother. he already knows this painting, already memorized the curve of your expression, the way your hair flows like stardust, the soft folds of your robes. but still—seeing it again makes his heart do something strange, something he doesn’t have a name for.  

you’re just... really pretty.  

he doesn’t even notice the way he keeps staring, completely oblivious to the fond exasperation on his mother’s face as she pinches the bridge of her nose. so much for a spiritual awakening.

he trains harder than ever.  

the courtyard rings with the sharp clash of wooden swords, the dull thud of bodies hitting the dirt, and the occasional yelp from an unfortunate sparring partner. dust rises beneath quick footwork, kicked up by relentless movement, swirling in the afternoon sun. satoru throws himself into practice with an energy that borders on obsessive, pushing himself further with each passing day. he moves faster, strikes harder, grins wider when he lands a hit. but he is still satoru gojo, which means he is also unbearable about it. he challenges his peers to duels at every opportunity, barely giving them time to catch their breath before calling for another match.  

when he wins (which is always), he makes sure everyone knows.  

“did you see that?” he boasts, tossing his wooden sword over his shoulder like a victorious knight returning from battle. his grin is sharp, smug, directed at no one in particular—yet his gaze flicks up, just briefly, to where the temple stands in the distance. it is a fleeting glance, but it carries something unspoken, something fervent. “i bet even she saw that.”  

his peers groan in unison, thoroughly exhausted—not just from training, but from him. one poor boy, still sprawled on the ground from satoru’s last attack, lets out a long-suffering sigh. “who is ‘she’?” he mutters under his breath, but nobody has the energy to ask.  

and satoru does not offer an answer.  

instead, he turns back to the training grounds with renewed energy, sparring with anyone willing, then with anyone unwilling. his instructors, though exasperated (and a little unsettled by the fact that he has stopped sneaking away), cannot deny his progress.  

his footwork is sharper, his movements more refined, his raw talent beginning to take real shape. the once-reckless strikes now carry precision, his defenses are more measured, and his stamina seems inexhaustible. for a boy so young, his skill is already something to be reckoned with, his confidence unwavering. one instructor watches him land a clean, decisive strike and exhales, begrudgingly impressed. “well done.” he acknowledges, though his tone is still laced with mild disbelief.  

satoru beams, puffing his chest with pride. “of course! i have divine motivation.”  

his instructors exchange wary glances, each hoping the other will be the one to ask what that means. none of them do. they have learned, through trial and error, that asking satoru anything usually leads to more confusion than answers.

his mother remains suspicious.  

satoru has always been strong, but he has never been disciplined. training, once something he treated like a chore, has suddenly become the most important thing in the world to him. gone are the complaints, the attempts to escape, the cheeky excuses to avoid his lessons. even stranger, he no longer returns home in a dramatic heap on the floor, lamenting his exhaustion like a knight struck down in battle. instead, he smiles, brushes the dust from his clothes, and acts as if he could keep going for hours.  

whatever fascinates satoru is always fleeting.  

that is the nature of her son—the way he chases after whatever catches his attention, devouring it with all the enthusiasm of a wildfire, only to discard it once the thrill wears off. she has seen it happen countless times, with swordplay, with chess, with history, each one captivating him for a time before being left behind. but this? this is different. weeks have passed, and his determination has not waned. if anything, it has only grown, sharpening like a blade beneath relentless pressure.  

one evening, as he polishes his wooden sword with meticulous care, his mother watches him closely, seated across from him with her hands resting neatly in her lap. her muted gold hair catches the candlelight, casting a warm glow over her face, but her expression is unreadable. finally, she speaks. “satoru,” she says, tone light but probing, “why are you suddenly so serious about your training?”  

he glances up, all wide eyes and feigned innocence. “no reason!”  

(it is not no reason. it is the biggest reason.)  

his father, standing by the window, chuckles as he unties the fastenings of his cloak, expression easy and amused. he is handsome in the way all gojos are, but where satoru’s charm is wild and untamed, his father’s is refined, softened by age and wisdom. there is something effortlessly commanding about him, the kind of presence that draws attention without demanding it, the kind that makes people lean in when he speaks. yet, for all his quiet power, there is warmth in him too, in the way his gaze lingers on his wife, in the knowing way he watches their son. “let the boy be, my dear,” he says, peeling off his gloves. “it’s good that he’s finally taking things seriously.”  

his mother exhales, leveling him with a flat look. “don’t just cover for him.”  

he smiles, unbothered, and moves toward her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head as he passes by. “wouldn’t dream of it.”  

she folds almost instantly, though her exasperation remains. “i suppose,” she concedes, though she does not trust that grin on satoru’s face.  

and with good reason. because the moment he realizes she’s relenting, satoru bolts upright, puffing out his chest, practically glowing with excitement. “well, since you’re asking, mama—papa,” he says, tone far too grand for a boy still dusted in dirt from training, “i’ve decided that i will be chosen as the goddess’s knight!”  

there is a beat of silence.  

his mother blinks. “i beg your pardon?”  

his father tilts his head, eyes twinkling. “oh?”  

satoru nods, grinning so wide it barely fits on his face. “it’s obvious, isn’t it? i’ll be the strongest knight ever, so of course i’ll be the one she chooses!”  

his mother opens her mouth, then closes it again, expression caught between bafflement and reluctant fondness. his father, ever the enabler, merely hums in amusement, watching his son with an air of indulgence.  

“and once i slay the demon king, i already know what i’ll wish for!” satoru continues, practically bouncing in place now. “first, i’ll wish for her to be happy—obviously—but also…” he pauses dramatically, as if preparing to reveal something truly extraordinary, “i’ll wish for a lake of chocolate! right near our estate! so i can have all the sweets i want, forever!”  

his mother sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “but your teeth, satoru—”  

“nonsense!” his father interrupts, clapping a firm hand on satoru’s shoulder, his voice rich with amusement. “a grand wish for a grand knight! i think the goddess would be honored to share a chocolate lake with you, my boy.”  

“right?!” satoru beams, completely assured of the genius of his plan. “i’ll even let her have the first taste! i bet she’s never had chocolate before, so she’ll definitely love it!”  

his mother sighs again, shaking her head, but the fondness is unmistakable. his father only laughs, ruffling his son’s hair, endlessly entertained.  

“train hard, then,” he says, eyes glinting with pride. “show them why a gojo stands above the rest.”  

satoru straightens under his father’s praise, practically vibrating with confidence. yes, he will—he has to. because he has a promise to keep, a vow to fulfill.  

because when the day comes, when he is strong enough—he will reach you.

satoru gojo has always stood out.  

from the moment he was born, with that impossible hair and those inhuman eyes, he was different. even as a child, no matter where he went, he was impossible to ignore. his presence was like a flare in the dark, demanding attention, turning heads, shifting the air itself. even now, in a sea of knights, nobles, and spectators, he is unmistakable. he stands tall, clad in a knight’s uniform made only for him—midnight blue fabric, cut to perfection, tailored to his frame. silver embroidery traces the sigil of the gojo family across his chest, intricate but understated, a mark of his bloodline, his strength, his inevitability.  

there is no cumbersome armor to weigh him down, no gilded pauldrons to mark his status—only the weight of expectation. only the eyes of the entire kingdom upon him, waiting to see if the strongest will kneel before the divine.  

at twenty years old, he is every noblewoman’s dream.  

handsome, powerful, untouchable. the heir of the gojo family, the strongest knight of his generation, the pride of the kingdom. he has dueled princes, shattered records, turned battlefields into his personal playground. there is not a single noble house that would not have sold their souls to claim him as their own. but after today, he will be completely, utterly off-limits.  

his admirers have gathered just beyond the temple gates, watching with a mix of awe, longing, and absolute devastation.  

“it’s not fair,” one young noblewoman sniffles, clutching a lace handkerchief like a lifeline. “he should be mine.”  

“if he’s chosen,” another sighs, voice drenched in sorrow, “he will never marry.”  

“he was never going to marry you anyway,” someone mutters, but the heartbreak is communal.  

“what a waste,” another laments dramatically. “all that strength, all that beauty, and he belongs to the goddess alone.”  

“oh, to be a divine entity,” someone wails, and the absolute grief in their voices would make it seem as if he was walking to his execution. truly, a devastating loss to the marriage market's finest.  

but satoru barely notices them. because his mother is fussing over him.  

lady gojo, at thirty-nine, remains as striking as ever—her muted gold hair woven into an elegant braid, her lilac-embroidered robes a quiet symbol of devotion to the goddess. the years have been kind to her, but there is something weary in her eyes today, something tender in the way she reaches for her son, hands gentle but insistent as she straightens his collar, smooths out his coat, fixes his already-perfect hair. she is thorough, methodical, as if she is memorizing every detail, as if after today, she will never get the chance to do this again.  

she does not say it, but he can tell. her hands linger too long at the edges of his sleeves, smoothing over fabric like it’s his skin, like she’s trying to hold onto something that is already slipping away.  

“mother,” he drawls, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, “you’re going to wrinkle my coat.”  

“hush.” she says absently, ignoring his protests as she dusts off his shoulders, lips pursed in concentration.  

lord gojo, at forty-two, watches with quiet pride. arms crossed over his chest, long white hair neatly tied back, he looks upon his son as if he already knows the outcome. he has no doubts, no hesitations—he sees satoru, and he sees victory. but there is something else, something quieter, in the way his gaze softens when it lands on his wife.  

he watches her fixing their son’s appearance with near-reverence, as if this is the last time she’ll be able to do so. finally, he exhales, a teasing lilt in his voice. “careful, my dear. you’ll make the boy think he’s getting married.”  

lady gojo sniffs, dabbing at the corner of her eye. “he may as well be.” she murmurs, voice wavering.  

satoru nearly chokes.  

his father smirks, deeply entertained. “well, if it’s to the goddess, then at least he has good taste—he got that from me, after all.” he pauses, then grins as he adds, “i mean, just look at who i married.”  

his mother freezes, her breath catching for only a second before she smacks his arm, cheeks tinged with warmth. “must you?” she huffs, trying to sound exasperated, but the way her lips twitch betray her.  

“oh, absolutely,” he replies, unrepentant, leaning in to press a kiss against her temple, ignoring the way she swats at him. “it’s a fact.”  

“can we not?” satoru splutters, flustered. “this is serious!”  

but his mother only fusses over his collar again, voice warm, wistful. “i know, sweetheart. that’s why i want you to look your best.” he makes a noise of protest but does not pull away.  

because once he steps inside that temple, his life will no longer be his own.

the temple is silent.  

not the silence of emptiness, but of something vast—something sacred, untouched by time or mortal concerns. it is the hush of reverence, of held breaths, of whispered prayers never meant to be spoken aloud. the air is thick with the scent of lilacs, their fragrance curling softly between the towering pillars, weaving through the candlelit corridors like a lingering presence. light filters through the grand stained glass windows, casting fractured patterns of gold and violet onto the marble floor, illuminating the figures kneeling in quiet devotion. above them, the great dome stretches endlessly, adorned with your image—your hair flowing like stardust, your gaze ever-lidded, ever-watchful. you are everywhere, woven into the walls, the floors, the very air they breathe.  

just as he remembered.  

he had spent years memorizing this temple, following his mother to service just to sit in the pews and stare at you—etched in colored glass, painted across ceilings, framed in candlelight. every brushstroke, every delicate rendering of your form had settled deep into his mind, into the spaces between his ribs. and yet, standing here now, the weight of ceremony pressing into his shoulders, you feel farther away than ever.  

and in the center of it all, the high priest steps forward, his footsteps ringing against the stone like an unbroken rhythm.  

he lifts his hands, the deep blue of his ceremonial robes pooling around him, silver embroidery catching the candlelight. his presence alone commands the attention of the chamber, but his voice carries with it something heavier—something that does not merely ask to be heard, but demands to be felt.  

“since the dawn of man, the deities’ light has stood against the dark. as long as demons walk this land, as long as ruin lingers at the edges of the world, there must be those who stand in defiance. a knight of the goddess does not serve for honor, nor for glory, nor for mortal praise. they do not seek recognition, nor do they ask for reward. they are a blade in the darkness, a shield in the light. they fight so that others may never know war, so that children may grow without fear, so that the divine may never be forgotten.”  

“to take this oath is to surrender oneself entirely. to forsake all other paths. to bleed in her name, to burn, to stand unshaken even as the world crumbles. this is not a duty one lays down. this is not a burden one can cast aside. once the goddess lays her claim, it is eternal.”  

the hush that follows is deeper than before, thick with expectation. the moment hangs, stretched taut between what has been spoken and what is to come.  

and satoru, unable to help himself, lifts his head—just slightly, just enough—to look upon the fresco above.  

just enough to look at you.  

the only sound is the steady drip of water, poured into the silver chalice, clear as glass. it catches the candlelight, shimmering like the surface of the river where you first ascended, where your name became more than mortal, where the people first whispered their prayers into the wind and called it faith. the high priest stands before it, his hands hovering over the chalice, his fingers steady despite the weight of the moment. his voice, low and resonant, carries through the stillness.  

“oh merciful one, bearer of youth and spring—let this chalice be filled with your will. let it be as the river where you first blessed this land, where your grace touched the waters and made them pure. let it reveal what is unseen, let it speak where words cannot. for only through you may a knight be chosen, only through your sight may the worthy be known.”  

the ritual cannot proceed without your will, without the unseen touch of divinity upon the water’s surface. without you, the chalice is nothing more than silver and stillness, waiting to be seen.  

this is the choosing. the rite that will determine who shall bear your sigil, who shall wield their blade in your name, who shall stand at your side as your knight. the temple doors have been left open for this, allowing the scent of lilacs to drift in with the evening air, curling through the stone corridors like a living thing. the flickering candlelight catches on gold and violet, painting the marble floors in shifting hues, casting the shadows of the gathered knights long against the walls. they do not wear armor today, only their family sigils embroidered into dark uniforms, the weight of their legacies pressed into every careful stitch. each of them has been trained for this moment, each of them hoping—praying—that when they kneel, when their lips touch the water, they will be the one you have seen.  

one by one, they step forward. one by one, they kneel. one by one, they drink. the water remains still. it does not ripple, does not stir—it remains clear as glass, reflecting only their own composed expressions back at them. there is no tension, no true anticipation—only patience. because they have all been waiting for him.  

“satoru of the gojo family,” the high priest calls. ”step forward.”  

there is a shift in the crowd, subtle, but unmistakable. no one is surprised. how could they be? he is the strongest, the most gifted, the one they have all spoken of in hushed tones since the beginning. they had known the outcome long before they set foot in this temple. yet, as the moment arrives, there is the faintest flicker of disappointment—not from doubt, but from inevitability. they had all dreamed, prayed, but deep down, they had always known.  

he steps forward. his body moves before his mind can catch up.  

his knees hit the temple floor, the cool marble pressing into his skin, solid and grounding, and yet—he feels weightless. the chalice is placed into his waiting hands, its silver surface reflecting the golden glow of the candlelight. the air is thick with expectation, hushed and waiting, as if the entire temple holds its breath along with him. his fingers tremble as they curl around the stem of the chalice, the metal cold against his skin, despite the warmth that seems to spread from the water within. he swallows, throat tight, the weight of his entire life narrowing down to this single moment.  

he lifts it to his lips and when he drinks, the water shines.  

light erupts from the chalice like liquid gold, spilling outward, filling the chamber with something holy, something unseen, something that feels too vast for his mortal body to contain. the air shifts, thickens, warps around him, pressing into his lungs, his skin, his bones. but through it all, one single thought sears through his mind, burning hot, overwhelming—she sees me. the chalice would not glow if you had not been watching, if you had not already chosen. you have seen every moment of his life, every step, every struggle, every vow. he had always believed he was meant to bring a smile to your lips, but this—this was proof. joy surges through him, something wild, something all-consuming.  

and then the temple trembles.  

not a quake, not destruction—something greater. the very air shudders with the force of something unseen, something descending, as if the heavens themselves are parting to make way. the candle flames flicker wildly, bending toward the altar, toward the light gathering at its center. the scent of lilacs thickens, the petals placed in offering seeming to stir, to bloom, as if they are reaching for something they have always longed to touch. the space above the chalice distorts, shimmering like a heat mirage, and then you steps forward from the light.  

oh.  

he has seen you in paintings, frescoes, stained glass. he has imagined this moment countless times, traced your image in his mind so often that he thought he knew you. but the truth crashes into him, sudden and undeniable. he was not prepared. his imagination holds no candle to the real thing.  

you are not as grandiose as you are depicted.  

you are simple—yet effortlessly, unbearably divine. there are no golden embellishments, no cascading rivers of stardust, no unreachable distance separating you from the world. and yet, you are. ethereal, yet real. you do not need gilded robes or a blinding aura to demand reverence—it is simply you.  

the divinity surrounding you does not come from woven myths or the hands of artists desperate to capture your likeness. it comes from the way the air itself stills in your presence, from the way the very light bends to touch you, from the quiet certainty that settles into his bones, whispering that he is standing before something eternal.  

and the lilacs placed in quiet offering along the altar, woven into wreaths, scattered at the base of the pillars—bloom. their petals unfurl in your presence, drinking in the divine light, shifting from soft hues to something richer, something more alive. the white lilacs glow as if kissed by the stars, the deep purple darkens to something like twilight, and for a moment, the entire temple seems to breathe with you. the scent of them thickens in the air, sweet and lingering, weaving through the light that dances around you like a living thing.  

satoru does not breathe. but before he can take in the sight of you fully, before he can carve every detail of you into his memory, the high priest moves again.  

his robes shift as he turns, the silver embroidery catching in the golden candlelight, his movements slow, deliberate. he steps toward the altar, where the sword of the goddess rests, its blade nestled in a bed of lilacs, its hilt untouched since the last knight laid it down. the weapon gleams even in the dim light, its edge still sharp, unmarred by time, as if it has never tasted rust or ruin. this is a blade that has seen centuries of war, a relic that has been carried into battle in your name, wielded by those who swore their lives to you. it is not merely a weapon—it is history, faith, and devotion made steel.  

he lifts the sword with careful reverence. and then—he offers it to you.  

his hands remain steady, but the air itself seems to shift at the gesture, thick with something unseen, something unspoken. your fingers barely seem to touch the blade, yet the moment you do, the temple hums, a whisper of energy rippling outward, curling through the stone pillars and the waiting congregation. the candles flicker, bending toward you as if drawn by a force older than the foundation of the temple itself. satoru watches, enraptured, as if even the sword itself longs to remain in your grasp, unwilling to part from you. he wonders if it remembers you, if steel and metal can ache for the touch of divinity, if it resents the thought of being wielded by anyone else.  

and then you move towards him.  

it is not a grand procession, not a spectacle meant to overwhelm, yet it feels as if the very world shifts with each step you take. the weight of your presence does not press down—it pulls, tugs at something deep within his chest, something he cannot name, something he does not want to fight. the temple, vast and unshaken for centuries, feels suddenly small, as if the walls themselves are bending inward, unable to contain the divinity that moves between them. the candlelight wavers, flickering in time with your steps, stretching your shadow long against the marble, as if the temple itself is reluctant to let go of even that piece of you. the sword remains in your hands, cradled with neither reluctance nor possession, as though it has simply returned to where it was always meant to be. satoru’s breath is caught somewhere between awe and anticipation, his heartbeat a steady drum against his ribs, too fast, too eager.  

you do not glide. you walk.  

your steps are soundless, yet each one lands with certainty, like a thread being woven into fate itself. there is no hesitation in the way you close the space between you, no uncertainty in the way the air bends around you, how the very atmosphere hums in response to your presence. the scent of lilacs thickens, the flowers at the altar blooming in full, their petals stretching toward you as if desperate to drink in every moment of your nearness. the golden light filtering through the stained glass casts shifting patterns across your skin, making it seem as if you are made of something softer than stardust, something warmer than the unreachable heavens. you are real, unbearably so.  

he has waited his whole life for this.  

his knees remain firmly on the temple floor.  

the marble is cold beneath him, grounding, a reminder that this moment is real. the temple stretches high above, vast and unshaken, yet all of it—the towering pillars, the candlelit altar, the murmured prayers waiting to be spoken—feels so small compared to the space between you and him. he does not move, barely breathes, his body held in place by something deeper than reverence. a force greater than duty, greater than fate. something that tells him he was always meant to be here.  

his gaze lowers.  

not fully. not completely. not enough. his head bows as tradition demands, but his eyes—his stubborn, defiant, unyielding eyes—fight against instinct. he knows he should not look, knows that reverence dictates he lower his gaze entirely, to see nothing but the temple floor beneath him. but he wants to see you.  

just for a moment. just for this moment.  

his hands clench into fists against his thighs.  

if he could, he would stay like this forever—not moving, not breathing, just existing beneath your gaze. there is a strange kind of peace in kneeling before you, something that settles into his bones, into the very air in his lungs. and yet, there is tension too, something caught between anticipation and something more, something unnamed, something his. he does not know if this is what faith is supposed to feel like, if the knights before him had ever felt something so close to devotion and yet not quite. but he does not have time to understand it.  

because then the flat of the blade touches his shoulder.  

he swears he feels it burn.  

not in pain. not in suffering. but in something deeper, something binding. the metal is cool, yet his skin prickles with something hotter than fire, something final. the weight of your will presses into him through the sword, through the silent acceptance of this vow, through the knowing that there is no turning back. and then you speak. your voice is soft, yet divine.  

not commanding. not absolute. but it lingers, like a prayer answered in a whisper. it threads through the temple air, through the very breath he is afraid to take, wrapping around his ribs, sinking into his pulse. it is not like the high priest’s voice, not like the distant echoes of devotion written in scripture or recited in hymns. your voice is yours—gentle, unwavering, something only you can give.  

“satoru of the gojo family, do you swear to serve? to fight in my name? to never falter in your faith?”  

your voice is soft, yet it carries. it does not boom through the temple like a decree, does not demand obedience—it simply is, threading through the air like a prayer given form. it settles over him, through him, weaving into the marrow of his bones, filling the spaces between breath and heartbeat. it is not distant, not unreachable like the echoes of scripture recited by the priests—it is yours, spoken in a voice that feels both eternal and right here. for the first time, the weight of this moment crashes into him, not as duty, not as destiny, but as something personal. something yours to give, and his alone to receive.  

his throat is dry.  

he has imagined this moment a thousand times. he has practiced these words over and over, let them roll off his tongue in the quiet of his own chambers, whispered them into the night as if preparing for fate itself. they had always come easily then, steady, unshaken—of course they had. there had never been doubt, never hesitation. but now, in front of you—under your gaze, under the weight of being seen—his voice almost shakes.  

“i swear it.”  

the blade lifts from his shoulder, slow and deliberate, the metal gliding away with a weight that lingers even after it is gone. the absence of it should bring relief, should loosen the breath trapped in his lungs—but it does not. because as the blade rises, as the ritual nears its end, he feels it—you.  

and for the briefest, briefest moment—he thinks he sees something in your gaze.  

your eyes, always lidded, always lowered, are looking at him now.  

not past him. at him.  

your fingers shift ever so slightly on the hilt, adjusting the grip with a grace that does not hesitate, does not falter. the movement is effortless, a motion so fluid it is almost an afterthought, as if the blade belongs in your hands, as if it remembers you. the air hums as you hold it, as if the temple itself is aware of what is happening—of what you are. your expression does not harden, does not turn distant or unreadable, but there is something beneath the surface, something he does not yet understand.  

there is no fire, no divine judgment, no impossible radiance that burns to look at. only something knowing. something soft. something merciful.  

a gaze that does not demand, does not take—only sees. or maybe he just wants to believe that.  

the sword is placed in his hands.  

you do not rush the movement. your fingers guide it, tilting the hilt just so, as if ensuring he holds it properly, as if sealing something unspoken between the two of you. the metal is cool, impossibly smooth beneath his palms, but the warmth of your hands lingers where they graze his. fleeting, barely there, but enough to brand itself into his skin, into the spaces between his ribs.  

his fingers tighten around the hilt, but he does not move.  

he cannot.  

the touch is fleeting, barely there, but it sears into his skin, into his pulse, into the very fabric of his being. he should not feel this way, should not feel anything beyond the solemnity of this moment, beyond the gravity of what has just been given to him. but he does. the sword is heavier than he expects, the cool metal pressing into his palms with the weight of centuries, of vows, of you. or maybe—the weight of your blessing is heavier than he imagined.  

“you may rise, my knight.”  

your voice does not change, does not waver, but something about it feels lighter, something about it feels like it lingers in the air longer than it should. satoru exhales, deep and steady, before he moves. his legs feel locked in place, like rising from the ground would pull him from something sacred, from something he does not want to leave. but he does, slow and reverent, eyes flickering upwards to meet your gaze.  

and then you smile.  

barely there, soft enough that anyone who wasn’t looking might have missed it. but he sees it. and for all his strength, for all the battles he will fight in your name, for all the ways he will carve your will into history—this is what will ruin him.

he barely sleeps.  

he tries. he really does. he closes his eyes, stills his breath, wills his body into stillness. but his mind refuses to quiet, refuses to let go. it replays the ceremony over and over—the weight of your hand, the sound of your voice, the faintest curve of your lips as you looked at him. he cannot stop seeing you.  

he does not remember falling asleep.  

he remembers lying in his chambers, staring at the ceiling, unable to rest. the night stretched on endlessly, the darkness pressing in, but sleep never came—not fully. exhaustion clung to him, heavy yet ineffective, unable to drag him into true rest. he had been waiting for something, for what, he does not know. and then he wakes up somewhere else.  

it is day. but not quite. not entirely.  

the sky above is soft and golden, caught between morning and eternity, the kind of light that does not shift, does not move, simply is. there is no sun, no clear source of illumination, yet everything glows, bathed in warmth that feels almost tangible. the air hums, thick with the scent of lilacs and something sweeter—something untouched by time, something not of this world. the ground beneath him is impossibly soft, like stepping onto something woven from light, from memory, from divinity itself.  

the garden stretches endlessly, vibrant, full of life.  

flowers bloom in colors beyond naming, their petals shimmering like light caught in glass, shifting between hues that do not exist beyond this place. vines twist up ivory pillars, coiling around them like something alive, something listening. the wind moves gently, but the leaves do not rustle—they sway, slow and fluid, as if they are breathing, as if they are listening. he has never seen anything like this, never felt anything like this—like the world itself is watching, like it is waiting.  

and at the center of it all is a tree.  

taller than anything else in sight, its branches stretch endlessly, woven into the very fabric of the sky itself. its bark glows faintly, as if carved from silver, smooth and unblemished, untouched by age. the roots dig deep into the ground, yet they do not break the earth—they meld with it, as if they have always been one. and hanging from its limbs is a fruit.  

unlike anything he has ever seen. their skin is iridescent, shifting, never settling on one color, catching the golden light and refracting it in ways that should not be possible. they look like they do not belong to this world. they do not fall. they do not wither. they simply exist.  

he is not standing.  

he is lying down, his body weightless, as if he has never known exhaustion at all. there is no heaviness in his limbs, no ache in his muscles, no lingering tension in his bones. he is not pressed against the earth, nor floating above it—he simply exists, suspended in something softer than sleep, lighter than air. the warmth that surrounds him is not suffocating, not overwhelming, but something gentle, something safe. the kind of warmth that does not demand, does not press down, only welcomes.  

his head rests in your lap.  

your robes pool around him, softer than silk, lighter than mist, cascading like water over the endless stretch of the garden. the fabric does not wrinkle, does not shift beneath his weight—it is untouched, unburdened, as if even gravity dares not press too heavily against you. and yet, your presence is not distant, not untouchable. it is here, tangible in the way your fingers move against his scalp, threading through his hair with an aching slowness. soft. slow. reverent.  

blessing him in a way no ceremony ever could. you do not speak at first. you only hum.  

the sound is light, almost absentminded, as if meant for no one but yourself. it does not echo, does not pierce the air like a song—it simply lingers, soft and steady, threading through the space between breaths. your fingers continue their slow path through his hair, tracing absentminded patterns, memorizing the shape of him, as if this is something you have done before. as if this is something you will do again.  

he does not dare move.  

he doesn’t even breathe.  

he is afraid—afraid that if he does, this will end. afraid that the warmth beneath him will vanish, that the fingers in his hair will still, that the scent of lilacs and something sweeter will be lost to the wind. afraid that he will wake up, that this will be nothing but another dream.  

but then you meet his eyes.  

you look down at him with that same lidded gaze, heavy with something softer than judgment, something gentler than expectation. your expression does not waver, does not shift under the weight of his staring, only watches—not as one who commands, not as one who expects, but as one who sees. your presence is neither distant nor overbearing; you are simply here, and that alone is enough to unravel something deep within him. the space between you is quiet, untouched by time, suspended in something fragile, something holy.  

and then, you speak. “you have done well, satoru.”  

it is not a command, not praise—just truth.  

it does not need embellishment, does not need to be grand to carry weight. it settles into the air between you, threads through the warmth of the golden sky, lingers against his skin like something unseen, something felt. it is not the voice of prophecy, nor the voice of distant divinity—it is yours. simple, certain, like a prayer given freely, like something that was always meant for him.  

his breath shudders.  

it escapes him before he can stop it, breaking the stillness, slipping past his lips in something close to disbelief. it is an unfamiliar feeling, this ache in his chest, this unspoken urge to close his eyes and hold onto the sound of your voice, to carve it into something unshaken, something his. he has been called many things—warrior, prodigy, heir, knight—but never this. never seen. the weight of it settles deep, pressing against his ribs, and he does not know whether it steadies him or leaves him undone.  

he wants to speak.  

wants to say anything, everything. the words press against his throat, desperate to break free, but they are clumsy, inadequate—nothing he could say would ever be enough. he wants to tell you that he has spent years waiting for this moment. that he has followed every prayer, every hymn, every whispered story just to catch a glimpse of you in stained glass and candlelight. that no painting, no fresco, no artist’s trembling hand could ever hope to capture what you truly are.

that you are even more beautiful up close.  

so close, it feels as though the air between you has ceased to exist. so close, he can see the way the light bends to you, how even divinity itself cannot help but linger in your presence. so close, he wonders if you can hear his heartbeat, if you can feel the way the very essence of him trembles beneath your gaze.  

that if this is a dream, he never wants to wake.  

if this is a trick of the mind, if this is nothing more than the product of his devotion taking shape in his exhaustion—he would rather stay lost in it. let time collapse around him, let the world fade, let him exist only here, where you are, where your touch is real, where your presence does not waver. he had sworn to protect you. he had promised to make you happy. but now, with your touch lingering in his hair, he wonders if that promise had always been so simple.  

but before he can, you move. “a knight as hardworking as you should get proper rest.”  

your fingers trail down, brushing over his eyelids, featherlight and deliberate. his breath catches, but he does not pull away—he could never pull away. the warmth of your touch lingers, soothing, steady, something weightless yet inescapable. his vision blurs at the edges, darkens, but there is no fear, no panic, only the quiet certainty that this is meant to happen. this is not like death, not like the end—this is like sleep. like warmth. like mercy.  

he had sworn to protect you. he had promised to make you happy. but now, with your touch lingering in his hair, he wonders if that promise had always been so simple.  

sleep takes him before he can find the answer.

that morning, he wakes up.  

the first thing he notices is how light he feels. the exhaustion that had clung to him, that had sat heavy in his muscles after years of training, after the weight of becoming, is gone. his body feels stronger, steadier, as if every piece of him has been reshaped into something more. the morning light spills through the windows of his chambers, warm and golden, but it is nothing compared to what he saw in you. nothing compared to the glow of your presence, the way your very existence settled into his bones.  

he has always dreamed of making you happy.  

of fulfilling his vow, of standing at your side as your knight. of being the blade in the darkness, the shield in the light. of a lake of chocolate you could share—one he would wish for the moment he slayed the demon king. a foolish, childish wish, but one he had carried with him nonetheless.  

but now, in his heart, he no longer dreams of simply making you happy and sharing a lake of chocolate with you.  

once, that had been enough. once, his dream had been simple—childish, naive, bright-eyed and hopeful. he had imagined slaying the demon king, standing victorious before the gods, and without hesitation, declaring that his wish was for you to smile. for you to know joy, for you to taste the sweetness of a world without sorrow, for you to step down from your unreachable throne just long enough to sit beside him. just long enough to share something small, something human, something his.  

but now he no longer dreams of simply giving you happiness.  

he longs to be beside you.  

and when the day comes—when he stands before the god above all, bathed in the blood of a slain king, with the weight of his victories pressing into his spine—his wish will not be for a lake of chocolate, nor for a fleeting moment of joy. no, when the time comes, he will raise his head, meet the gaze of the god above all, and say “grant me ascension. let me stand beside her. let me cherish her for eternity.”  

“if she must remain beyond reach, then make me god enough to stand at her side.”

[luvly-writer]

My soul breathes for you

Xaden Riorson x Reader

Masterlist

RIORSON ESTATE – NIGHT Y/n’s room is shrouded in darkness. Moonlight filters through the curtains, casting pale beams across her bed where she shifts restlessly. Her brows furrow. Sweat gathers at her temple. Her body flinches.

DREAM – THE ROYAL BALLET COMMITTEE

She’s 13 again. Knees scraped, chest heaving, arms trembling as she’s forced into another backbend she can barely hold. One of the committee masters stands over her, clicking their tongue.

“Pain is proof you’re improving, Belvie.”

The barre bites into her spine as her legs stretch into a split that makes her vision blur. Her toes bleed through satin. The scent of crushed roses and blood lingers on her calloused skin. She’s dragged back up and spun, again and again, until the world tilts.

Later, she’s limping, forced to lace up the same pointe shoes—new stitching digging into half-healed wounds. A healing draught is thrust into her hands, but only enough to stop infection, not to dull the ache.

“Again, girl. Don’t stop. You think being noble spares you?”

The dream shifts.

She’s older now—fifteen. Exhausted from rehearsal, still panting—and they toss her a blade.

“Beautiful and deadly, that’s the goal. Again.”

She’s training in the dead of night, a pas de bourrée one moment, a strike to the solar plexus the next. She’s never allowed to scream. They mend her bones so she can dance again. They whisper about her brilliance like she’s not there.

“She doesn’t break.” “Riorson’s little dove.” “She’ll be the crown jewel of our arsenal.”

She’s in her bed at the foster estate with Imogen. A man in committee robes stands outside the window, watching. Always watching.

Clack.

She hears it again.

Clack. Clack.

“Again”

The tapping of her instructor’s walking stick sounds once again.

Clack. Clack.

“Again, girl!”

She feels her lungs burning. She tries to hide her pants, spots filling her vision.

Arabesque. First Position. Second. Third. 4 Pirouettes. Step. Step. Relevé. Attitude. Move.

“Like a swan, Belvie! Delicate! Elegant!”

The wood on her shoes is killing her. Her feet feel more numb as she keeps on going.

Step into Fourth. Développé. Step. Two more pirouettes. End in Piqué and bow.

“Perfect.”

She keeps her head down as she refuses to let them see her eyes water.

The studio of the Royal Ballet Committee shifts into the Royal Hall.

She hears them laughing. They have their bets placed. The bids are growing. She feels their disgusting gazes rake over her and places her mask of indifference. Lady Antari wouldn’t want her little porcelain doll to break. Graceful. Elegant. Seen and not heard.

CRACK!

“Again, child! Only diamonds are made under pressure!”

CRACK! CRACK!

“You can do better than that…we’re not leaving until it’s perfect! You heard me?! First position, now!”

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

“Unsatisfactory. It seems we will have to inform Lady Antari that her doll will be arriving later that usual to her estate. She needs more conditioning.”

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

She screams in her sleep—except no one hears her.

INT. RIORSON ESTATE – Y/N’S ROOM – NIGHT

Y/n gasps awake.

Sweat clings to her back, hair matted to her face. Her breathing is ragged—shallow, panicked. A sob escapes her lips before she can stop it. She curls inward, clutching her knees to her chest, trying to quiet herself.

But she can’t.

She stumbles out of bed, throws on a robe, and exits the room.

The hallway is silent.

Imogen’s door is down the hall, but Y/n falters. She remembers how exhausted Imogen looked when she limped in from patrol earlier. She can’t disturb her.

Her bare feet pad silently over the cold stone floor… until she stands before his door.

Xaden Riorson’s.

Her heart beats like a war drum in her chest. Memories crash into her all at once:

The way his arms would cradle her after a brutal rehearsal.

The way his voice would whisper, “I’ve got you, love. Always.”

The way he used to hold her close until she stopped shaking.

But that was then. That was before Violet. Before he loved someone else.

She raises a hand to knock. She lowers it. Raises it again.

Her fingers shake.

Her heart knows. He is still her calm. Her stillness. Her home. Even after everything.

She knocks—softly. Barely audible. But she knows he heard it.

Seconds later, the door opens, revealing Xaden, shirtless, eyes heavy with sleep—but alert the second he sees her.

His expression darkens with concern. “Y/n?”

Her lips tremble. “I… I just—” A choked breath. “I needed—”

He steps aside wordlessly and reaches out, gently pulling her into the room. Into him.

He wraps his arms around her. No questions. No pressure. Just the quiet, grounding weight of him.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, like he always did. His voice a low promise in the dark. “Always.”

And Y/n lets herself break—quiet sobs muffled into his chest as he holds her tighter.

Like nothing ever changed. Like he never stopped loving her. Because, deep down, he never had.

It’s not loud. Not at first. It’s a whisper of a sob that builds slowly, painfully. Her knees give way, and without hesitation, Xaden sinks with her, kneeling to the ground, arms already pulling her into his chest.

She clings to him like she’ll drown without him, fingers fisting the fabric of his shirt, her words a disjointed string of confessions muffled into his skin.

“I hate that I still love it—” “Dancing—it was mine—it was all I had left of her…of mom…but it broke me, Xay.” “They broke me.” “They laughed while they did it, like it was some grand joke—like I was some… some thing to shape and destroy.” “I miss it so much, but I hear them when I move. I hear them when the music plays. I feel them twisting my body like I wasn’t a girl, like I was just talent—just a damn weapon in silk slippers—”

Xaden cradles her against his chest, jaw clenched in quiet rage, but his touch is pure tenderness.

“I know,” he murmurs, voice low and reverent. “I know, my darling girl. I was there. Every time you came back bruised and bleeding, and you still danced like your heart was whole. I remember.”

He rocks her slowly, grounding her like he used to when they were young and scared of everything except each other.

“You were always more than what they tried to make you. More than what they saw. They couldn’t kill the light in you, Y/n. You never let them.”

She trembles harder. “But it hurts. It hurts, Xay. Loving something that hurt me—”

“I know,” he whispers again, and his arms tighten. “But it also made you you. And gods, you’re the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever known.”

Her breathing stutters. She’s still crying—but it’s softer now, slower, her body less tense.

When she finally stills against him, he brushes her curls gently from her face and lifts her like she weighs nothing. She lets him.

He places her carefully on his bed and moves to grab a cloth from the wash basin near the hearth.

But the second he turns away, he hears her sharp inhale—sees the way her eyes widen in fear.

“Don’t—” Her voice is small. “Please don’t go.”

He freezes. His heart clenches painfully. He turns back and walks to her in two quick steps.

“Never,” he says softly. “I’m not leaving. Just getting this.” He holds up the cool, wet cloth.

He sits on the edge of the bed and begins to gently wipe her cheeks, her forehead, cooling her burning skin. Her eyes flutter closed at the comfort, her breathing finally steadying.

Then, quietly—almost like she’s afraid to ask—

“Can I stay with you? Just for tonight?”

He stills for a beat. Swallows hard.

“Y/n,” he says, voice breaking with the weight of everything between them. “Of course. You don’t even have to ask. You can stay as long as you like; I could never say no to you.”

He places the cloth down, pulls back the blankets, and helps her settle in. She fits into the space beside him like she was always meant to be there.

Like she never left.

Like a home returned.

And when he wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her close, Y/n finally sleeps.

And this time, she doesn’t dream of pain. Because Xaden Riorson is holding the pieces of her together like he always has.

RIORSON ESTATE – XADEN’S BEDROOM – EARLY MORNING

Soft sunlight filters through the curtains, golden and gentle, catching on the dark waves of Xaden’s hair where he lies, still and warm, tangled with Y/n beneath the covers.

His arm is wrapped firmly around her waist, pulling her close—his hand splayed protectively against her stomach like his body instinctively decided to shield her from the world even in sleep.

Y/n blinks awake slowly, warmth cradling her from behind. It takes her only a second to realize where she is. Who she is with.

She turns carefully, as if afraid this is a dream that might disappear with a sudden movement. But it’s real. He’s here. Xaden Riorson—her Xay.

He’s still asleep, just barely. His brow is uncreased, his breathing slow. Vulnerable, soft in a way only she has ever seen. And gods, how he looks like home.

Y/n studies him for a long moment.

This was the boy who had lost everything and still kept fighting. The one who never missed a recital, who’d always sit front row with his arms crossed and his eyes shining. The one who had a ballroom made for her because he believed she deserved a stage of her own. The one who held her hand when they watched their parents burn, never letting go, even when she screamed. The one who would risk everything—did risk everything—just for her to be safe.

This was her constant. Her ruin. Her beginning.

Xaden stirs, eyes blinking open slowly. And he sees her. Really sees her.

This is the girl who was his only softness—before, during, and after everything he lost. The girl who hummed lullabies when he couldn’t sleep, who snuck books with hidden letters into their foster homes, who always saved him the last bite. The one who stayed up bleeding, broken-toed, exhausted, but still met him on their secret nights. The woman he would protect with his dying breath, even if it meant never touching her again.

His eyes fill with something raw and desperate, and when she reaches out to caress his cheek, he leans into her touch like a prayer.

“Thank you,” Y/n whispers. “For last night. For being there.”

Xaden’s lips press softly to her palm.

“I’ll always be here,” he murmurs. “I’ll always make sure you feel safe.”

Y/n’s thumb strokes his cheekbone, her smile watery, bittersweet.

“What a mess we’ve made,” she says softly, shaking her head.

Xaden laughs gently, a breath of warmth against her skin, and nods.

“Do you think…” he hesitates, voice softer than she’s heard in months, “we’ll ever be able to go back to what it was?”

Y/n meets his eyes. Really meets them. The longing. The fear. The hope.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

He rolls his eyes, tries to deflect. But one look at her—stern, knowing—and he sighs.

“I’m okay,” he says, “as long as I’m here with you.” He pauses, fingers tracing small circles on her hip. “But I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t feel like I’m betraying Violet.”

Y/n’s expression falters, but before she can speak, he continues.

“Violet is… she’s my friend. She became someone close. I cared for her. I still care. But you, Alanna… you’re my blood. You’re my heart. You’re stitched into every part of my life. Not even Malek himself could take you from my existence. I love you. I loved you when I couldn’t see you. I loved you when it hurt to breathe because I didn’t know how you were. And I love you now, when you’re here, tangled in my sheets, looking like this room, this house, this life, was always meant to be yours. And you do belong here. You belong with me. And I’m at your mercy.”

He looks at her like she holds the stars in her hands. Like she is gravity itself.

“Sure, I loved someone else,” he finishes, voice shaking, “but I breathe for you.”

Y/n feels her heart catch—no, stop—at his words.

She pulls him close and kisses him. Soft. Reverent. Real.

When they pull apart, her forehead rests against his.

“I have only loved you,” she breathes. “Even when others tried, even when I tried to forget you. No one else ever got to my heart, Xay. No one could because it’s full of you. Overflowing with you and your beautiful soul, and your brilliant mind, and all the things that make you, you. Xaden Riorson, I love you. I never stopped.”

His eyes close, and he holds her tighter like he’s scared she’ll vanish.

And for the first time in a long time… Neither of them is broken. Just healing. Together.

Y/n is curled into Xaden’s side, her hand lazily tracing the marks along his ribs, her head tucked beneath his chin. The room is quiet, bathed in soft light and thick with the kind of peace neither of them has known in far too long.

Xaden’s fingers trail up and down her spine, over the curve of her back, memorizing the way she fits against him like a memory that never faded. He replays her words in his head, the ones she said just moments ago:

“Even when others tried… even when I tried to forget you…”

And then he scoffs, a low, incredulous sound that breaks the silence.

“Who the fuck tried to get you to forget me?”

Y/n blinks, startled by his tone, but when she tilts her head up, she sees it—the sharp, indignant twist of his mouth and the fire in his eyes.

“Wait—” he narrows his eyes, leaning over her slightly. “Was there someone else?” he demands, completely scandalized.

Y/n bursts out laughing, eyes wide and amused at his outrage. She pushes lightly off his chest just enough to meet his eyes.

“You,” she begins, grinning, “slept with Catriona and had an entire situationship with Violet. And you’re appalled at the idea of me even considering someone else?”

Xaden stares at her, then squints like a child caught in a trap.

“Who told you about Catriona?” he grumbles.

Y/n raises one eyebrow.

Xaden groans, dragging a hand down his face.

“Bodhi,” he mutters darkly. “That idiot can’t keep his mouth shut for the life of him.”

Y/n laughs harder now, reaching over and pulling the grumpy man closer until his head rests on her chest. She runs her fingers through his hair lovingly, heart warm, and still amused.

There’s a beat of silence. Then:

“So…” Xaden drawls, voice full of mock offense. “You’re not gonna tell me who tried to make you forget me?”

Y/n smirks and gently pulls his face up, pressing kisses to his cheek, his jaw, his lips—soft, teasing.

“Some lords here and there tried to ask Lady Antari for my hand,” she says breezily. “She allowed it once she realized I stopped sneaking out to find you.”

That makes Xaden pause.

“Are they alive?” he mutters.

Y/n pecks his lips again, eyes glinting.

“Yes. But unimportant. None of them got more than a kiss out of me.”

At that, Xaden growls low in his throat and grabs her waist, rolling them until she’s beneath him, his eyes dark and intense.

Then he kisses her—slow, deep, possessive, as if trying to burn every past ghost from her lips.

He pulls away just enough to ask against her mouth,

“How many kisses?”

Y/n narrows her eyes.

“Seriously?”

He smirks.

“I need to know how many I have to erase from your mind.”

Y/n laughs, breathless and delighted.

“You’re incorrigible.”

Xaden leans in, nips her bottom lip with a devilish glint in his eye.

“Only for you.”

And then he kisses her again—fierce and tender, like a man making sure the only memory she’ll ever carry is his.

Taglist: @smileysunshinesworld @poisonivy2267 @whyucloudingmymind @universallyrascaldreamercookie @shadowmarurader @ambivalence-is-me @nikfigueiredo @nesiri21 @thechibifoxcub @wolfbc97 @turb05ynth @fiahtheteaaddict @sleepysaffi @hannraumari @lolalostinstardust @minidemont @vickykazuya @immortialslane @clayme123 @n0body-is-perfect @freezerbride18 @Ireadsstuff @yuelhua @sheblogs @86laura11 @brieflyclassymortal @notnowkittenwhisker @xelladarlingx @touchitbae @eepyfaerie @ihatewhenmendontknowhowtoact @pkawaiidesu5394 @40nights @lunnieluvsu @enshura

To be added, leave a comment. <3

[letthemkook]

ROULETTE JEONJUNGKOOK

INSPIRED BY KAKERUGUI! (Three)

18+ SMUT WARNING *dubcon/noncon elements*

Themes: Obsession, high-stakes gambling, manipulation, power dynamics, psychological warfare, lust vs. control, dominance and submission

Genre: Dark romance, psychological thriller, drama

Warnings: Dubious consent, Power imbalance, Manipulation and coercion, Yandere behavior, Gambling addiction themes, SMUT / explicit sexual content, Emotional blackmail, Violence or threats (minor or implied, depending on tone)

“INTRO: You were the undefeated queen of the tables—calm, cunning, and untouchable. That was before Jeon Jungkook transferred in, smiling like sin and playing like the devil.”

taglist: @hkplushier @darkuni63 @vintagemoonsstuff @haneulreads

————

They say falling from the top is worse than never climbing at all.

You never believed it—until now.

Your desk used to sit near the windows, where natural light fell on your cards like a halo. Now, it’s tucked into the back row like a punishment. The gold tag that once marked you as Queen has been replaced with black: House Pet.

And everyone saw it happen.

You can feel their eyes. Their whispers. The shifting tides. The way the ones who used to kneel now smirk behind their hands. Hybe Academy is merciless, and it doesn’t take long for the first student to try stepping on you to climb.

He drops your books in the hallway. Laughs like it’s funny. The others join in.

But before you can pick them up, he’s there.

Jungkook.

He bends down slowly, collects each book with quiet precision, and straightens up with a gentle smile.

“You forgot these,” he says sweetly, and turns to the boy who mocked you.

The smile doesn’t fade.

But his tone drops. The mask drops.

For the first time, in public.

“Apologize.”

Silence.

The boy scoffs. “Why? She’s a—”

Jungkook moves so fast you almost miss it. A fist in the collar. A slammed locker. A gasping sound.

“I said,” Jungkook whispers, his face terrifyingly calm, “apologize.”

The boy stammers out something breathless and pitiful. Jungkook releases him like he was nothing. He fixes his sleeve, then turns back to you.

“I take care of my things,” he says. “Don’t I, little pet?”

Your breath catches in your throat.

This wasn’t punishment. This wasn’t debt.

It was possession.

⸻

That evening, you’re called to the east wing—his dorm suite.

You expect smugness. Arrogance. Gloating. But when he opens the door, he looks almost… tender.

“Come in,” he says. “You look tired. They were mean to you today.”

You step inside. The door locks behind you with a soft click.

His room is immaculate. Warm lighting. Stacks of cards and strategy books. Velvet curtains drawn. In the center: a chair beside a low table.

Your chest tightens.

“I told you,” he murmurs as he walks around you, voice brushing your skin. “This school likes cruelty. But I’m different.”

He lifts the collar slowly. “I don’t want to humiliate you.”

Then he smiles, eyes gleaming with something deeper. Something possessive.

“I want to own you.”

You feel yourself start to sweat.

And so it begins.

———-

At lunch, he sits with you. Feeds you a grape like it’s perfectly normal.

“You’re doing so well,” he says sweetly, brushing something imaginary from your cheek. “I knew you’d adjust fast.”

You clench your jaw, stabbing your salad with unnecessary force.

He leans closer. “You’re angry.”

“No shit,” you snap under your breath.

He only laughs.

Then he speaks, softer: “Just don’t lose your edge, pet. I like you sharp.”

You glare at him, and he hums in satisfaction like he’s just seen a piece of art exactly the way he imagined it.

Across the cafeteria, someone tries to snap a photo.

He sees it before you do.

Jungkook turns slowly. Tilts his head. Smiles.

And then, without breaking eye contact, he kisses your cheek.

The flash goes off. Students gasp. Someone drops their tray.

Your entire face burns.

“Oops,” he murmurs playfully. “Guess that’ll be on the student forum in five minutes.”

You shove his hand away, heart pounding.

He only chuckles and picks up his drink.

“Careful, pet,” he says. “You keep reacting like that, and people will think you actually like me.”

————

His private dorm is nothing like the underground chambers.

There are no velvet tables. No gold coins or hushed spectators. No rules taped to the wall.

The lights are low, warm. A gramophone plays something soft and classical. And in the center, not a table, but a chaise.

Jungkook shuts the door behind you, and the lock clicks loud in the stillness.

You stand stiff in the middle of the room, waiting for his usual sickly sweet voice. His teasing.

But when he speaks, it’s different this time.

“This room is off-record. No council rules. No student forum.”

Your spine stiffens. “Then why am I here?”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly.

“To learn.”

⸻

He sits down in a tall-backed chair across from the chaise, spreading his legs slightly, hands resting on the arms like a throne.

“Here, I teach you how to behave. How to listen. How to obey.”

You bristle. “I’m not playing a game with you. I’m not your dog.”

He smiles now—finally—and sets the collar in his lap. “No, you’re just mine.”

He taps the chair beside him.

“Sit.”

You don’t move.

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “If I have to repeat myself again, it will become a punishment round.”

Your mouth goes dry.

You glance at the door.

He catches the look.

“Go ahead. Try to leave.

You don’t. Not because you’re scared of being stopped. But because a deep, sick part of you wants to know what he’ll do next.

Wants to see how far this goes.

Slowly… you sit.

“There,” he murmurs, brushing a finger under your chin. “That’s better.”

Your voice trembles. “What now?”

He smiles—sharp, indulgent.

“Now we play a different kind of game.”

—-

You sit stiffly at the edge of the chaise in his private lounge, still unsure whether this room is a punishment, a trap, or something worse: a test.

Jungkook sits across from you, one leg crossed, hands resting neatly on the arms of his chair like he was born to rule something. Someone. You.

“As I’ve said, there’s no council here,” he says calmly. “No rules. No fake rankings or reputation to hide behind. Just you… and me.”

He leans forward, eyes glittering.

“Lesson one: You don’t play for power. You’ll play for favor.”

You hate the way your heart jumps at that. Hate that it almost sounds gentle. You don’t speak.

He smiles anyway.

“I’m going to give you commands,” he continues. “Each one earns you a token. Five tokens, and you win.”

“Win what?” you ask, voice cold.

His lips curve. “Mercy.”

You grit your teeth.

“Command one,” he says softly. “Come here.”

You hesitate.

He doesn’t repeat it. He doesn’t have to.

The tension in the room says it for him.

Slowly, you rise from the chaise and take cautious steps toward him. You stop a foot away.

“Closer,” he murmurs.

You step forward. He’s still sitting, knees slightly apart, watching you like you’re something fragile and dangerous at once.

He lifts a small silver token from the side table and presses it into your hand.

“Good girl.”

Your breath catches.

⸻

Command Two.

“Sit.”

You blink. “Sit… where?”

He pats his lap.

Your jaw tightens, and you raise an eyebrow. “No way.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I could always make you, but you’re not gonna like what happens if it comes to that.”

You glance at the chaise. The locked door.

He’s not going to make you. That’s the trick. You have to choose it.

And somehow, that’s worse.

But your pride is already tattered, and something else—something deeper—is stirring beneath the anger. Something like fire.

So you move and begrudgingly sit on his lap. He lightly places a supportive hand on your hip.

Facing away from him, chin up, heart pounding.

Jungkook sets another token on your leg.

“Two,” he says quietly. “You’re catching on fast.”

⸻

Command Three.

“Lean back.”

Your stomach twists.

This is getting increasingly more intimate. More dangerous.

But he just waits. No pressure. No cruelty. Only that same unreadable calm.

You hesitate long enough to make him smile.

Then—carefully—you lean backwards and rest your head against the chair, your back pressing his chest.

He doesn’t move for a moment. Then, almost thoughtfully, he strokes your hair.

“See?” he whispers in your hair. “Obedience can feel good.”

The third token lands in your lap.

⸻

You don’t speak for the rest of the session.

But when he finally unlocks the door to let you go, his voice follows you out.

“Three out of five,” he says. “Not bad for a first night.”

You grip the tokens tight in your hand.

And wonder—terrified—what it says about you that part of you wants to earn the last two.

——-

The note arrives after midnight. No signature—just the scent of his cologne clinging to the parchment.

Come.

You’ve earned your reward.

—JJK

You sit on the edge of your bed for a long time, staring at it. The velvet collar lies folded in your drawer like it’s watching you, waiting to be picked up. You could ignore him. Tear the note. Lock your door.

But you don’t.

Because you already know what happens to people who ignore Jeon Jungkook. You’re one of those people. And now you’re his housepet.

⸻

When you arrive, he’s leaning against the doorframe, barefoot, damp hair falling into his eyes. Shirtless. Not seductive—just comfortable. Like he belongs in power and always has.

You step in carefully.

“I’m not staying long,” you say before he can speak.

He hums, closing the door behind you with a quiet click. “We’ll see.”

He gestures toward the bed. “Sit.”

“No,” you say, firmly. “I’m not in the mood for one of your games.”

He pauses.

Then smiles—just slightly. “Ah. That’s cute.”

Your fists clench. “I’m serious.”

“I know you are.” He walks to the nightstand, opens the top drawer, and pulls out… a ledger.

Your blood runs cold.

“That’s your class schedule,” he says casually, flipping pages. “Your debt balance. The names of every club you’re still in. Your dorm assignment. Your scholarship agreement… your mother’s file.”

He looks up. His eyes are cold now. Patient. Final.

You feel your hands form into fists.

“Jungkook. I don’t think you understand why exactly I’m here. This isn’t a stupid game for me!”

He smirks. “I don’t you think you understand. But that’s alright, I can help you.” You go silent after that.

“I can help you in a lot of ways, if you’re good. But disobey me again,” he says quietly, “and you won’t just lose the game. You’ll lose everything you’ve built.”

You take a step back. “You wouldn’t.”

He shrugs. “Won’t need to. You’ll come running back after the consequences hit.”

He closes the drawer softly.

“But if you’re smart… you’ll stay.”

You don’t move.

⸻

You should walk away.

But your mind is already racing—flashing through the names on your scholarship committee, the clubs that keep your résumé padded, the teacher who adores you enough to write a rec letter—all of it, under his thumb.

So you sit.

Not because you want to.

Because you don’t have a choice.

He smiles triumphantly. Like this was another match he had just won.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “I knew you’d come around.”

You flinch when he touches your jaw. He tilts your head back and leans in—not for a kiss, but to inhale you. Slowly. Deeply.

“Tonight,” he whispers, “I’m going to show you what obedience feels like.”

⸻

He pushes you down against the mattress, slow and deliberate, hands warm on your thighs.

His fingers press against the damp fabric of your underwear, and you jerk in his lap—body still unsure whether to run or melt into him.

You try not to react. Try not to make a sound.

He slides your underwear down slowly, as though he’s unwrapping something sacred. And when he sees you bare and trembling, his breath catches.

But when he pulls your panties all the way aside and drags his tongue over your clit with practiced hunger, your legs jerk.

“You’ve been so good for me,” he murmurs, stroking over the sensitive fabric slowly. “Obeying. Learning.”

He pauses, voice dipping lower. “You deserve your reward.”

You whimper. He keeps going.

And he smiles.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Be honest with me. Be good for me.”

Slow. Then faster.

You reach for his hair—then stop yourself.

He notices.

Grabs your hand and presses it to his head.

“Touch me,” he says, voice dark. “I want you to know who made you feel this way.”

Jungkook looks up to watch you. Calm. Certain. Like he owns the air in your lungs, the pulse in your throat.

You try to answer but it comes out as a breathless sound. Your fingers grip the front of his shirt, heart hammering against your ribs like a warning. But his touch is so slow. So firm. So measured.

“Shh,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to your jaw. “No thoughts now. Just feel.”

He doesn’t rush.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue across his bottom lip. “So wet already. You liked earning me, didn’t you?”

You shake your head instinctively, but your body betrays you again—shifting, arching slightly toward him.

He smiles.

“Liar.”

Then his mouth is on you again —warm, soft, devouring. His tongue swirls around your clit in slow circles, savoring every sound you make. When you gasp and try to close your legs, his arms slide under your thighs and lock you open.

“Be still,” he murmurs against your core, “and take your reward like a good pet.”

Your back arches when he sucks hard, your thighs trembling against his grip. His tongue is relentless—lapping, licking, teasing you with maddening control.

Then—without warning—two fingers slide inside you.

You choke on a cry.

“God, you’re tight,” he breathes, eyes flicking up to your face. “I could watch you break like this all night.”

He curls his fingers, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur. His mouth never stops, coaxing you, dragging you closer and closer until you’re sobbing into your hand, thighs shaking around his head.

And when you come, he doesn’t stop.

He keeps licking, keeps thrusting his fingers until your moans turn breathless, raw, almost painful.

Your hands scramble for his shoulders. “Jungkook, wait—”

“One more, baby,” he growls, voice darker now, teeth grazing your inner thigh. “One more. For me.”

You cry out when the second orgasm crashes over you, harder than the first—white-hot and dizzying. You’re trembling beneath him, panting, slick and ruined. And only then does he slow.

He kisses your thigh once. Then again. Reverent. Possessive.

“That’s four.”

He kisses the collar.

“One more to go.”

——

You wake up in his bed.

Not because you meant to fall asleep. Not because you trusted him.

But because your body betrayed you. Your limbs gave out after he forced you to feel things you weren’t ready for—didn’t want to enjoy. You remember the warmth of his mouth. The press of his tongue. The way he made you say his name when your body broke apart.

Now, you’re tangled in his sheets, still in the collar, your clothes slightly disheveled and your pride scattered somewhere between the door and the pillow.

He’s already awake. Sitting across from you, fully dressed now in a crisp white shirt, sipping coffee like he didn’t ruin you hours ago.

“You slept well,” he says, like it’s a compliment.

You sit up slowly. “Where’s the fifth token?”

He raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “You still want it?”

You grit your teeth. “Give it to me.”

He leans forward and opens a small velvet box on the table beside him. Inside: the final silver token.

“You want this?” he murmurs. “Then earn it.”

You don’t speak. Just stare at him.

His voice lowers. “Take off your shirt.”

You flinch.

“I thought this was about obedience,” you snap. “Not stripping.”

He smiles faintly. “Obedience is seeing how far you’ll go to please me.”

You don’t move.

He picks up the token, rolling it between two fingers.

“If you do this,” he says softly, “you win. You get the last token. You can cash them in, ask me for anything. A favor. Even a taste of freedom.”

Your pulse races. The chance to flip the board back in your favor. To take something from him.

You grip the hem of your shirt. Pause.

“Eyes on me,” he whispers.

You obey.

Slowly, you pull the shirt over your head, baring your chest to him.

He breathes in once. Deeply. Then sets the token in his lap.

“Come here,” he says.

You approach, unsure if you’re walking or floating.

He grabs your waist and pulls you into his lap, mouth dragging along your throat. He peppers kissing all around your collar bone and your neck, and suddenly flips you down onto the mattress.

Your legs are still trembling when he climbs up over you, licking his fingers like they’re honey-soaked.

“I should stop here,” Jungkook murmurs, voice low and teasing as he settles between your legs, your thighs still parted. “Let you catch your breath. Let you think.”

His eyes darken.

“But you don’t need to think, do you?”

You swallow hard. “Jungkook—”

He leans down, brushing his nose against yours. “Shh.”

Then against your lips, soft and sickly sweet:

“..Get hard just looking at you pet, now be a good girl and let me use you.”

Your breath catches. He kisses you before you can respond—hot and deep, tongue claiming your mouth like he’s tasting you from the inside out. You whimper into him as his hand cups your throat, thumb pressing lightly under your jaw, just enough to keep you pliant.

You hate how much you need this.

Hate how your hips tilt up to meet him without hesitation.

Hate how your fingers grab at his back like you’ll fall apart if he doesn’t hold you down.

“Say it,” he pants against your lips. “Say you want me.”

You shake your head once—but then he drags his cock along your soaked folds, teasing your entrance without going in, and you gasp—loud, desperate.

“I—please—”

His smirk returns. “That’ll do.”

He sinks in slow. Thick. Stretching you until your eyes roll back. The pressure is so much, too much—but it’s exactly what your body begged for, traitor that it is.

“Fuck,” he hisses through clenched teeth, bottoming out with a groan. “Fucking perfect. My tight fucking pet.”

You cling to him, barely able to breathe, his cock pulsing deep inside you as he holds himself still. Just watching your face twist. Watching you fall apart around him.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, brushing your hair from your damp forehead. “Tried so hard to beat me. And now you’re wrapped around my cock.”

He starts moving—slow, then hard. Each thrust deeper, rougher, more intentional. The bed creaks beneath you. The collar digs into your skin. And you can’t stop moaning, can’t stop begging, every breath a broken little plea.

“Touch yourself,” he orders, voice hoarse. “I want to watch you come again with me inside you.”

Your hand moves between your thighs, already soaked from his mouth, and as you circle your clit—he groans, eyes locked to the way you squeeze him.

“Fuck, yes. Just like that. God, baby, you drive me fucking insane.”

He thrusts faster now. Deeper. His mouth finds your shoulder, biting just enough to sting. Your body arches, chasing that edge again, and when it snaps—when you come with a choked cry, clenching around him—he loses control.

Jungkook slams into you once, twice more—then spills inside with a broken moan.

You’re still shaking when he collapses over you, lips brushing your cheek as he whispers, “Mine.”

He kisses your jaw. Your throat. Your collar.

And again, firmer this time—like a vow.

“Just mine.”

——-

note: SORRY THIS WAS ALSO LATE I’ve been so lazy omfg

[d1onysusw1n3]

SONDER - Tim Drake X Reader.

[son-der]

• the feeling one has on realizing that every other individual one sees has a life as full and real as one's own, in which they are the central character and others, including oneself, have secondary or insignificant roles.

In a state of sonder, each of us is at once a hero, a supporting cast member, and an extra in overlapping stories.

The mission had gone wrong-badly. And of all people, it was Tim Drake who felt the weight of it settle into his bones like winter. No matter how hard he fought, how many pieces of himself he gave away, some lives would still be lost. And in the quiet after the chaos.

TW: heavy Angst, Maybe some fluff if I'm feeling nice ig you'll just have to read. 😛

It should have been a simple mission. Bomb threats from the joker, it’s always a game with him. People held hostage in a bank as he consumes and ruins whatever he wants. This time, it was a bank. High-rise, multi-story, packed on a weekday morning. Civilians trapped inside like pawns on a board. But this wasn’t a brute force kind of mission—it was stealth. Quiet in, quiet out. The kind of work that Tim excelled at.

Tim Drake wasn’t the strongest of the Robins. Wasn’t the fastest either. But when it came to the mind—calm, calculated, strategic—Tim was unmatched.

Before boots ever hit pavement, Tim had spent hours pouring over the blueprints of the building. He didn’t just study it—he memorized it. Every emergency exit. Every flickering hallway light. Every duct, grate, vent shaft, and creaky step.

Bruce had drilled it into him early on: “Never enter a place unless you know how to get out.”

So Tim didn’t just know how to get out—he had three different routes, all color-coded in his mind, depending on how far the situation went south.

Dick had assigned him the lead on this one. Not just because of the mission’s scale—but because, quietly, Dick had come to see something in Tim. A future. A leader. Maybe even someone who could lead the young justice one day—not as a copy, but as something even better.

Dick always said he wasn’t much of a team player anyway. He preferred to fly solo.

But Tim? Tim could see the whole board, and he knew how to move each piece with precision. He thrived in command, not because he was power-hungry, but because he could see the potential in everyone—know how and when to use each person like a thread in a perfect web. And when he spoke, people listened. Not out of fear, but out of trust. Confidence.

Even his girlfriend—chaotic, lovely, impulsive to the bone—always pointed it out with a smile. “You’re like Batman if he color-coded his emotions,” she’d tease, legs across his lap, watching him build out digital blueprints like he was playing chess with the world.

Of course, she always added: “You still can’t organize your damn sleep schedule, though.”

Not everyone’s perfect, you know?

But he was prepared. Focused. Clear. This was supposed to be just another job. Just another mission.

Nothing ever really goes as planned, though.

⸻

The initial plan was to infiltrate the bank from the back entrance. Surveillance drones had confirmed it: the bomb was placed in the far rear of the building—right by the manager’s office, rigged to the ventilation unit. High-risk, high-yield placement. Classic Joker.

Tim had mapped out the plan down to the second. Jaime Reyes would go in first, his Blue Beetle armor allowing him to scan the device in real-time for its internal components—pressure triggers, false wiring, and any of Joker’s signature psychological traps. Bart, ever the speedster, would wait beside him, twitching with energy. Once Jaime identified the right wires, Bart would zip in, sever them, and get the bomb out of the building in a blink—flashing it across the city and dropping it into the ocean before a single civilian inhaled their last breath.

Quick. Surgical. Clean.

Meanwhile, Superboy, Wonder Girl, and Tim himself would handle the muscle—Joker’s men were already inside, heavily armed, masked, unstable. Tim had anticipated their tactics, their formations, even their fallback patterns. They’d enter through the roof and north hallway, split into two teams, and start the sweep. Take them out, keep the hostages safe, no casualties.

That left Joker.

Tim knew the Clown wouldn’t go down easily—or quietly. That’s why he had Dick and Black Canary on takedown. Two of the most seasoned fighters in the room, both more than capable of neutralizing Joker without giving him the chaos he always craved.

And Tim… Tim had thought about Jason.

Of course he had.

He’d made the hard call. Anyone younger than Dick, wasn’t fit for this particular fight—not against the clown.

Tim exhaled and double-checked the mission files one last time before the call came.

“All right, Timmy boy,” Nightwing’s voice rang out, clear and strong with that familiar confidence. He walked over, clapping a firm hand on Tim’s shoulder, a proud smirk tugging at his lips. “I like your plan. Let’s head out, team.”

Tim’s chest swelled slightly with pride. That hand on his shoulder, that nod of approval—it meant something. Dick didn’t hand out praise lightly.

And coming from someone Tim had always looked up to—it hit deep.

He beamed, barely able to hide the fire that was beginning to light behind his tired eyes.

“Yeah,” he replied, voice steady, controlled—but his blood was thrumming with purpose. With drive.

Determination coursed through him like a current.

They were ready.

At least, that’s what he thought.

-

It was only thirty minuets and everything has gone wrong. The joker not only had a giant bomb strapped to the Back of the bank. He failed to mention to the goons Tim interrogated before hand about the various bombs strapped to people’s chests. Shit.

‘Think.’

“It no use, we’re going to have to call in-“

“No. I have a plan.” I quip back. I am capable.

-

Jaime and Bart took out the goons near the bomb, it was hidden behind a marble support beam so nobody noticed. Bart rushed into action swooping one by one people from the scene as Jaime deactivated their bombs and let them out through a hole in the building he created with his lasers. The goons were too bored to notice as the joker bathes in the money in a vault somewhere. This finally started to go his way. But just than that’s when he realized he was all wrong. They got everyone out and deactivated their bombs. Super boy rushed in and took down three goons. Punching one square in the jaw, caused a domino effect and took down the next two with the goon that he flung, like a gross bug.

Wonder girl hung three other goons onto the chandelier with her rope. As tim weaved and knocked out the rest of the henchmen with his trusty staff.

“Nice work.” Tim complements as Conner nods with a smirk. Wonder girl just grins loopy with a thumbs up. Tim chuckled at her awkward nature. With a shake of his head his smile dropped and he was focused again. This was his chess board and everyone was just a piece, that made this mission more important than any other. He signaled black canary and nightwing in from the rooftop, they immediately smash through the windows going to grab the joker.

They come back out with the joker in hand, the only thing was.

He was a random, a fake. They found him in a chair with the money in the vault all gone. A phony.

A laugh rung from the speakers in the bank. The same sinister laugh that haunts every person in his line of work.

“Poor boy blunder, sorry to disappoint you, but I won’t be seeing you anytime soon, you see that man has a bomb strapped to his chest, ready to detonate in thirty seconds, you failed.” Another laugh rang through the speakers, as if this was just the funniest inside joke and he wasn’t allowed in. “oh, and do me a favor?, tell the big man I said hello.” The joker sickly purred as the speakers cut off. Dick opened up the man’s purple coat only to see a bomb, 10.. 9.. 8..

Dick tired to unzip the vest but it was sewed to his skin. It was apart of him.

Conner staggered back, bile rising.

“That is so fu-!” Wally west who also was out helping Bart as backup nudged Conner. Though Conner only gagged at the image before him.

The hostage—mid-thirties, wide eyes, shaking hands—sat still, eyes filled with horror.

“Go,” he croaked. “I’ve come to terms with death… do me a favor. Tell my little girl I love her.”

“I promise I’ll save you!” Tim shouted—but he didn’t believe it. He couldn’t. His hands were already moving, reaching, scanning the vest for any hope, any escape.

He held up a small gold locket in trembling fingers. And Pressed it into my palm.

“Give this to her, please… my daughter. Tell her I’m sorry.”

“I will,” Tim choked. “I promise.” His chest began to hurt, and ache. Feeling the loss before it happened.

“I—I don’t want to die.” His voice cracked, as if he’d just realized it.

Without thinking, tim dropped to his knees, and wrapped his arms around him. Almost as an apology. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you,” tim whispered.

Tim could feel his heartbeat—fast, terrified. He closed his eyes.

He had never felt so useless.

“I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you.” Tim

Whispers, the words hurt as soon as it fell from his mouth. A hero who can’t even save people? what a joke.

“Tim we have to go! It’s going to blow!” Dick screamed tugging at the young man. When Tim finally let go of the man’s hand and took whatever the man was trying to hand him, his body went slack and allowed dick to carry him outside just in enough time before the building exploded into nothing but memories of what was.

They were flung back from the explosion, some press who were nosey and snuck past the police officers were trapped under rubble due to the strong shocks of the bomb, debris fell from the sky trapping people under piles of ash and rubble.

-

-

You stood in your shared apartment with Tim, dead-set on a singular mission: get your hands on those stupid, impossibly out-of-reach Just Berries Cap’n Crunch cereal that Tim insists he must keep stashed on top of the fridge “for optimal hiding.”

You glared up at the box like it had personally offended your honor.

“Stupid fucking prick!” you shouted at the fridge, because yes, the cereal box was now your mortal enemy. You hopped once. Twice. Nada.

Grumbling, you dragged a chair over—still not tall enough. Then came the climb: one knee on the counter, one slipper flung off in battle, arms flailing as you hoisted yourself up with all the grace of a drunk raccoon.

You were halfway to victory.

With the determination of a cereal-starved gremlin, you stood up—wobbling dangerously on your toes—and finally snatched the smug box off the fridge like you were Indiana Jones stealing the most sacred treasure.

“HAH!” you squealed, arms raised triumphantly over your head. You did a little victorious dance right there on the counter, hips swaying, arms flapping like a confused bird.

“Eat my dust, eat my dust!” you mumbled under your breath while dancing.

But then you heard it.

The TV, playing softly in the background as it always did when Tim was out, though now it suddenly cut into your silly joy. You barely noticed the words at first, the sound just a dull hum over your victory.

“-bombed… bank… twenty made it out… one badly injured…presumed dead.”

The cereal box slipped from your hands and hit the kitchen floor with a dull thud, berries bouncing across the tile. Your stomach dropped. Everything around you blurred.

You jumped down from the counter without thinking, bolting toward the TV. Your breath caught when the screen lit up with chaos.

There he was.

Tim. Dressed in his hero suit as Red Robin.

Covered in dust and ash, sweat glistening on his brow, his brows sharp with determination and panic. He was moving debris like it weighed nothing, dragging people from the wreckage, guiding them with urgency and calm. You could see the set of his jaw, the way his lips pressed into a thin line. He was searching for someone.

Frantic.

You didn’t understand at first—until he stopped. Until he knelt and shoved away a heavy piece of concrete with both arms, revealing a man trapped beneath, charred by flames. His clothes were half-burned, skin blistered and torn.

But that wasn’t what froze you.

It was the vest.

A sewed-on tactical vest. A crude one. Your eyes locked on the small device strapped to his chest.

Wires. Metal.

And a clock.

The numbers didn’t tick.

The screen didn’t blink.

Instead, in shaky, homemade letters across the tiny digital panel, it read one word:

BANG.

A fake.

Your hand flew to your mouth, trembling. Your knees nearly gave out as tears filled your eyes, spilling over without warning. You knew what this meant. What it felt like. What this would do to him.

Tim had thought it was real. Risked everything. Again. And for what?

A cruel joke.

You watched as he gently pulled the man into his arms, blood staining Tim’s gloves like ink, pouring fast. Too fast. You could see it even through the screen. His expression didn’t change—his face stayed composed—but you knew that inside, he was screaming.

He placed the man onto a stretcher, helping the EMTs secure him before they wheeled him away, sirens wailing in the background.

And there you stood, cereal forgotten, TV blaring, hands over your face, heart cracking wide open.

Because how could you ever understand what it meant to give your whole self—every broken piece—for people who might not even care? To hand out shards of your soul, over and over again, just to be met with failure and fire?

You pressed your fingers to your lips like it would somehow hold in the sob building in your chest.

You didn’t know how Tim did it.

You just knew you couldn’t stand watching him break again.

⸻

You get dressed in record time, barely registering what you threw on. Your hands shake as you grab your keys from the bowl by the door. You don’t even lock it behind you—you’re already sprinting. The second your body hits the driver’s seat, you’re turning the ignition, the engine roaring like it feels your panic. You drive as fast as the roads allow, tires screeching around corners as the city blurs past your windows.

Every red light feels like a punishment.

Every second feels like a lifetime.

You don’t breathe until the tall gates of the Wayne estate appear in front of you. You punch in the code with trembling fingers, watching as the heavy gate slowly creaks open. It’s too slow. Everything is too slow.

Once inside, you speed down the hidden path until the entrance to the Batcave opens below. Your car dips into the shadows like it’s swallowing you whole.

The second you park, you’re out and walking fast—heart pounding, mouth dry.

The cave is busy, but quiet. Muted footsteps. Low voices. The air is thick with antiseptic and blood. A strange combination of adrenaline and grief clings to the stone walls like smoke that refuses to clear.

Only Some of the heroes closest to Dick are here—Wally, Roy. You see most of the members of the young justice lined along the infirmary’s edge, being patched up in various stages of injury. Wally has a bandage around his head. Conner’s arm is in a sling. A few glance up at you curiously—someone they don’t recognize right away. Others don’t even need to ask. They know.

Some give you a small, sad smile—a silent hello and a quiet warning in one.

He’s not okay.

You already knew that.

Tim can get in his head You’ve seen it before. You’ve seen the absolute worst of it.

Some say it’s his greatest strength—thinking, planning, staying ten steps ahead. But you’ve always believed it’s his greatest curse.

Because the same mind that can outmaneuver supervillains is the same mind that turns on itself when the world goes wrong. The gears never stop turning. He’s always observing. Always calculating. And sometimes, that burns him alive from the inside out.

You spot Dick before you even realize you’re searching for him. He’s in regular clothes now, a faded hoodie clinging to his frame like he’s been wearing it since the mission. He walks up slowly, holding his ribcage with one hand.

“Hey,” he rasps. His voice is hoarse and shaky.

His eyes are rimmed red. He’s been crying. You can tell.

His girlfriend Brook is just behind him, her hand gently on his back. She gives you a small wave and an even smaller smile. The kind of smile people give when there’s nothing left to say.

You step forward and wrap your arms around him. It’s brief but grounding.

“How are you holding up?” you whisper.

“I’m breathing… and alive.” He mumbles it into your shoulder, and your heart breaks a little more at how heavy those words sound.

Yeah. So he’s doing bad.

Which means Tim… is worse.

Dick explains the whole plan to you. You let him talk. Let him nerd out about his brother for a minute, even though your brain is too foggy to process half of what he’s saying. He deserves that moment of pride. That spark of normalcy.

You can picture Tim doing the same thing—sitting on your couch with animated hands, eyes bright with excitement, explaining his intricate plans with that adorable laser focus of his. His big blue eyes going wide when he talks about the tech he loves. His brows pulling together with intensity and passion.

God, you love him so much.

You glance past Dick, gaze drawn to the center of the cave—and your breath catches in your throat.

There he is.

Tim.

But he’s separated from everyone. Not by force. Just… by the weight on his shoulders.

While everyone else has been cleaned up and stitched back together, Tim looks untouched by any kind of comfort. His suit is caked in soot and dried ash, black smog still clinging to the line of his jaw and neck. His hair is mussed, matted with dirt. His arms are resting on his knees, elbows pressing into them like he might collapse without the support.

His hands are clasped tightly together, knuckles white, lips pressed to his thumbs.

His eyes are fixed on the floor, unmoving, unreadable—lost.

But something glints faintly in the shadows.

A delicate gold chain, looped around his fingers, swinging slightly with the nervous bounce of his leg. You move a little closer, drawn to the motion, and realize the chain is attached to a locket.

It’s open.

Inside is a photo—just a simple snapshot, now stained and smeared with ash. A woman with soft, honey-brown eyes and olive skin smiles beside a man with gentle features and black hair. In their arms is a little girl.

A family.

Tim’s arms are covered in dried blood. Thick and dark in patches. But his hands—his hands are still wet. Fresh. Red. Sticky. Like the blood won’t stop.

Like it won’t let him go.

Your stomach twists.

Your chest caves in on itself as you take in the full image of the man you love more than life itself—destroyed. Not physically. Not in a way you can bandage.

No, this is different.

This is what it looks like when the strongest person you know starts to come undone.

And the worst part?

He’s doing it silently.

Like he doesn’t believe he deserves to be held together.

“He refused to get cleaned up or stitched by anyone. He refused until you showed up,” Dick mumbled quietly beside you, his voice cracking beneath the weight of everything he wasn’t saying.

You turned toward him slowly, watching the worry clouding his blue eyes. Eyes that were usually so full of mischief, of light—now dulled and rimmed with pain. He looked smaller somehow, like all the strength he usually carried had drained out of him in the aftermath.

“Please talk to him.”

Dick’s voice barely made it above a whisper.

His eyes dropped to the floor as if he couldn’t bear to say more—those soft, puppy-dog eyes flicking to yours in one last, wordless plea.

He was worried. Truly, deeply worried about his little brother. You could see it in every line of his face, every shaky breath. The exhaustion, the helplessness. And underneath all of it—fear. Fear that maybe, this time, Tim had gone too deep into the dark to pull himself out.

“I will, bird brain. Don’t sweat it,” you said gently, trying to keep your voice light. You reached up and gave the tall man’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze, trying to offer him even a sliver of comfort.

He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, the gesture warm but heavy. Like an apology, or maybe a thank-you he didn’t know how to say.

Dick was like an older brother to you. Always had been. Protective in his own way, always making sure you were okay even in the middle of chaos. Jason too—though he was more annoying than caring. He showed love through teasing, eye-rolls, and way-too-loud threats against anyone who made you frown.

But Tim?

Tim was different.

You grew up with him. Side by side, practically attached at the hip since middle school. You saw him before the cape and the cowl. Before the trauma wrapped around his shoulders like armor.

When he got adopted by Bruce Wayne—freakin’ Bruce Wayne—you were in shock. Couldn’t believe it. One minute he was the quiet, brilliant kid sitting next to you in math class with ink smudges on his fingers and sleep in his eyes, and the next… he was a Wayne. A Robin.

But you never let the title change what you saw in him.

You were there for all of it. All of it.

You sat beside him at his father’s funeral, your hand holding tightly to his even though he didn’t cry. Didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stared into the ground like he might fall in and follow.

You were there when he decided to bring Robin back to life. Not as a shadow of the past, but as something he could believe in again. You held the pieces of him together when no one else noticed he was falling apart.

You stayed by his side when Jason came back from the dead, wild and angry and unfamiliar. When Barbara was paralyzed after the accident, and Tim blamed himself even though he had nothing to do with it. You were there when Talia dropped a kid—a whole child—on Bruce’s doorstep and said, “Here’s your son.” And Tim, gods bless him, still tried to love him.

You’ve watched Tim Drake lose and rebuild himself more times than you can count.

And every single time, you’ve stood your ground beside him. Holding space for him to be whatever he needed—friend, soldier, protector, kid. And now his lover.

You’ve gone through so much together. Lifetimes of loss and healing stitched into the fabric of your relationship.

And now?

Now he’s crumbling before your eyes.

And you’ll be damned if this is the day that knocks him down for good.

⸻

“Hey, Boy Wonder.”

Your voice is barely above a whisper, soft and gentle like a breeze trying to reach someone buried in the eye of a storm.

You approach slowly, cautiously, like if you moved too fast you might shatter what little pieces of him were left. You’re looking down at him—your Tim—slouched forward on the edge of the metal chair, completely still.

He didn’t look up. Didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on the floor, unmoving, unblinking. A man trapped deep inside his own mind, reliving something only he could see.

You press your palm to his shoulder—warm, solid, steady. You squeeze gently but firmly, trying to anchor him to the present, trying to pull him from the hell playing on repeat inside his head.

“Hey,” he finally responds, his voice cracked and gravelly like he hadn’t used it in hours. Maybe days.

His eyes flicker to you only briefly. They’re swollen, rimmed red and wet, with new tears forming at the edges. He’s barely holding them back.

“Hi, handsome,” you say, just loud enough for him to hear, just soft enough to hold his broken pieces together a little longer.

His hand turns over where it rests on his knee, and he lifts yours to his lips. A small, reverent kiss pressed against your knuckles. The same hand that was on his shoulder for support.

It’s so Tim—so heartbreakingly him—to still think of comforting you when he’s the one bleeding out.

Even as the weight of the world crushes him, he still finds room to be gentle.

But that’s not what you need right now.

You don’t need him to reassure you. You need him to let you carry some of it this time.

You stay close, standing in front of him as your thumb begins to gently rub small, slow circles into his back. Soothing. Grounding. A rhythm, a heartbeat, something human in all this silence.

He doesn’t speak.

Instead, he looks up at you for just a second. His lips are pressed together, trembling, like he’s trying to keep all the words in. His brow creases, and then… he drops his gaze again with a dejected sigh. Back to the floor. Back to wherever he’s locked himself away in.

“Hey, hey.”

Your voice lifts with urgency as you move quickly, kneeling down in front of him. Now all he can see is you.

You gently take his face in your hands, brushing his messy, matted black hair away from his forehead. His skin is warm and clammy beneath your fingertips. His tears have begun to flow silently now, steady as rain.

“Talk to me. Don’t push me away, Tim. What’s wrong?”

His throat moves as he swallows hard. The words feel lodged there, heavy and jagged, impossible to speak without tearing something open on the way out. His whole body is tight with tension—coiled and shaking—like he’s trying to hold the entire weight of Gotham on his back.

He lives in a constant state of giving. Of protecting. Of sacrificing every bit of himself for people who may never know his name. And in doing so, he’s taught himself one fatal lesson: he doesn’t get to be saved.

“It was a fake bomb.”

He spits the words out through grit teeth, jaw clenched in anger. Because that’s the only way he can talk right now—through fury, through pain.

“He set me up. Made me feel for the hostage and gave me thirty seconds to—” He hiccups as he stifles a sob in his throat. “To decide. He wanted to break me… I promised him I’d save him.”

He pauses, his voice cracking down the middle like a glass shattering under pressure.

“I’m a failure.”

He says it small. Quiet. As if maybe, if he whispers it, it’ll hurt less.

“Hey,” you say immediately, your tone sharp but kind, a soft knife through his spiraling thoughts.

You reach out, gently grabbing his chin and tilting his face toward you until his broken gaze meets yours.

“You are not a failure.”

You say it loud enough that it echoes faintly across the Batcave. You don’t care that others might hear. They need to.

You feel the weight of the other vigilantes in the room listening—silent, still. Dick, Conner, Wally—all of them watching with quiet reverence.

“Every day in this line of work, you wake up and save people. You strip away your personal and professional life for the good of people out there. You give everything to them.”

Your voice wavers with emotion now, your hand stroking the back of his jaw as your eyes lock onto his.

“You’re bearing your soul and putting your life on the line constantly. You are not a failure. You get up when you get knocked down, and you help people, Tim.”

You press your forehead to his softly.

“I cannot stand before you and hear you degrade yourself because of one loss.”

You lift your hand and gently caress his cheek with the back of your fingers, wiping away some of the wetness with your knuckles.

“You can’t fail,” you whisper. “Because you will always get back up and continue doing good. You give people hope, Tim.”

And it’s those words—that truth—that finally breaks the dam inside him.

A single, gut-wrenching sob slips from his chest, and then another, until he’s trembling all over. He goes limp, like a puppet with its strings cut, sliding off the chair and into your arms.

You sink with him, down to the cold, unforgiving stone floor. Your arms wrap around him instinctively, protectively, like they always have. You hold him close, one hand fisted in the back of his shirt, the other cradling the back of his head.

He cries. Loudly. Ugly. Painfully.

Each sob comes out ragged, as though it physically hurts to breathe. His whole body shakes with grief, with rage, with guilt that he doesn’t deserve to carry—but does anyway.

You rock him slowly, rhythmically. His head is buried against your chest, his arms limp at his sides, as though the weight of his sorrow has drained him completely.

You are quite literally the only thing keeping him upright.

“I got you, Timmy. I’m here,” you whisper into his hair, voice raw with emotion.

You keep rocking, your eyes squeezed shut now, jaw clenched so hard it aches. You smooth his hair back with tender fingers, pressing a kiss to his forehead like a prayer.

Tears slip down your cheeks silently as your lips tremble.

You hold him tighter.

Because no matter how dark it gets—you will never let him fall alone.

⸻

Dick couldn’t bear to see Tim like this.

Not slumped in someone else’s arms, broken and trembling. Not with his breath hitching in ragged sobs and his body shaking so hard it looked like it might shatter all over again.

He remembers his first loss like this—the one that dug in and stayed. The kind that makes you question who you are, what you’re doing, if the pain is ever worth it. That memory doesn’t come gently. It strikes like lightning across his chest.

Wally stood silently next to Dick, his usual grin gone, replaced by a heavy frown. His eyes were glued to the scene before them.

Everyone watched. They didn’t mean to, but they couldn’t look away.

They watched as you—tender, steady, relentless—you gathered up the pieces of the man they all admired, the one who always held it together, always had a plan. They watched as you scooped up every tiny fragment Tim had been crushed into, one by one. Slowly. Carefully. Refusing to leave a single part of him behind.

They watched as you cradled him against your chest, whispering reassurances with a voice too soft for their ears to hear but loud enough to stitch something back into place inside Tim’s heart.

They watched you hold his broken body like something precious, like something that deserved to be whole again.

They watched you wipe his tears away as if they were sacred. They saw your hands tremble, your jaw tighten, the quiet strength it took to stay steady as his grief poured out like open floodgates. And still—you stayed. You never flinched.

You calmed his sobs.

You soothed his pain.

And you began piecing him back together. Slowly. Steadily. As if love was your only tool, and it was enough.

Dick’s throat tightened as warmth bloomed in his chest, blooming into something bright and aching. He felt his ribs shake with the weight of it.

Love.

That’s what this was.

He couldn’t help the smallest smile that curled at the corners of his mouth—brief, quiet, but there. It carried more weight than any words.

In that moment, watching the two of you, he felt grateful.

Grateful that Tim had you.

“He’ll be okay, Dicky,” Brook said gently as she stepped beside him, her voice soft with understanding. She slipped her arms around his waist, laying her head on his shoulder. Dick exhaled and wrapped his arms around her like he’d been needing to all day.

“Yeah,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple. “He’ll be okay.”

And you—

You were still there. Still giving every bit of yourself to hold Tim together.

You gently helped him up to his feet, your hands wrapped tight around his arms as if he might collapse again. He leaned into you heavily, but you never faltered. Not once.

You guided him back to the chair slowly, easing him down like he was made of porcelain now. Everyone watched, not with pity, but reverence.

And then you knelt.

With trembling hands and unwavering love, you began to wash the blood and grime from his cuts. Each movement was tender, like cleaning a sacred wound. You wiped away ash, cleared the smog-streaked grime from his jaw, rinsed the blood from his bruised knuckles.

Then you stitched him up. Carefully. Silently. Like you were putting him back together thread by thread.

You worked with a kind of love that didn’t ask for thanks—it just gave and gave and gave.

And when you were done, you leaned forward and cupped his face in your hands.

“I love you, Timmy,” you whispered, voice breaking softly at the edges. “You did what you could. I’m sorry for your loss.”

You pressed a slow, tender kiss to his forehead.

And for the first time in hours, Tim finally closed his eyes.

Letting himself rest in the only place that still felt safe—you.

-

-

A few days later, Tim stood silently at the foot of a hospital bed, the sterile white light casting cold shadows across the room. The faint beeping of machines filled the otherwise quiet space, syncing to the slow, steady rhythm of the man lying unconscious before him.

The victim from that day.

His body was still, wrapped in gauze and supported by a network of tubes and wires. His face was bruised, his spine fractured. The doctors had confirmed he would never walk again—paralyzed from the knees down. The rubble that had fallen on him spared his life, but only barely.

Tim swallowed hard, he buried his hands in the pockets on the front of his pants to stop them from shaking. He had reached out to the man’s wife a few days earlier, telling her the truth—everything. That it was him, Red Robin, who had pulled her husband from the rubble. That he had made a promise he couldn’t keep. That he was sorry.

She had listened. She had cried. And she had told him it was okay to come.

That led to now.

Tim barely noticed your arrival until he heard the soft click of your boots echoing down the polished hospital hallway. It was a strangely comforting sound, like something familiar breaking through the sterile air.

“Hey,” you said gently, your voice warm and light, but with a softness reserved only for moments like this—when everything felt too fragile to speak too loudly.

Tim turned toward you, and his breath caught the second he saw who walked in beside you.

The man’s wife. And their daughter.

Tim’s pulse jumped. His stomach turned, twisting with guilt, with dread. He was waiting for it—the slap across the face, the screams, the heartbreak.

He wouldn’t have blamed her.

He braced for it.

But instead—she rushed toward him.

And Without hesitation, she threw her arms around his torso and clung to him tightly.

Tim froze. His breath caught. For a long second, he didn’t know what to do. His hands hovered awkwardly, like he wasn’t sure he deserved to touch her. Like he didn’t deserve comfort. Or gratitude. Or forgiveness.

Then, she whispered:

“Thank you for saving my husband.”

Tim blinked fast, his heart twisting sharply in his chest.

“I’m forever in your debt,” she said, her voice trembling but sure. “They presumed him dead on the news… but you didn’t stop. You didn’t give up until you found him. You checked through rubble for thirty minutes straight—thirty minutes—and you found him. You got him to the hospital in time. Because of you, my husband will live. And my daughter…” she looked behind her, eyes shining, “my daughter will have her father.”

You stood silently nearby, your arms wrapped tightly around your waist, stunned into stillness. You hadn’t even told her what this had done to Tim—how this had torn him apart from the inside. But somehow, she knew what it cost him. And still… she was grateful.

Tim sniffled once and finally moved—his arms wrapping gently around the woman, holding her like she was something fragile, something too good to be true. It was a bittersweet embrace. One made of pain and relief, of sorrow and survival.

It was beautiful.

Tim pulled back slowly, blinking hard, his voice caught in his throat as he turned toward the little girl now peeking shyly from behind your legs. Her small hands clutched the hem of your coat as she looked up at the tall man with wide, uncertain eyes.

“Hey,” Tim said softly, crouching down to her level. His voice held that warm charm you knew so well—the one he always saved for the ones who needed it most. “I’m not dangerous, I promise.”

His smile was genuine, gentle, a bit shaky around the edges, but filled with nothing but kindness. The little girl blinked up at him. She looked just like her mother—brown hair, olive skin—but her eyes, hazel and curious, belonged to her father.

Slowly, hesitantly, she stepped forward.

Tim reached into his coat pocket and pulled something out—something gold that glimmered faintly in the light. A necklace. Small. Delicate.

“Your dad wanted me to give this to you,” Tim said, his voice thickening, catching on the lump rising in his throat. “He wanted…”

He paused, swallowing hard, clenching his jaw to keep the emotion from spilling out again.

“He wanted me to tell you that he loves his little girl so much. So, so, so much.”

The little girl looked down at the necklace. Her tiny fingers opened the locket with practiced care, and inside was a photo—a snapshot of her family. Her mom, her dad, and her. All three smiling, frozen in a moment untouched by tragedy.

Without a word, she launched herself forward, crashing into Tim’s chest with all the strength her little body could muster. Her arms wrapped tightly around him, holding on like he was the only safe thing in the world.

Tim inhaled sharply, arms slowly circling her back, holding her as gently as he could.

“You know…” she whispered, her voice tiny but fierce against the fabric of his suit jacket. “You’ve always been my favorite hero.”

And then she was gone—darting back behind her mother, necklace clutched in her little hand like a treasure.

Tim knelt there for a moment longer, blinking at the spot where she’d stood, like something in him had shifted—like maybe, just maybe, he could breathe again.

“She’s always been a shy one,” the mother said with a soft smile, her voice warm with affection as she watched her daughter clutch the necklace like it was made of magic.

Her words floated through the quiet room like sunlight through curtains—gentle and gold.

Then, suddenly, a faint rasp broke the stillness. A low, cracked laugh from the hospital bed.

“Reminds you of someone,” the man murmured hoarsely, a smirk curling the corner of his bruised lip as he looked up at his wife.

You froze, heart stopping in your chest.

The man was awake.

“Oh honey—” the woman gasped, her whole body crumbling forward like a wave crashing to shore. She collapsed gently against him, not wanting to hurt him but needing to feel him alive beneath her hands. Her arms wrapped around his chest, her forehead pressing to his shoulder.

“I told you I wouldn’t give up without a fight,” he whispered through tears, his voice cracking under the weight of everything he’s held in for days—fear, grief, hope.

You and Tim stood a few feet away, watching from a respectful distance as the little girl rushed to join them, crawling onto the bed with tears in her eyes and a smile on her face.

The three of them wrapped each other up in that fragile, beautiful embrace. A family torn apart and stitched back together by sheer force of will and love.

Tim’s arm was warm and strong where it wrapped around your shoulders, anchoring him to the moment. You leaned into him without a word, letting your head rest against his chest. You could feel the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath the layers of cotton and Kevlar, his breath rising and falling gently.

When you looked up, you caught it—the smile.

That smile.

It split across Tim’s face like sunlight after a storm, softening every line of pain and exhaustion. His dark lashes were still wet from earlier, but his eyes… God, his eyes were alive again.

He looked young, radiant even, as if the weight he carried had lightened just enough for the real Tim to shine through.

You tilted your head slightly to watch him, your chest swelling with love.

“You see now,” you said softly, your voice almost a whisper in the quiet space between his heartbeats, “why you save people? Why you’re out there in the first place?”

His gaze dropped to yours. Deep. Open. Searching.

“Don’t ever give up,” you told him, firm but gentle, like a vow made in the dark. “No matter what happens. Because if you had left that man under the rubble, he would’ve died.”

You watched as that truth landed in his eyes—finally. Slowly, he nodded.

“You didn’t let it knock you down,” you continued, your thumb brushing gently over his knuckles. “And as long as you try your best, Tim…” You leaned in just a little closer, so he could hear every word. “You could never be a failure.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, blinking slowly, letting your words settle into the cracks of his heart like gold in broken porcelain.

The family before you continued to hold each other. But you and Tim—wrapped in your own quiet gravity—had your own moment of healing.

It was soft. It was small.

But it was enough.

Tim looked at you like he was memorizing your face. Then he blinked slowly, lips twitching up just barely as he murmured, “I should listen to you more. You know, you’re kind of right sometimes.”

You gasped as if he’d slapped you with a holy relic. Mouth wide open, eyes dramatic and affronted. You clutched your chest with both hands and took a full step back like you needed air.

“Did I hear that correctly?” you asked, practically shrieking in mock awe. “Did Tim Drake just admit I was right? Where’s my phone—someone record this! This is history in the making!”

Tim rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. “Moment came and left,” he deadpanned, already turning on his heel and walking toward the hospital exit like the dramatic fool he is.

“Bye!” you called out, still reeling, waving quickly to the family of three who were watching you both with fond amusement. You grabbed your coat and bag in a flurry and chased after him, practically skipping down the hallway in triumph.

From down the echoey hospital corridor, your teasing voice floated behind him:

“No, wait—say it again! I won’t hear this for another year!”

“Can you can it!” Tim called back, exasperated, but there was the soft edge of laughter curling in his voice.

Your laughter—bright, goofy, absolutely you—rang out loud and full like sunlight through the sterile white halls. You caught up to him, nearly tripping over yourself in your rush, and wrapped your arms around his side.

Tim shook his head and chuckled, low and warm. He couldn’t help it. Even after all the pain, the loss, the grief—your joy was contagious. Your stupidness, as he liked to call it, was his favorite kind of medicine.

God, he loved you.

Even when you were unbearably smug.

Especially then.

[pap3rtigers]

fly, songbird, fly

Chapter 3: The Safehouse

Summary: Relative safety, at least for now. But it begs the question of... what comes next?

Pairing: Eventual Poly141 / Reader

Warnings: Omegaverse, Human Trafficking, On-Screen Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, A/B/O typical sexism, Military Inaccuracies, Military Operations, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Medical Experimentation

Author's Note: :3

Read the full fic on AO3 here!

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17 MAR 2022 05:03 Cpt. John Price Task Force 141 Verdansk, Kastovia

Price clenches his teeth as the jeep jostles over uneven terrain, his grip tightening around your frail form. Your unconsciousness brings his alpha to an uneasy quiet—still wary, still watchful, but subdued for now. Each bump sends tension rippling through his body as he hunches over you, trying to shield you from further pain. He’s no medic, but he doesn’t need to be to see how deeply you’ve suffered.

That perks his alpha up, he wants blood and so does Price. For a brief moment, he allows himself to daydream what it would be like to let his alpha take over. To unleash him, allow the beast to raze the Earth and hunt down every last one of the sick fucks behind this.

It would be so satisfying. We get dirty, and the world stays clean.

But his eyes flicker back down to you, and he softens just a bit. His alpha does too, the soppy muppet—god, what is he, a bloody pup seeing a mature omega for the first time? You’re in no state for anything even remotely like that, and the thought of you being forced to endure that kind of treatment…

It’s bad.

Worse than bad.

Bruises dark as midnight; raw, festering wounds; needle marks mapping your arms like a grotesque mosaic. You barely weigh more than a child, feather-light in his grip, and your ragged breaths echo through the tight confines of the vehicle in a way that’s leaving all four of them on edge.

”Shepherd’s not gonna like this,” Ghost mutters, low and gravely, edged with frustration. Price knows what he means—this mission, for all intents and purposes, was a spectacular failure. Was this the bad feeling he had, before they deployed? Price didn’t think he could’ve ever guessed. He thought it’d maybe be an injury, or them missing something, but this caliber of fuckery?

Ghost hasn’t looked away from the horizon, rifle still in hand—as much an extension of him as the skull mask. “Taking her with us… feels like bringing a liability back to base. If she even lives that long.”

Price doesn’t respond immediately, though his alpha stirs again, rankling at the implication. He knows Ghost doesn’t mean it personally, but it still feels like one of his mate’s blades sunk into his chest. A liability. Perhaps. But leaving you behind was never an option—not for him.

Not for any of us, Simon. Don’t think I can’t feel your tension through the bond, love. You can’t hide it from me.

”She’s not a liability,” Gaz interjects smoothly, his calm betan demeanor a steady counter to Ghost’s cynicism. He shifts a bit, still perched awkwardly in the middle seat as he monitors your condition. A small penlight in his hand flickers as his fingers reach for your puffy eyelids, checking your pupils once more. There’s no awareness in your gaze, though. Glassy, glazed, unseeing.

He hates it. Especially when Gaz’s brow furrows as he settles back, one hand stroking down your arm and towards your wrist.

”Pupils are reactive. Don’t think she has a concussion, but she’s barely holding on. Looks like she’s been pumped full of sedatives of some kind—it’s a wonder her body didn’t shut down entirely.”

Price exhales sharply, the edges of his control fraying as his alpha claws them to ribbons. Urging him to do more, protect, fix—but there’s only so much he can do, and they all know it. The frustration rippling off him in waves is setting his boys on edge, and it’ll set you off too if he can’t get a goddamn grip.

”Any needles, vials, anything?” He rasps instead. Gaz nods.

”Grabbed a couple things, they’re in my kit. Most of it was smashed beyond repair, though.” the beta replies. Price grunts.

”Soap,” he says next, cutting through the tension. “ETA?”

”Twenty minutes, maybe less if we don’t hit any trouble,” Soap answers, his Scottish burr subdued for once. His usual humor is absent, replaced by the same taut concentration he employs on the field, but… it’s wrong. There’s no lightness to it, no quips or sidelong glances. “We’ll be there soon.”

”Good,” Price mutters, letting his fingers trail absently over your hairline. The strands are slick with sweat, heavy with grime—it’s clearly been a while since it was properly cared for. He earns a soft whimper in response, so faint it barely registers, but it stabs him all the same. His voice softens as he leans down. “You’re alright, love. We’ve got you. Just a little longer.”

”She’s compliant now, but that won’t last,” Ghost warns, meeting Price’s eyes through the rearview mirror. Behind the stark white mask and the midnight black fabric, all Price can make out are two dark orbs, narrowed ever so slightly. “Sooner or later, she’ll wake up properly. And when she does—“

”—she’ll be terrified,” Gaz interrupts, sharper than usual. There’s no rise in his tone, nothing to shock you into wakefulness, but the steel beneath his words is unmistakable. “And she’ll need reassurance, not more bloody threats.”

Ghost snorts, unimpressed. “Reassurance won’t mean a damn thing if she turns violent. You saw her earlier. She’s not stable.”

Price’s frown deepens as Ghost speaks, the words sinking heavy into his chest. The alpha is right—they all know it—and Price knows exactly what he means. Panic, fear, trauma… child’s play, really. Especially when something far worse lurks beneath that—distress. The real kind, the kind no amount of soft words or careful handling can fix.

An omega in full distress isn’t something Price has seen often, but those few occasions… the memories still burn in his mind. The way their hindbrain, their inner omega, takes over completely. Like some primal, feral being shoved the person aside and seized control. A last-ditch effort to find safety.

They could help you if you were distressing, but if it went too far? If you spiraled into full distress, if your omega took over? Strength beyond reason, violence without restraint. Survival at its barest form—but the price an omega is forced to pay in exchange…

He’ll never forget the first time he saw it. A young thing, barely an adult, if even. Shoved out into the fray to distract his team, but smart enough to know his only way out was death. How Price watched helplessly as the omega forced himself into distress, his body collapsing under the strain of it before his heart gave out—

Would your omega even be strong enough to fight? Or would you skip past the bloodlust and straight into what little light you still carry fading away?

Without a bonded alpha to ground you… if you fall that far, there’s no going back. You don’t trust him—or any of them—yet, not that you don’t have every right to. He can’t let that happen—

”Hells feckin’ bells, Ghost! Wouldn’t you be?” Soap snaps, his frustration and temper finally breaking through. It’s enough to drag Price from his thoughts, back to the iron grip he has on your body as his pack bickers. “After everything she’s suffered? Christ, mate, show a bit of fuckin’ humanity—“

”Enough,” Price barks, his alpha tone cutting through the argument like a bullet. It’s enough to silence them—thank christ—but the tension lingers as a tangible weight. “We don't leave anyone behind. We are getting her out, end of."

Even as he speaks, though… he can’t help but wonder. How close are you to slipping over that edge? And if you do, will they be able to save you? He pulls you a little closer, almost imperceptibly, as if holding on will keep you tethered. As if it will keep him grounded.

“Gaz,” his voice softens after a long pause. “Keep her stable. Soap, see if you can smooth our ride out any. Ghost, eyes on the perimeter. We’ll deal with the rest when we get to the safehouse.”

There’s no argument after that, only a tense, uncomfortable silence. For a brief moment, Price contemplates blaming you for it. It’s almost immediately after that he thinks better of that—you never asked for any of this. That much is obvious. How many times were you made into a convenient scapegoat? A punching bag? A warm body?

And he nearly had the audacity to blame you.

This is why his pack does not need an omega. The four of them—two alphas, two betas—evened each other out. No omega to upset the dynamic, and it worked. Nothing to distract them from the mission, from the goal of making the enemy scared of the dark. And yet his instincts are still screaming bloody murder, his alpha once again pacing the cage Price learned to shove him in years ago, ready to tear the world to shreds for even daring to look at you wrong.

It’s going to be a long day.

By the time the jeep finally halts, Price can feel the weight of it settling in his bones—god, what he wouldn’t give for a stiff drink. The storm’s still raging, rain pelting the roof as if the sky itself decided to drown the earth. Barely thirty minutes since they left the warehouse behind and tore over the open land—are they out far enough? Did the storm cover their tracks? Felt like a bloody lifetime.

The moment he can, Price is pushing the door open, keeping you tight to his chest. He can’t bring himself to let any of his mates carry you, or even touch you, not when the fragility of your body in his grasp makes something primal gnaw at his core. He clings to you like a child with their favorite toy, like his hands alone will shield you from the world’s cruelty, as if his touch alone could erase the horrors written across your skin.

Don’t get attached.

Soap and Ghost move to sweep the perimeter while Price focuses on your shallow breaths and Gaz’s murmured reassurances. The cabin is nothing more than a dilapidated shack, tucked into the wilderness, but it’s warm. Secure. For now, it’ll be enough.

“We’ve got her, sir,” he murmurs. Price nods, but it’s not enough for him to let you go. Not yet.

Inside, they fall into a familiar routine: Ghost and Soap finish their sweep, clearing the space while Gaz moves to set up some of their gear. Price gently lowers you onto the scarred wooden table in the center of the kitchen, before he quickly sheds his jacket and balls it up. It’s not dry, barely soft, but hopefully it’ll offer you some form of comfort as he slides it beneath your head.

For a moment, all he can do is stare. And when he finally lets himself take in the full extent of your injuries, now that the silver blanket has fluttered away to reveal your bare skin? He wishes he hadn’t.

Bruises. That’s the first thing he sees, the splotches litter your skin like a grotesque painting. Ugly purples and blacks and greens and yellows—like an abstract attempt at flowers. Scars and gashes, some fresh and weeping, others deep pink but no less haunting. They all trace a map of abuse across your body. Marks around your wrists, your ankles, reminders of restraints pulled too taut, hands too cruel… and a trail of wounds that lead down your belly, snake up your thighs and disappear between—

His alpha rises with a snarl so visceral that Price feels his lips twitch. His eyes flash—an electric blue that he catches for a brief moment through his reflection in the window. He takes a step back, gritting his teeth and balling his hands into fists. Don’t do anything reckless.

From the corner of his eye, he catches Soap faltering. None of his pack is left unaffected by the emotions flooding their bond—his beta lets out a pained whimper as he sags against Ghost. The alpha doesn’t push their mate away, eyes narrowing behind the mask while Soap curls his fingers into Ghost’s tactical vest. Ghost dips his head, nuzzling against Soap’s hair and murmuring something soft in reassurance. Even Gaz looks sick.

Gaz, who prides himself on his unshakable composure, looks like he might lose his dinner at the sight of you. And yet he still steps forward, his beta instincts bleeding through at the sight of an omega in such dire need, resting his hand on your shoulder and whispering something soft into your ear.

“Bloody fucking hell…” the words slip out before Price can stop them, low and hoarse, nothing more than a weak growl. Price forces himself to look away, gripping the edge of a chair to steady himself. His heart hammers against his ribs as his fingers curl against the old wood, stark white in comparison to the mahogany beneath his hands.

“Sir,” Ghost’s voice cuts through the haze, a firm hand landing on Price’s shoulder. “Take a step back. Get some air. Let Gaz and Soap handle her.”

Price hesitates—and isn’t that something new, for a man who prides himself on his control he’s acting like a young pup getting his first piece of tail, almost—instincts warring against logic… until Gaz’s eyes meet his.

“We can handle it, John.” Gaz’s low, soothing voice wraps Price like velvet. His bergamot and eucalyptus is like a balm to the ragged edges of Price’s control, the scent filling his thoughts as Gaz leans in and brushes against him. It’s enough to steady him—just barely.

With a nod, Price steps back, slipping the mask back in place. It’s donned inward, invisible to everyone but him, and he can only hope it’ll be enough once again. He envies Ghost, sometimes. The other alpha can pull a balaclava from thin air and hide behind it, but Price has to bury his emotions. He’ll never regret being the pack alpha—knows Ghost would never accept the title unless something were to happen to him—but it leaves him carrying the weight of them all on his shoulders.

Even when it threatens to crush him.

Price can’t—won’t—let anyone see how close he is to breaking. How the sight before him shook his composure off its foundation. For now, he pulls himself together, because they have a job to do. He needs to screw his head on straight, call Laswell, and figure out the mess they’ve found themselves in.

Even if the sweet, broken scent of you is enough to drive him mad.

Unknown Date/Time Omega-06348 Unknown Location

Pain.

It’s the first thing that assaults your senses. White hot, searing pain. It flares bright and sharp, radiating out from every single inch of your body. You have no idea where it begins or where it ends; it simply exists and devours everything else.

Hands. There are hands on your body—your shoulder, your abdomen, brushing over your skin and poking and prodding despite your garbled grunt of pain. You try to flinch away, but your limbs are heavy like the leaden bars of your prison.

Your heart pounds wildly, a frantic rhythm that fills your ears, rattles your ribs, and drowns out everything else. The air’s too thick, too heavy, pressing down all around you and pinning you in place. Your limbs twitch weakly, instincts screaming for escape even as exhaustion chains you down.

A sound pierces the air—high-pitched and broken. It takes long, agonizing moments before you realize it’s your own wordless cries. Panic seizes your body, adrenaline briefly dulling the pain as you lash out, desperate to free yourself. Somehow, by some miracle, you manage to pull away, the sudden freedom almost as shocking as the agony when you hit the ground.

There’s no space left in you for higher thought, no room for reason. Your omega claws at the edges of your mind, and even though she’s just as exhausted as you are she’s still begging you to let her take over, to let this nightmare end once and for all. There are no drugs preventing you from distressing.

It would be so easy. But even she’s faltering under the weight of it all, shrinking back into the corners of your shattered psyche. It’s too much—it’s all too much, and all you can do is cower where you’ve fallen. This is beyond fear, beyond being broken…

Your shredded throat struggles to keep up with the heaving gasps and broken sobs tearing from you. Every single one feels like a knife carving through your chest, rending flesh from bone and leaving nothing but raw, bleeding muscle in its wake. All you can do is cower where you’ve fallen, trembling so violently your body might as well shake itself apart. Hot tears streak down your cheeks with the little liquid left in you.

Your thoughts are a shattered blur, slipping away into the chaos. Even survival feels distant, unattainable, because there’s nothing left. No strength to fight, no energy to run. You’re cornered, naked, freezing, shivering, scared because those hands belonged to two people so much bigger than you—

You hiss, cry, beg wordlessly for them to stay away. Please don’t hurt me don’t maim me don’t cut me drug me knot me use me I’m scared please go away please leave please please please I’m scared I’m scared I’m scared—

The hands don’t return.

Your cries falter into pitiful, hiccuping whimpers, the sound barely audible over the blood pounding in your ears. Something tugs at the edge of your awareness—stillness. They haven’t moved. And eventually, your voice is too weak to muster even the faintest sound. When you manage to crack your eyes open, it’s slow and cautious—the world remaining a hazy blur as the figures shift in and out.

Two of them.

They’ve both crouched several feet away, just far enough to be out of reach, but not so far that they couldn’t still lunge. Where does that leave you? There’s no way you have enough strength to dart away, not when their silhouettes betray their strength. The lean one looks fast, agile; his stockier companion’s muscles bulge beneath his shirt.

The realization grips you tight, choking what little breath you’ve managed to regain. Your eyes dart between them, narrowed but unfocused, waiting for the moment they strike. This fragile stalemate has to come to an end at some point, doesn’t it? Your nose twitches, instinctively pulling in their scent.

Betas?

Not alphas. Betas. That knowledge is enough to loosen the icy claws of fear spearing through your body, melting it ever so slightly. It doesn’t stop your weak trembling, the throbbing pain radiating through your form where you’ve made contact with the dusty floor.

Neither of them move.

Well, not until their hands rise slowly, empty and open, palms out in a gesture so careful it only makes you more wary. They’re too calm, too deliberate, it’s too much and your lips curl into a weak snarl.

“Easy, lass…” one of them murmurs, low and cautious, like he’s afraid that anything louder than a whisper will spook you into bolting. He’s not wrong—if you could, you would.

His voice is thick with an accent you can’t place. It should be grounding—despite how husky it is, it’s not harsh in the least—but it sets your nerves alight all over again. You squeeze further into yourself, desperate to protect your core and all too aware of your nudity. You bare your teeth again, though this time you don’t even manage an attempt at a snarl. It comes out a weak, raspy whimper instead.

The beta doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink. Just stays where he is, crouched and staring at you with shockingly blue eyes. The intensity in his gaze makes your chest tighten all over again—what does he want?

You don’t know what to make of these betas. It’s been so long since you’ve been around any. Their neutrality should be a comfort, but it terrifies you instead.

“It’s alright,” he tries again, barely a breath now. “I promise, it’s alright. Not gonna hurt ye.”

They always say that. Lies. It’s lies, you can’t trust them, they’re going to hurt you, they stole you away for their own sick games and now you’re trapped trapped trapped—

A startled whimper escapes you when he inches forward, tears coming hot and fast, blurring your vision all over again. You flinch away, expecting hands to grab you again, to yank and pull and hurt and—

They… don’t come. The beta stops, freezing in place for a few heartbeats. “You’re okay, lass. Not gonna touch ye, promise.”

The words are strange, soft but careful, as if he actually means them. You squish back further, bare back pressing against the cold corner of the room. The shiny blanket is still draped haphazardly over the table you fell from, and god do you wish it were around you. Not very soft, the fabric too crinkly, but warm. The sharp edge of the wall bites into you, but it doesn’t matter, you’re trapped. A low keen spills from you before you can stop it—a scared, pain-filled noise as your eyes dart frantically around the room.

There’s gotta be some escape, right? Maybe if you could get past them both, you could make a run for the door…

Fooling yourself only works for so long, though. There’s no escape, and when you try to stand your knees buckle almost immediately, dumping you back to the floor.

“Soap, do you think you can get close to her?” the other beta whispers cautiously. His brown eyes flicker between you and his companion, calm yet concerned, steady in a way you don’t think you could ever be. “I don’t want her to bolt. She can barely stand.”

Soap—if that’s even his name, what kind of name is Soap?—nods slowly, expression softening as he settles onto his knees. “Is that alright?” He inches forward, hands still raised and empty. Bigger up close, thick and muscular, but without the vest and gun and helmet he almost looks… friendly. “I know it’s scary. But we don’t wanna hurt you. Just wanna help, aye?”

You watch him warily, chest heaving with sharp, shallow breaths. He stops a few feet away, within arms length but not so close he’s suffocating you. The other beta backs up slightly, moving a little further out of sight, but still close enough to intervene.

That’s… fine, you suppose.

It’s not like you could fight them off anyway. If this is it, if this is where your life ends… at least Death has a kind smile and gentle blue eyes.

“Don’t cry,” he breathes, low and even, laced with something you can’t quite place as he inches closer. “I’m not gonna hurt ye, I swear. On my mum, on my da—on my bloody team. I just wanna help? Can I touch your hand? Just your hand, lass. Seems like it’s been a long time since anyone’s been on yer side.”

Your breath hitches again, sharp and frantic. Your chest aches, your entire form is shaking, you don’t understand. He’s giving you a choice?

That’s not right. Is this some kind of fucked-up test? Some… some trick? If you let him close, he’ll what, beat you? And if you don’t, he’ll beat you anyway? It’s lose-lose. And it’s enough for your thoughts to spiral, fear building like a crescendo in your head until a soft moan slips from your throat. His eyes widen, sadness clear in the shimmering depths.

And then he crouches down. Lowering himself further, making himself impossibly small despite his solid build—

—and bares his neck.

You freeze.

He’s basically prostrating himself. For you? Confusion and panic twist together, knotting you up, tying around you like a noose with every passing second. The gesture is so alien, so deliberate, that you just… don’t understand. What is he doing?

“Promise, lass,” he murmurs, barely audible. “I won’t do anythin’ ye don’t want. Ye just… look like ye could use a bit of kindness, yeah? I’ll follow yer lead.”

Your breathing comes so hard, so sharp that your vision swims with black dots. Every single gasp tears through you, hollowing your chest and sending tears spilling down your cheeks. Before you know it, before you can stop yourself, your trembling hand reaches out, brushing against his outstretched fingers. A sob bursts from you, pitiful and desperate, and it’s all you can do to not collapse as the last of your energy drains with the movement.

“Aye, that’s it,” he says, soft and warm and pleased as he bridges the remaining distance. He scoops you up carefully, cradling you to his chest with a tenderness you don’t understand. It feels impossible. Impossibly kind, impossibly safe, and you sob harder as the comfort washes over you, completely unbidden. “I’ve got ye. You’re safe now, I promise.”

His scent envelops you, fresh and clean yet earthy. Soft, woody, soothing in a way that makes your head spin, so different from the rot and despair and chemicals that clung to you before. It’s been so long since you smelled anything different, anything that didn’t make your skin crawl… god. You don’t even remember your own scent. Do you have one anymore?

“John MacTavish,” he murmurs after a beat. “My chums call me Soap. What about you, lass? Got a name?”

You blink. The question barely registers, tangled in the haze of your thoughts. Talking… were there rules about speaking to betas? Your mind spins, clinging to fractured memories. All you remember is punishment—ruthless, cruel—for every word.

The doctors, the soldiers… all alphas. Even looking at them would earn you a beating. Talking to them? Almost a death sentence.

Before you realize it, your breath starts to come in sharp puffs again. Panic twists and coils in your chest, desperate to burst free at the thought of breaking some unwritten rule. It doesn’t matter that these men aren’t alphas—

Soap doesn’t press, though confusion flickers across his face for a brief moment. Your heart skips as he shifts slightly, but he doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t raise his voice or his hands, or even force a response. He holds his ground, gaze steady but soft, still almost reassuring in a way. “It’s alright,” he murmurs calmly, almost like he’s guessed what you’re thinking. “Ye don’t need to talk if you’re not ready. No rush.”

A pitiful sob wracks your body like an aftershock. The other beta—still unnamed—throws a sharp look at Soap, irritation flickering in his dark eyes. It softens when his eyes settle on you.

”It’s okay, luv,” he offers gently, his voice velvety smooth. “It’s gonna be okay. We’ll get you home.”

Home.

The word twists the knot of emotions in your belly until it’s tangled the rest of you in with it. There is no home for you. That place never really existed, and either way it’s been torn from you just like everything else.

Something breaks inside of you at the thought. More sobs well up, feeble and scared, as you curl further into yourself. Your shaking frame begins to sag, aching and exhausted, you just… want it to end. The sharpest edges of your panic have dulled, giving way to a heavy fatigue. Like you’re moving through water, but every time you push the waves shove back.

Your muscles lock as Soap shifts, pulling you closer. A faint whimper catches in your throat, but you don’t fight. You can’t—not when your body trembles so violently it’s ready to crumble. Stay still, your omega pleads, curling in on herself, too weak to resist.

“There we go,” Soap murmurs, low and steady as he settles onto a worn sofa and cradles you in his lap. His arms tighten around you, just for a moment, enough to make your frayed instincts falter. Your hesitation gives him the chance to wrap a blanket around you, and though you shrink away from his hand brushing over your hair, he doesn’t pull back.

It’s a light touch, cautious, but foreign all the same, especially when he begins to hum low in his chest. The deep vibration rolls through you, and it takes a few moments for your hazy thoughts to recognize—

—he’s… he’s purring.

He’s purring at you.

You don’t relax completely—you can’t, it’s not *safe—*but the edges of your remaining fear start to blur. The pull of his scent—fresh, clean, with earthy, woody notes, mingles with the steady noise. It doesn’t feel dangerous, just… strange.

The other beta’s voice cuts through your mind. “My name’s Kyle Garrick, luv. Most everyone calls me Gaz, though.” He creeps forward, and from this angle you can see the Union Jack on his baseball cap. British. He crouches beside you, low to the ground, unthreatening as he bares his neck much the same way Soap had. “We’re SAS. They call us the 141. We’re the good guys.”

His gloved hand lingers near your knee for a moment before resting lightly atop it. Warmth seeps through the leather, faint but steady, like a thread holding you from toppling over the edge.

“Is it alright if I take a closer look at some of those wounds?” He asks, tone softening further. “You’re still bleeding, luv. Probably doesn’t feel too nice, huh?”

You hesitate, fear warring with exhaustion. What do you do? Can you trust him? Should you? Your body’s already given up, though, slumping against Soap’s chest as his purrs deepen. The vibrations travel through your back like a gentle rhythm, coaxing you into an almost automatic nod.

“Thank you,” Gaz murmurs, waiting until your breathing slows before reaching for a bag. “I’ll start with your feet and work my way up, alright? If anything hurts, let me know.”

With no choice but to trust him, you nod faintly, sinking back against Soap’s broad chest. Gaz cup your ankle, his careful touch so deliberate it pulls your attention. It’s… confusing. How can they both be so gentle?

“This might sting a little,” he warns as he cleans the grime from your foot. The cool air that follows isn’t unpleasant, but it makes you shudder just a little, especially when he gets to the raw, broken skin. The soothing touch after, though, the feeling of being clean… it’s enough for a soft sigh to escape your lips. “That’s it,” he murmurs encouragingly, his focus unwavering. “We’ll have you patched up in no time.”

A laugh rumbles under you, Soap’s thumbs drawing slow circles over your wrists. “Aye, think the lass likes that, Gaz.”

Your breath hitches, the sound freezing in your throat. How could you have forgotten yourself? Forgotten your place? Pleasure… it’s foreign, something you don’t deserve. Never deserve, you're nothing but a warm body for an alpha to take—

“Lass?” Soap’s whisper breaks the spell, voice gentle and soft as you’ve heard it so far. “It’s okay. You’re allowed to get comfortable. I didn’t mean to scare ye—I’m sorry.”

Sorry? Why is he apologizing, shouldn’t I be apologizing? A low whimper builds in your throat, escaping just as fresh tears spill over, streaking down your cheeks. It’s a miracle you even have tears to cry at this point, with how dry and cracked your lips feel. Each drop sears your skin, carving paths through the grime on your face—it all hurts and you just want it to stop…

But then there's Gaz' voice, smooth and kind, pulling you back to the moment. "Soap, I think we should get her cleaned up, first," his hands release your ankle as he speaks, setting it back down. "It'll be easier to see her wounds, and I think it'll calm her a bit, too. She's terrified—I don't want to make it worse."

"Aye, I've got her," Soap replies, shifting you a bit in his lap. His hold is firm, yet so impossibly gentle—you can feel the raw power in his form, but the way he speaks to you, how he touches you… it's so kind. "Right here, lass, safe as can be. You've been so brave, haven't you?"

The deep timbre of his voice rumbles through your chest, and the way it vibrates grounds you in a way you don't quite understand. It's so good, so warm. Without thinking, you twist further into him, pressing closer, desperate for the comfort he seems so willing to offer.

Soap doesn't stop you. If anything, he encourages you to, leaning into your movements and purring softly in response while Gaz resumes his work. Long, deliberate strokes over your feet blur the passage of time and scatter your thoughts. It's different from before—no harsh, unwanted touches. No bruising grips, nails digging into your skin…. just patience and care. You almost want to roll in him, soak up his scent and every bit of comfort offered, before it's gone forever.

"There ye go," Soap whispers quietly, his words a balm to your nerves. "Such a good lass. Must be so tired, aye?"

A weak whine escapes you as the blanket shifts, exposing more of your battered skin. After so long spent naked, you're startled by how much it bothers you now. The absence of drugs, of that burning need… all it does is sharpen your vulnerability, remind you of where you are and the strangers surrounding you—

"Shh, it's alright," Gaz soothes, pausing as his eyes skim over the marks littering your body. He pulls the blanket over your chest a little higher, a little tighter, preserving what little of your modesty remains. "I'll be as quick as I can, then we'll get you properly covered up, yeah?" To Soap, he adds, "She's bruised pretty badly, but I don't think she needs stitches. It's… clear someone got creative with a knife, though."

Soap's hands still from where he'd been rubbing slow circles into your hands, head tilting down to meet your gaze. His bright blue eyes are filled with questions—soft yet searching. "Lass?"

You don't have any tears left to cry, though that doesn't stop your quiet hiccups. Weakly, you press your bony thighs together, curling in on yourself as if it'll make these strange beta's worried gazes disappear. You're trembling again, teeth clicking together faintly—when did it get so cold—and your tongue catches painfully on the cracked edges of your lips.

"Shite, she needs water," Soap mutters, voice low with quiet urgency. Gaz nods, retreating with quick, quiet footsteps leading him away from your line of sight for a few brief moments. When he returns, a bottle appears in your vision, careful hands cracking it open before your eyes.

Gaz kneels beside you as Soap steadies your frame, their hands guiding the bottle to your lips. The mohawked beta murmurs encouragingly as the cool liquid trickles through the desert lining your throat.

It's heaven.

You swallow greedy gulps—desperate to take as much as you can before it's gone—though the other beta, the one with curly hair and mahogany skin, pulls it back after a moment. "Easy now," Gaz murmurs, ignoring your soft whimper of protest. "Take it slow. There's plenty more, but pace yourself. You'll get sick if you rush."

The warning makes you freeze. A shudder rolls through your body at the memories surfacing—sharp, vivid recollections of punishments when you'd had the gall to get sick before.

But… the captain… he hadn't hurt you when you were sick earlier. Why?

As if answering your unspoken confusion, the door in the corner of the room creaks open. Your heart leaps into your throat, eyes blowing wide as they dart to the towering figure stepping into the room—kind blue eyes and a slightly graying beard framed by the raging storm outside. It's the perfect dichotomy to everything he represents: danger, pain, malice—

—but then he smiles, and your confusion grows. It's soft, splitting his rugged features as he crosses the room and lowers to his knees before you.

Soap shifts a little beneath you, angling you toward the alpha in what could almost be some kind of reassurance. What was his name again? You don't remember, why can't you remember, he's gonna be so mad—

"Price," Soap murmurs, holding you a little tighter as your breathing hitches. "All clear?"

"All clear. Ghost's still watchin', so I figured I'd take the chance to get out of the rain." Price. His large, rough fingers trail lightly along your blanket-covered leg—from your ankle to your knee before stopping. The touch—gentle as it is—makes your entire body stiffen, ready to hare away.

"Hi, sweetheart," he murmurs, steady and warm. His gaze flickers over your form, assessing but not harsh, that same kind smile still on his lips as he tips his head slightly. "These muppets treating you alright?"

You stare at him, your wariness mounting. Sure, he looks kind… but keeping your mouth shut is the safest choice. You're not supposed to speak to your superiors, or make any kind of noise, really—

Or make eye contact.

The instant you realize you have, panic races through your veins. Price's hand shifts on your leg, slightly higher now, and your entire body reacts before you can stop it. Your arms fly up to cover your face as you shrink against Soap's chest, a feeble attempt to ward off the blow you've earned by disrespecting an alpha.

For the split second before you squeeze your eyes shut, you see the smile on his face fall, eyes lingering on you but crestfallen, like he's… like he's upset that you're afraid of him.

"Lass, you're okay," Soap murmurs firmly, his hands closing over your wrists to guide them away from your face. "He's not gonna hit ye. No one will, I promise. You're safe here."

You whimper almost inaudibly. Even when you manage to crack your eyes open—to stare at the alpha through your lashes—his gaze hasn't left your face. His thumb starts to trace over your knee, calloused yet inexplicably soft. "Garrick," he says without looking away, "how's she doing?"

"She's hanging on," Gaz explains steadily. "We were just trying to get her cleaned up, but I haven't gotten far yet. She's hungry, though—I can hear her stomach rumbling. Water's not enough."

The mere thought of food makes your stomach churn violently, nausea rising so quickly that a faint gag escapes your lips before you can stop it. Fear lances through you, sharp, cold—if you're sick now, there's no telling what they'll do. Their kindness can only go so far, right?

Price's eyes widen in alarm, his hand moving in what seems like pure instinct to press against your belly. The contact doesn't hurt—far from it, it's one of the most gentle touches you've felt in so long—but it's so foreign that you recoil, shaking and sobbing in earnest once more.

Mumbled apologies fall from your lips—barely even words, not audible through your fearful cries. Three voice respond at once, their tones overlapping in a rush of soothing noises and gentle coaxing. Soap's purring deepens, vibrating steadily against your chest as he holds you just a little tighter, while Gaz's hand hovers protectively near yours. It's Price's voice that breaks through the tense chaos, though—deliberate and calm.

"You're okay," he murmurs softly, thumb tracing slow circles over your knee. "Just breathe. We'll get you through this."

The alpha's tone is so calm, so measured that it cuts through your panic enough to slow your tears. Blinking blearily, you glance up at him for a moment through your lashes, meeting his gaze. His eyes hold a quiet sadness, deep and blue and pressing heavily in your chest. It's… not suffocating, though, the way he looks at you. If anything, it's more mournful.

"We need to get you clean," Price explains, pulling his hand from your knee and resting both on his thighs. "Some of these cuts could get infected if we leave them."

The words make your stomach twist. You sink further into Soap's chest, your trembling growing in time with the shame and fear knotting together. Price's gaze doesn't waver in the slightest, though his voice softens even further, barely above a whisper. "Can you wash by yourself?"

The question hangs in the air. Somehow… it's not judgmental, not patronizing, even though the answer is obvious. Your hands—shaking and weak—barely manage to hold the blanket around you, fingers curling uselessly into the fabric. Your head hangs, the weight of your helplessness crushing you down deeper. Pathetic, you think, shaking your head no.

"It's alright," Price replies kindly. "How about we get your arms taken care of? Just the easy parts for now. The rest can wait until we've gotten some of your strength back."

Your eyes slide to Soap, searching his face for any signs of displeasure or caution. He doesn't say anything as he meets your gaze, merely tightens his arms around you, offering a slight nod and smile. You nod back, curling into his chest a little deeper as Price shifts closer. Wordlessly, Gaz hands Price another rag while the alpha settles to his knees properly.

His movements are deliberate, slow enough that you can track each one even as you hide. Price reaches for your left arm, the one trembling against Soap's side, but the way he cradles it is almost like he's holding a bird's broken wing. Perhaps that's what you are now, just a bird tossed about in a violent storm.

"Alright," Price murmurs, almost to himself. The damp rag kisses your skin, cool and soothing as he methodically wipes away the sweat and grime. It's an unfamiliar yet welcome sensation, even as goosebumps pebble across you after each touch.

When he reaches a deeper cut near your elbow, the pain sparks sharp and immediate. Instinctively, you flinch, drawing your arm away with a sharp hiss before you can stop.

"Sorry," Price apologizes immediately, voice tight with regret. He makes no move to grab you again, waiting until you offer your hand back before continuing. "I'll go slower. Let me know if I hurt you again."

Soap hums quietly, hand rubbing soothing circles over your back. His purrs continue to vibrate through you, dulling the sting of the rag and the sharp edges of your lingering trepidation. Gaz moves a little closer, calming and steady. By the time Price finishes your arm, your breaths are slowing, still shaky, but less frantic. You're almost relaxed, and you have no idea what to do with that.

"There we go," Price murmurs, settling back on his heels. His gaze softens as it meets yours—you can tell he's trying to stay neutral, but there's still a hint of pride buried in his tone and radiating through his scent. "You're alright, sweetheart. We'll take it one step at a time."

[yuma-mukami-garden-god]

How would the sakamaki boys realise that the sacrificial bride is their s/o? Like ofc Karlheinz wants to pair them up but this time it’s from their own will at once. :)

P.S; I really love your posts <3 it’s also amazing how you post so regularly tysm for that ^w^ always puts a smile on my face, because your headcannons are very accurate of the canon and my own perspective as well ^3^

Shu Sakamaki – The Sound of Her Soul

At first, she’s just another assignment from his twisted father. He avoids her, hides in the music room, pretends to sleep.

But one day, she’s there too—quiet, thoughtful—and she hums along to the same classical piece he’s listening to through his earbuds.

She doesn’t notice he’s watching.

That tiny moment, that shared stillness… it cracks something in him.

He starts thinking about her voice. Her scent. Her presence. It soothes the noise in his mind.

“She’s not like the others. She’s… peaceful. She feels like sleep.”

From that moment, he always has an earbud to offer. And his bed? Suddenly has space for two.

Reiji Sakamaki – Her Discipline Becomes His Undoing

He expects her to be messy. Foolish. Rebellious.

But instead, she’s respectful. Not fearful—just poised. She listens. Learns.

And when she stands up for herself—intelligently, gracefully—he’s stunned.

One day she corrects his Latin pronunciation under her breath. And he hears it.

At first, he’s furious. Then… intrigued.

He starts debating with her. Testing her. Needing her input.

Before he realizes it, he’s setting out two tea cups instead of one.

“She matches me. Challenges me. And still submits only when she chooses… She is exquisite.”

Ayato Sakamaki – The First Time She Calls Him Out

He taunts her constantly. Teases. Forces attention.

He’s waiting for her to cry or beg like all the others.

But one night, when he pushes her too far, she shoves him away and snarls:

“Grow up. I’m not your toy.”

He freezes.

His heart pounds.

She storms off—and for the first time in his life, he chases someone.

He can't stop thinking about how fierce she looked. How real she felt.

“Oi… what the hell’s wrong with me?”

He becomes obsessed. Protective. Gentle when no one’s looking.

“Chichinashi… You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”

Kanato Sakamaki – She Holds Him Without Flinching

He screams, rages, lashes out—like always.

She should be afraid. But she just sits there, tears in her eyes too—and gently cups his face.

“You don’t have to hurt to be heard.”

He goes silent.

No one has ever… touched him like that without screaming.

He grabs her wrist and buries his face in her lap, trembling.

“You… you’ll stay, right? You won’t leave me?”

From then on, she’s the only one allowed near Teddy.

He brings her sweets. Tries to sing for her. Bites her gently—like she's porcelain.

“She’s… warm. Safe. Mine.”

Laito Sakamaki – She Sees Through the Mask

He flirts. Smirks. Traps her in games.

But she sees it—the flicker behind his eyes. The grief. The pain.

And she whispers, one night, when he thinks he’s seducing her again:

“You don’t have to pretend with me.”

…And he breaks.

He laughs. Then sobs. Then pulls her close and just holds her like she’s made of light.

He starts craving her presence—not just her body.

Stops teasing other girls. Becomes territorial.

“She’s the only one who knows who I really am… and still chooses to stay.”

Subaru Sakamaki – She Waits for Him Without Judgment

He pushes her away every time she tries to talk.

But she doesn’t yell. Doesn’t cry. Doesn’t chase him.

She just… waits. Brings him a flower. A piece of chocolate.

Leaves it nearby and walks away.

Until one night, he finds her sitting on the roof where he hides—silent, gazing at the stars.

“I thought you might be lonely too,” she says.

His heart cracks.

She doesn’t demand anything. She understands.

He pulls her into a hug so tight it nearly hurts her.

“You make me feel… like I’m not a monster.”

From then on, he never lets her walk alone at night. Ever again.

(sorry for the slow replies I got arrested for a bullshit reason 🤣 convinced I'm low-key cursed by Murphy's law!)

[lighting-and-shadow]

Ikigai, Part 2: The First Straw

Summary: The first crack in your relationship with Sylus shows. And it's a big one.

Ikigai (n.) (Japanese): "A reason for being," the thing that gets you up in the morning.

Part 1 | Part 3 | Series Masterlist | LADS Masterlist

Ikigai (n.) (Japanese): "A reason for being," the thing that gets you up in the morning.

The same arms that cradled you last night now carry her. She’s unconscious (apparently because Sylus choked the life out of her and you will be pressing him on that later), and she’s beautiful. So beautiful that you tug on your sleeves a bit to cover more of your skin as you stare. The strange woman is a literal sleeping beauty, so you can’t help but keep your eyes on her.

But those details about her aren’t what make you truly stare. No. Something else entirely makes you stop dead in your tracks as you approach the twins and Sylus at the doors.

Her threads. As in multiple ones. Multiple soulmates and multiple bonds. They flicker in a way you’ve never seen before, and behave like winding paths. They’re each a gateway to a different love, to a different story. And she could choose which one to take.

You don’t know how you know this. But that isn’t new to you. Your power’s always been a mystery to you, seeing the bonds of soulmates even before they themselves have connected and formed. You know someone’s love story before they do. And you know what they’ve lost whenever you see a severed thread like James’. All this you learned through trial and error, since no one else sees what you see.

It got even worse once Evols started showing up and the Deepspace Tunneled opened. Like a puzzle you must assemble without instructions. Or a full picture. While blindfolded.

So, sometimes your ability just tells you things. Like now. It told that this strange girl, Miss Hunter as the twins call her, had multiple possible soulmates. It also told you of her multiple pasts. One of which you know quite intimately.

Sylus. You can’t bare to look at the man in question. From his heart protrudes his string, and on the other end of it is her. Her and not you.

You always knew you’d meet Sylus’ soulmate one day. And when that day came, you knew you’d be happy to see them love one another. But when you imagined that, you imagined he’d be their only love. Not one of many. Not some choice among different slices of pie.

You force yourself to keep walking. Pain creaks through you, like a car slamming on its breaks every few feet. Jagged and raw. Cutting.

”You aren’t her only one,” you want to say. ”You aren’t her only one, and you deserve better than that.”

Why? Why did this girl with so much love have to take from you the one thing you wanted? You want to pluck that stupid string of hers that belongs to Sylus and tie it to your pinky finger. You want to scream at the universe at how unfair this all is.

You don’t do anything of that. Instead, you fall into line with the twins as Sylus takes her to a spare bedroom. Part of you is relieved beyond words he didn’t put her in his own room. You think your heart would’ve given out there and then otherwise.

Once she’s carefully laid down on the bed, Sylus finally speaks.

“Kieran. Luke.”

“Yes boss,” they say in that weird unison thing they’ve always done; you find it strangely endearing.

“Watch her.”

He’s all business, acting as if this was an everyday occurrence. Like he always brought strange girls back to his home.

“Of course, boss,” Kieran replies. He gives you look when he does so. Even with his mask, you could tell what he was trying to say: ”you know what’s going on, right?”

You shake your head at him. His older brother is oblivious to the whole mess, sitting on a chair in the room and kicking his legs back and forth. You envy his silly disposition right now. You couldn’t afford to be nearly as calm.

Sylus and you quickly leave the room, and you guide him to his office rather than his room. Questions burn on the tip of your tongue. They well up inside of you, begging to be released. You can’t bare to let any of them out. So you tame them with persuasion like you’ve done to your clients and opponents in the past.

“He’ll tell you everything,” you think as you walk beside him. ”Just be patient.”

Patience goes out the window the second you two are alone.

“What in the ever-loving fuck do you think you’re doing, Sylus?”

“Name dropping me again, Gamayun. What have I done to bring forth your wrath this time?”

He casually leans against his desk, smirk on his lips and tension in his shoulders. You try to stand a ways away from his, but he uses his Evol to pull you closer. Your feet momentarily leave the floor when he does. The energy of his power is gentle against your skin, and caresses you in an almost apologetic matter.

You glare at him as he does this. He just leans in close to your face, one hand hovering on your waist and the other near your cheek. You stupidly lean into the touch.

”Fuck me and my touch-starved self.”

“Being sweet with me won’t change the matter at hand.”

“You think I’m sweet on you?” He leans in even closer. “And if it’s worked in the past why can’t it now? Perhaps I need to be more than just sweet…”

He trails off and brushes his fingers on your ear. Suddenly you feel too much. His breath. His skin. The gaze of his eyes. His coat. Everything.

You place a hand on his chest and lightly push. He immediately backs away, and his expression seems to stiffen a bit. You ignore it.

“No amount of sweetness will change the gravity of your lies. You brought a strange woman into the heart of our operation, and I won’t let it go.”

“Jealous?”

“Yes.”

“Do not dodge my question, foolish boss of mine.”

“So feisty today.”

Sylus leans back on the desk and beckons you closer. You stand firm with your hands on your hips and eyes on his soulmate thread. Anything to keep your focus on the task at hand.

He sighs and says your name. You’re inwardly grateful; no Gamayun means no sweetness which means your weak heart won’t make you back out of this conversation.

“She’s a Hunter. One with a unique Evol that I’ll be needing for my plans. That’s all. It’s just business.”

Sylus walks towards you this time.

“Business you couldn’t be fucked to include me in?”

You both wince at your harsh words. You because you’re normally never this openly hostile. With anyone. It’s bad for your line of work. And the only other people you’re normally around are the man you love and his chaotic childrenhenchmen. You’ve no need to be so.. crass.

Sylus winces because… well, you don’t exactly know. His thread gives off some weird feelings you’d rather not dissect. You worry you’ll glimpse into his first meeting with his soulmate, and you’d rather hear about it that experience that yourself.

“There was no need.” Sylus is firm with his words, but his reluctance to make eye contact with you tells a different story. His guilt almost makes you think that he knows how you feel about him, and that he’s sorry for what he’s doing to you.

”Fat chance of that.”

“Since when is there ever no need for my involvement? You literally drag me anywhere you possibly.”

“Because I fear you becoming a hermit otherwise.”

Your cheeks warm at his words. Stupid Sylus and his need to remind you of your early days working for him.

“Says the man who’s only other companion is his mechanical crow.”

“You don’t say? You know, Gamayun, I’ve seen the way you rant to Mephisto sometimes after certain deals. You’re not too far off to becoming like me.”

You roll your eyes at him.

“Even if I, perchance, do, it’s only because of you. And those “deals” you mention are the ones where you don’t give me much to work on. Like now.”

You two are back to square one. The light-hearted atmosphere is sucked dry in that moment. It’s been replaced by a weight, a fog, of uncertainty and worry. It takes you back to before you meant Sylus, all the way to high school, when something similar happened between you and the first person you fell for.

Those memories eat away at you. Strands upon strands of memories that twine with your nerves to create discomfort in every cell in your body. You only speak in hopes it would rid you of such pain.

“Why can’t you just explain yourself to me like a normal person?”

“Because you have no need to get involved.”

“Morana,” you try using his own tactics against him. “Please just tell me.”

You walk to him this time and cup his cheek with one hand. Sylus leans into the touch, basically nuzzling your hand. You love doing this to him. You love doing this with him. And you’re probably only doing this with him in this moment because you both know somewhere in your hearts you won’t be able to in the future. You doubt his soulmate will appreciate having another woman that loves him touching him like this.

So you’ll savor it.

“What’s the benefit of hiding such a thing from me, your partner?”

“You don’t need to concern yourself with useless things.”

“So useless you’ll bring the twins?”

“They were just there for some fun.”

“Fun which you excluded me from? How rude.”

Sylus winces at your dry tone, knowing there was more to the story. Ever since he met you, he knew you had problems feeling left behind or excluded. You always felt like an outsider anywhere you went due to your powers. It got even worse once you realized you had no soulmate.

”My relationship to them isn’t your problem."

So many times has those words been uttered to you. So many times have people spat them at you before they walked out your life for good, too in love to notice your broken heart. You wonder if this conversation with Sylus is the beginning of history repeating itself. If right now, the thread of your relationship is unraveling while his new one weaves together.

“Rude? Maybe. But necessary.”

“Why ever would you think that? You need to give me a valid reason.”

“You were sleeping in my arms so peacefully I couldn’t bear to wake you.”

“I said a valid reason, Morana. Not your usual nonsensical reasons.”

“It is a valid reason. I figured letting you sleep would be my way of making it up to you for stressing you yesterday.”

“It doesn’t. Telling me the truth might.”

“You drive such a hard bargain. You do remember I’m your boss, not the other way around? You work for me, sweetheart.”

“I do. But I’m more akin to a partner rather than a subordinate, even if I call you boss. So I’m entitled to the truth about your plans for this new person in our lives. I need to be involved, Morana. Why can’t I?”

“Because maybe I don’t want to get you involved.”

Your thoughts stumble at that. You shrink back from Sylus, dropping your hand and bringing it close to your chest. His eyes widen. You see the panic in them. It’s satisfying, in a sick way.

“Gamayun, that’s not what I—“

You don’t want to hear his excuses.

“You need something from her.”

”Something you know you can’t get from me and you know I would stop you from taking.”

Moments like these make you wonder if he knows. If he knows how you love him. If he knows you can see the threads of fate. If he knows that you know he’s not your soulmate but hers. If he knows you’re doomed to be alone.

But then you tell that part of yourself to be quiet. Because thinking about the what ifs would only drive you crazy.

“I do. And I will get it from her.”

You hold back a cringe at that. Stupid Sylus. That was no foundation for a relationship of any kind, let alone a soulmate bond.

“Not after such a hostile introduction.”

“Hostile? Me? Whenever have you known meet to be hostile, Gamayun.”

“The day we met,” you make a list of tallies on your hand as you speak. “Last week with that one arms dealer. Last month with the numerous explosions. James.”

His face twists when you mention the man. You roll your eyes.

“You and I both know that I have the best chances of resolving this peacefully.”

“Resolving. Gamayun, I haven’t done anything that needs resolving,” he smirks. “Not yet anyway. I’ll call upon your skills when they’re deemed necessary.”

It hurts a little to hear him say that, but you press on.

“Listen to me. The poor girl’s going through something; why else would an upstanding citizen of Linkon come here by choice? She’s in an unfamiliar environment. She’s been kidnapped twice. Once by you, and another by someone who, according Kieran, was going to kill her for what she had. And then you go and choke her until she fell unconscious. “

You caress his hair as you say this, leaning even closer despite your better judgement. His breath hitches and he gets closer as well.

“She’s not going to trust a word you say. And you and I both know the twins; negotiations and civil conversation isn’t their strong suit.”

The two of you laugh at this, and you vaguely wonder if this is how it feels to be a parent of insane teens. Because that’s what you think your life is sometimes.

“You’ve all made a bad impression on her. I haven’t. She’s in a sensitive spot, and I think the advice of someone with far more tact would do her good.”

“You got all that from just a glimpse? You’re better than even I thought, my sweet Gamayun.”

“Like I said before, being sweet won’t get you anywhere.”

You giggle when Sylus uses his Evol to mess with your hair. His hands hover around your waist.

“Just let me be the contact with her, alright? My relationship to her is far better than yours despite never truly meeting her. Whatever there is between you and her will be dwarfed by her grief.”

Guilt twists in your gut at that lie. Their relationship will never equal any relationship you have to either of them. But that bond doesn’t exist yet. So you’ll cling to those false words and hope they get you through this storm.

You think you have him. You think you’re about to get your answers. Instead, Sylus breaks your heart again. Except this time, it’s in a way you thought he never could.

“My relationship to her isn’t your problem.”

And just like that, you’re 16 years old again with your best friends. And then 12 with your friend’s father’s “new friend”. And then 10 with your former friends turned bullies. And then 7 with your first ever close relationship. All the times when someone spouted those same words just before they abandoned you. Just before they broke your heart, threw it the trash, and went home happily to their soulmate.

You can barely hold it together. You briefly register pushing him away, hands shaking and adrenaline practically going to war on your system. It’s different from the last time you pushed him away. So, so different. Your body betrays you in this moment. It’s on guard. It sees Sylus as a threat.

“Oh,” is all you muster.

You don’t need to see Sylus’ expression to know that your mask has slipped. All that practice acting and pretending means nothing now.

“I’ll just… I’ll just go. Yeah. I’ll just go.”

You think you hear Sylus protest. Or maybe you imagine it because you want him to chase after you unlike so many in the past didn’t. It doesn’t matter either way. You leave all the same. You leave and try to pick up the pieces of your heart while Miss Hunter slumbers away, oblivious to the plague of emotions her entire existence has brought you.

AN: Coming back to this later; tumblr decided to delete the original

[moominlovely]

Why did we do this?

AUTHOR’S NOTE: I don't know, I guess I'm just feeling really weird, and for some reason I'm into Batman at the moment now.

Warning: Violence, Murder.

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

Marrying Bruce was not where she saw herself at 24. In fact, she saw herself on a beach, unattached, somewhere tropical, drinking bottomless cocktails served by beautiful tanned men. But her family swindled all of their money, and to think it only took two generations to do so. She needed a little pick-me-up and playboy billionaire Bruce Wayan was the right man for it.

He was fun and he liked to party and a big bonus, he had never begged for sex, not that she minded if he did. She didn't mind being his beard, he paid well and his butler, Alfred, could cook. So that was another point for Brucie. All was good until the 31st of October, that night, she had come in late. shed normally calls to tell him she was coming but not tonight. she knows the routine. Flop down in one of three places, the guest bed, the couch or on a particularly bad night, the floor of the en suite next to her old friend la toilette. Then down to the kitchen for Alfred's full English. But this night was not the same, the manor was normally quiet this time of night but there was something eerie in the air tonight. Maybe it was just Halloween getting to her or maybe something was wrong. She took off her heels, creeping deeper into the manor. The moon shining through the tall window was her only light. She thought about calling out for Alfred but she couldn't bring herself to do so. She only needed to get up to 'her' bedroom and she would be safe.

She was approaching the room and her heart was pounding. She had that eerie feeling like someone was following her and she couldn't bring herself to look behind her. Passing Bruce office she could hear grunting. That snapped her out of her fear, she could laugh at herself she did laugh at herself. He was entertaining someone. She sighed with relief and looked behind her and of course, no one was there.

Right as she was about to walk past, the office door opened and the Batman stepped out. She jumped as his eyes landed on her. Not far behind him was Alfred, carrying a meila folder and what looked like a first aid kit. The three of them just stood there looking at each other.

She opened her mouth, flapping it once or twice. That chin, those lips, it was most definitely Bruce. "Why are you dressed like the Batman?" she poked her finger at his chest. Carbon fibre. The armour was needlessly expensive for a mere Halloween costume.

He was just standing there like he was going to tell you he threw up, but in the blink of an eye, Brucie came up. An easy smile graced his face, and a light chuckle. He pulled up his mask and his blue eyes shone through his dark eye makeup. "It's Halloween and I'm..." He did a little spin, "Batman." he employed jazz hands, forcing himself to laugh harder.

She wasn't dense she knew something was wrong, she could smell the blood and under at terrible fake laugh she heard a whisper of a pained groan. She chuckled nervously, taking a tentative step back. "Yeah, your Halloweening." As she was making her we back, she could see him advancing. Batman was relatively new but she knew one thing about him and that was that he beat the shit out of people and she didn't need whatever was happening to her.

He could see the panic setting into her face, he knew that she wasn't exactly sober and tried his best not to scare her. He brought his voice up to the pitch he normally did the be was Brucie. " You don't look so well." He approached her as if she were a scared animal, which she was. "Come on, let's get you up to bed, yeah." He tilted his head to try and make himself look more approachable. But to her it just made him look creepier. Without much thought at all, she turned around and ran. Bruce's face sobered as he looked back at Alfred, who just shrugged. Then he chased her, her feet smacking against the hardwood gave her away and he soon found he. His arms wrap themselves around her. She didn't scream, just panic. Every jostle knotted his stitches. Alfred was right, he couldn't go back out tonight. "Shush. It okay. It fine. We'll be okay." He just tried to hold her to calm her.

She wasn't too scared now. Yeah, he had his arms around her. Yeah, he was Batman but he hadn't tried to intimidate her. She calmed almost instantly and now her brain processed the information she had been given. The playboy billionaire Bruce Wayne is Batman. "You're The Batman." She whispered.

He chuckled, "It's just Batman."

She nodded. "Batman." He slowly released her. Setting her down, she turnt to look at him and she had never seen him like this before. He was no longer the cocky little shit with that dumb smirk but he looked earnest. Like she's never seen him before, "So you just go out at night and fight crime." He just nodded a sincere smile on his face. He realised something, maybe it was dirty, maybe it was desperate, but she was desperate. Her good-for-nothing parent had scammed someone and drained the accounts and she was on borrowed money, the apartment tower her great-grandmother had built, sold to pay back debts and even that didn't cover it all. She was so close to filing for bankruptcy. It was inevitable. So a golden goose had fallen on her lap and of course, she had to bank it. " So, how much are you willing to pay to keep this between us?"

And with the easy atmosphere was gone. She'll says she has never seen anyone so disappointed, "How much do you want?" He sighed.

She felt a bubble of shame but just for a second, she needed this. "Well," She clapped her hands, "I'll get my guys to write something up and we'll see." And she turnt to go to bed and he let her.

A few days later, the document turned up. Bruce sat in front of his lawyers and her lawyers, whom he was paying for and signed.

He sat down in the Batcave searching up the L/N family. There wasn't much they had some oli thing in the 1910s. It seemed some of the money was handled well until it got to her grandparents and her parents, gambling, bad investment, hush money, all sorts. And her with the needless spending and party money, that's what Bruce needed her for, she complemented his persona so well. If Y/N L/N and Bruce Wayne were at the party, then drinks were on the house. But that was not the only reason he liked her, she was fun and if you broke through that glittery party front, she was smart, she studied engineering in university. She dropped out but you could tell she still had a passion for it. In fact, she had indirectly helped him.

Tying away on his computer, Alfred came down, sighing. "You need a break," he placed a sandwich next to Bruce. "You know, I do kind of miss when you would go outside." Bruce didn't look up, just hummed dismissively. Alfred sighed again, shaking his head, "Have you heard from Miss L/N?" As much as she annoyed him, she did get out of the house.

Bruce stood up quickly, abandoning the sandwich. "I'm going out now." Alfred didn't bother saying anything and let him go.

Meanwhile, Y/N was in luxury. The five star luxury hotel for all of the elites that pass through Gotham. She was just in the middle of the delightful thought of getting all the knots in her shoulder out by some skilled masseuse, when she got a text.

Mother: Darling, where are you?

Why was her mother texting her? All these months, they had left her high and dry and now she was texting her.

Y/N: Don't text me, I don't want to hear from you.

She shook her head, throwing her phone down on the bed. Only 13 more hours and she will be in Saint Lucia sitting on a sunny beach, getting tanned. 13 hours and Gotham is behind her. Then her phone buzzed again, every fibre in her being was telling her to leave it, telling her to throw the phone out, change her number but she couldn't, no matter how much her parents had scorned her, she still had some love for them.

Mother: Me and your father are back in the city, well like to see you. Were going away and your grandmother has left something for you.

She didn't need anything from them but she felt the need to say goodbye even if they didn't.

For some deranged reason, her mother had told her to come to a run down warehouse, which should of been her first red flag. As she stepped out of the cab that had overcharged her, she could smell the stink of the river. She stopped looking out into nothing, ready to get back in the cab and out of dodge, when she saw her mother.

She had a black eye and aneveus smile. This wasn't right. she turnt to get back in the taxi when a gruff man she didn't know walk out of nowhere, he knocked on the window and said. "I think it time to get out of here."

The driver hesitated, "Look man, the lady looked scared. I don't think I should leave her here." Thank god she thought, so people really are heroes.

But that thought left her head pretty quickly rhen the what she could ony call a goon thorw a bundle of money throw the window. "Then don't think." He smiled, the cabby looked back at her, then, without so much as a sorry, drove away, coward.

Then the goon led her over to her mother. Her mother tried to latch onto her, but she shook her off. She had led her into a trap and without of a pesky sorry. The werehouse looked how she thougt it would but there was a poker table in the middle. Standing in front was a man wearing a far too big for him expensive suit, in frount of him sitting in a chair facing away from them was her father or the back of his head. He looked so small, his shoulder where slumped over and his hair was a mess. Her mother walked over to him and let out a small sob, looking away from his face.

The short leader smiled, all of his teeth were unnaturally white and blocky. "Ah, so this is the Y/N I've been hearing about, ha, I thought you'd be prettier." She shuddered as his eye raked over her. "Oh well, that's not what we're here for." He pressed his overly jawed hand on her father's shoulder, giving it a shake, making her notice her mother's wedding and engagement rings on it. She knew the story behind those rings, the first thing her great-grandfather had ever bought with his money. "So a little birdy told me that you have my money."

She was shocked, what money, what do they do? "I don't have any money." That was the honest truth, the money Bruce had given her was almost already spent. After the debt was paid, that left her with just enough to start a new.

He tutted at that, "No, that's not what your old man told me, was it?" he turned the chair around. Her father's face was completely busted. All his front teeth were gone, his lip was busted and his eyes were swollen shut. If she hadn't of seen the back of his head, she wouldn't have recognised him.

She threw her hand over her mouth. "I don't have your money." She insisted. "If I did, I'd pay."

He patted the side of her father's face, causing him to hiss. "I know you're all posted up in a luxury hotel," he looked at the cab goon, sighing. The goon pulled out a handgun, handing it to his boss. he cock it and pressed it to her father's head. Her mother stepped back, falling to her knees. "Now I'm going to ask nicely. Pay me what you owe, please."

She was stuck, a tear falling from her eye. "I don't have..."

BANG!

A blood curdling scream fell from her mother's mouth and all Y?N could do was nothing. She couldn't push the scream out. all she could do was stand there in shock. Her father's dead body lay there on the floor of a dark warehouse. She heard muffled speech but she couldn't make out words. Then, snapping right infount her face, at some point he had walked over to her. "I was saying, do you have the money now?" He spoke down to her as if she were a child. His eyes were wide and his bottom lip jutted out. When she took too long, he lifted the gun again, before she could shout no, he shot again. Her mother's body slumped over her father. Their blood mingling on the ground beneath them. Only a couple of seconds ago, they were both breathing, their hearts still beating. "Opps, Itchy trigger finger," he giggled. At that, she let out a low sob, "Oh, for fuck sake." He patted the side of her face. "Don't! Cry!" He yelled, but she was hysterical. "Stop fucking crying!" He grabbed her face, he was itching from her now. "I want my fucking money!" He pushed her down, she fell without much effort. He snapped again. "Break her!" And that's what they did.

It started with a stomp and a sick crunch in her jaw. Stomp, kick, Punch, repeat. That at some point she could feel any more of them with a muffled ear, she heard glass breaking. A figure comes through the skylight. Through glazed eyes, she recognised him. Her dark knight in matt black armour. She felt safe as the darkness at the corner of her eyes enveloped her vision.

It had been two weeks since a low grade gangster wannabe killed her parents. That night had caused emotional damage beyond repair. Every time a nurse or doctor walked in, she would jump. but not only that they had broken her jaw, her neck, one of her arms and a couple of ribs. Every breath hurt, every slight movement shot pain in places she didn't know could hurt and now she had no one. All the people she partied with, all the people she considered friends and not one of them turned up. No flowers, nothing and she was sure that no one but her was mourning her parents.

Her door opened, she jumped but calmed looking to who she expected to see a nurse but instead it was a man. Bruce was carrying what looked like a bouquet of expensive looking flowers. "So, Your awake." He looked sheepish.

I opened her lip, mouth wired shut, "I've been awake." She slurred.

He sat down next to her, "I know, I've been busy." That he has, from what she has seen on the celeb gossip channel her nurses turn on for her, Bruce Wayne was in a lot of scandals at the moment. Stuff about his sexuality, his parents, if his using slave labour, all sorts.

She could just about turn her head to look at him. "Just give them something bigger and more juicy to talk about."

He looked up at her. He chuckled, "Like what?"

She smiled at him, "Well, you're paying for my hospital bills, right?" he nodded. "Then do it for more, donate big, find another beard, i dont know."

He chuckled, " Find another beard."

She looked at him more seriously. "Well, you are meant to be Gotham's playboy."

He looked at her as seriously as her. "You already know who I am. Why not just marry you?"

If she could she would throw her head to look at him. Marriage, who was saying anything about marriage? "What?!"

"That would give them a lot to talk about," he looked around the room.

She signed."That is a really bad idea. I'm bankrupt, my family is affiliated with gangsters and I'm a wreck."

He looked back at her. "You can always say no. We can always get a divorce." He looked hopeful, almost. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out her great-grandmother's engagement ring.

She looked at him, then at the cast on her left arm. This will change her life, then she lifted it. He continued on and put the ring on her ring finger. Not the way she saw her life.

Those twelve months flew past, one out of the hospital, she spent her time planning her parents' funeral and as expected, it was full of empty sympathies. She didn't know how to feel. and just a week after that, her 'friends' invited her to a haunted house party and that was it, she cut them all off. What was supposed to do but focus all her enegy on other things, planing the wedding, designing and building tools for batman and having Alfred teaching her to cook. She started knitting, crocheting and sewing. The day of the wedding and she blacked out all of it. All those months of planning and she could remember a thing. When her body started to feel better, she started ballet classes and when she was accosted outside of one of them, she begged Bruce to teach he self defence.

Down in the Batcave, Bruce had her in a chokehold, she kicked down on the mat trying to get a solid stance. "Come on," He grunted, "You know how to get out of this." When he realised she wasn't going to, he let go. She flopped down onto the mat, catching her breath. "It that was real,"

"Then you wouldn't have let me go." She looked up at him as he shock his head.

He signed, offering her his hand. "I know you can do it," he lifted her back up to her feet. She was slick with sweat and her chest was heaving. They had had sex before but that was a long time ago. She was looking up at him a little confused, then he realised he was still holding her. He let go quickly."Sorry."

She looked more confused now. Then she smiled, "Look, Bruce, we're both in our twenties and were married and hot. " She looked him up and down. Then smirked. "Why not?" she stood up on her tiptoes kissing him, It was slow at first till she ran her tongue along the seam of his mouth, asking for permission and he granted her. That night Alfred made himself scarce and did so many nights after that.

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

A.N: I don't know what any of this is, I need a break from severus and for some reason batman pops up. I haven't the foggiest, soo. If the void likes it the the starer will write more. thx 4 reading -_-

[starsinthesky5]

What is songbirds set list for her show???

a/n: i’ve been working on this forever bye. anyways, an essay about her setlist under the cut! we're not here yet plot wise but i felt like i should do this for the fun of it! song analysis are literally my fav things ever

reputation stadium tour

...ready for it?

don't blame me

look what you made me do

i did something bad

the first few songs—“…ready for it?”, “don’t blame me,” “look what you made me do,” and “i did something bad”—feel like standing inside a storm she’s summoning with her own hands. heavy beats pound like a war drum, lights slash across the stadium in electric reds and icy whites, the crowd roaring as she prowls the stage in a dark, glimmering costume that’s part armor, part seduction. this is her reclamation. this is her shaking off every whisper, every headline, every sneer that tried to reduce her to a caricature. it’s anger turned into art, power reclaimed note by note—she’s telling the world look what you did to me, and look at what i’ve become because of it

would've could've should've

then, just as the energy reaches its fiercest edge, the show pivots. “would’ve, could’ve, should’ve” becomes the turning key. her voice cutting through the speakers like a wound that never fully healed. the visuals dim into muted colors, almost sepia, as if revisiting painful memories etched into old film reels. here, she stops punishing the world and starts reckoning with the cost of her own choices, with the scars left behind by loving the wrong person too long. it’s guilt, grief, and aching self-awareness, heartbreak in its rawest form

tolerate it

say don't go

you're losing me

loml - piano

how did it end - piano

the smallest man who ever lived

WCS leads seamlessly into the next cluster, where she sinks deeper into that heartbreak. “tolerate it,” “say don’t go,” and “you’re losing me” paint the haunting portrait of trying to hold onto something already dead, of offering every tender part of yourself to someone who stands unmoved. by the time she reaches “loml” and “how did it end” on piano, it feels like she’s almost whispering to herself, her voice stripped of all its earlier bravado. these are some of the hardest songs for her to preform, too much heartbreak, too many reminders of what she had and lost. the crowd hangs on every note, wrapped in the gentle devastation of watching her revisit the love she once thought would last forever, only to realize it was never truly hers

“the smallest man who ever lived” closes this cluster like a bitter epilogue, where the pain crystallizes into sharp observation. her heartbreak turned cold, reflective, almost clinical in its honesty

i can do it with a broken heart

but then, the atmosphere brightens again. it’s like she physically shakes it off, shedding the grief that’s weighed heavy across the set. “i can do it with a broken heart” bursts forward with manic, almost defiant energy. she’s dancing, smiling too wide, like someone proving to the world she can still sparkle through the pain. but it’s transparent, the forced grin, the exaggerated twirls; the staging is bright and showy, but the lyrics give her away. it’s heartbreak wearing glitter, coping through performance, masking wounds with confetti

acoustic mashup: the prophecy x this love (unreleased)

the lights then narrow to a single spotlight on her and her guitar for an intimate acoustic mashup of “the prophecy” and “this love,”. “the prophecy” aches with her longing for something enduring, a love that would finally last, that wouldn’t vanish like all the others. it’s a vulnerable wish whispered into the universe. then, it drifts into “this love,” a song that once traced the bittersweet cycle of a past love slipping away only to unexpectedly return, carrying all its old weight and hope. but tonight, when she changes the lyrics to sing “and it changed the prophecy,” it feels like everything softens. like she’s admitting that joe—this steady, unassuming, extraordinary love—rewrote the story for her. what was once just a fragile dream, a hopeless prophecy, has transformed into something real and lasting, reshaping everything she thought she knew about love. it’s less about blame now, more about mourning what was always meant to fade, and finally embracing what was always meant to stay

i can see you

so it goes…

delicate

labyrinth x you are in love (medley)

from here, the mood tenderly evolves into cautious rediscovery. “i can see you,” “so it goes…,” “delicate,” and a stunning medley of “labyrinth” and “you are in love” trace the tentative steps of falling for someone new when your heart still flinches from old bruises. these songs catch the fragile breathlessness of wanting again, of learning to trust gentle hands after being scorched. it’s the story of opening a heart stitched together with old threads and daring it to beat wildly once more

surprise songs section: mashups, covers, etc.

willow

cowboy like me

acoustic mashup: this is what you came for x gold rush (unreleased)

these songs are some of her favorites, the first two from her very first album. songs that remind her of joe, and honestly, some of his personal favorites. the show dips into an almost fairytale witchy glow with “willow,” where the choreography and visuals wrap around her like enchanted vines. it weaves straight into “cowboy like me,” the tale of two wary souls drawn together by something neither can quite name

“this is what you came for” and “gold rush” plays like a sun-soaked interlude, a shimmering pause from the heavy scars of heartbreak and self-doubt. it’s a moment where the stakes feel different—lighter, brighter, almost electric. “gold rush” dwells in the dreamy ache of wanting someone everyone else seems to want too, of wrestling with your own envy and wonder at being loved by someone so golden. it’s that mix of fascination and insecurity, painted in delicate brushstrokes. but when it slides back into “this is what you came for,” it feels like she’s stepping fully into that spotlight, owning the gaze of the crowd. everyone’s watching her—hungry for the spectacle, for the glittering romance budding in frint of them, for the chance to say they saw it unfold. but beneath all of that, it’s clear who she’s watching. joe. the whole world may want them both, may circle them like moths to a flame, but in that song’s pulsing heartbeat, it’s just her eyes on him and his on her. it’s playful, almost daring. a fleeting reminder that yes, everyone’s come to see the show, but the real magic is between them, untouched by anyone else’s expectations

call it what you want

but daddy i love him

so high school

dress

daylight

sweet nothing - piano

new year's day- piano

the next stretch becomes an outright celebration of hard-won, imperfect, delirious love. “call it what you want,” “but daddy i love him,” and “so high school” are playful, triumphant, deeply personal—this is her exhale after the storm, the moment she admits that love can still feel reckless and thrilling, even after everything she’s endured. it’s all inside jokes, secret looks, love that doesn’t have to prove itself to anyone. then comes “dress,” sultry and electric under low golden lights, her voice threading through confessions meant for just one pair of ears. “daylight” follows like the sun finally breaking through, drenched in soft pastels, her realization that maybe love was never supposed to be about shadows or edges

“sweet nothing” and “new year’s day” close out this cluster, both pared down and intimate—songs about finding extraordinary things in ordinary moments..humming in the kitchen, cleaning up glitter after the party’s done. it’s two people building a life out of the simple, unflashy kinds of love, the kind that lasts

this is why we can’t have nice things

end game

karma

finally, she surges back into playful defiance with “this is why we can’t have nice things,” the crowd shouting along, reveling in the catharsis. it rolls effortlessly into “end game,” where she owns the story of two public figures who found each other against the odds—big reputations be damned. and then, to close, comes “karma”—the ultimate wink at every wound, every betrayal, every rumor that tried to tear her down. confetti flies, lights explode into brilliant gold, and she dances like someone who knows the universe has kept its receipts

oh and also, karma is the guy on the bengals, comin' straight home to me

[truthprevail]

Her heart sinks a little from the weight of Kotone's earnest words. It's one part guilt and one part shame that weighs on Sae's mind. There's a tightness coiling around her lungs, constricting her ribcage — she's never meant to keep it a secret but being forthcoming about her own shortcomings... it's simply not something Sae's accustomed to.

❝ Sure, ❞ Sae manages a faint smile. There's no protest from her this time... after all, there's no reason for her to work on Christmas this year. She once allowed her work to overtake her, allow herself to sink into the never-ending depths of overtime and unused vacation days which resulted in her and Makoto drifting further and further apart. This time... she shouldn't squander an opportunity to be a better person to the people she loves.

Then, a hitch in her breath. Anyone who knows Sae would know that she wouldn't be as readily to agree to a proposal of a break as she just did. Trepidation builds up in her chest. The heart pounding violently inside of her as the dread, the anxiety gradually build up.

❝ I won't have work... maybe not for a while. ❞ Sae admits quietly, her words feeling barely like a whisper. It's the admission to the newfound reality she's gotten herself in that's harrowing. Sucking in a breath, she decides to continue despite the raging discomfort that wants to shutdown and have her leave. It's an irrational source of shame — she doesn't regret her actions but it doesn't erase the casually cruel words echoed deep inside her mind. ❝ After Shido's confession, my higher ups suspected that I was collaborating with the Phantom Thieves and under that pretense, they effectively forced me to take an indefinite leave. So, I doubt I'll be working any time soon. ❞

The smile on her lips drop slightly. It's almost sad, maybe even pitiful in nature. There's a subconscious need to mask that sadness that lurks deep within her. Gently, she reaches a hand out and presses it against Kotone's cheek.

❝ Tea, huh? Sure. My treat.❞

Someone was lost in their own world, it seemed. An air of amusement came about from the younger woman - it was felt almost cruel to want to laugh after all she said. Then again, weeks prior it would have been impossible to imagine the current situation they were in. At the same time, Kotone knew that Sae was practically drowning in so many thoughts that if she didn't take the time and effort to fish her out of them she would never leave.

With each step that moves towards her (only) mode of transportation for the next few weeks, she gives a soft look towards Sae - the myriad emotions stirring within her coming to a resounding pause. There were more important things to worry about. Never mind the beating her mind was taking from the insecurities.

"It's Christmas in a week, and New Year's in two. Why don't you take a break with me? We can have Christmas just like we did all those years ago. Then, on New Year's, instead of writhing in despair because of Ryoji we can have some whiskey and vodka," she says as the Universe is hovers by her wheelchair.

Taking a deep breath, she lowers herself - the pain surging through as her muscles work overtime to regain themselves. It was a long, arduous process after all. Not the first time she's gone through this. She just wishes that for once in her life, everything could work as they were. No persona bullshit. Just normal, functioning legs.

It was difficult to reconcile. When she was younger she used sports as her preferred mode of stress relief. It was who she was. What she was good at! Then to have it all slowly taken away from her... First, it was her legs - they weren't as fast as they were. Then, her arms. Then, her eyesight. Who knows what else would fail in the future? It scared her. She would be a hassle to Sae. That would be a reason she could never be loved.

...

"I know you have work, but... we can always figure something out. Let's try to be happy for once. Plus, I... would love to have a nice quiet night with you. Like old times, right?"

Grasping at the wisps of the past was all she was good at.

"I'm sorry, I'm not good company right now either. My mind is jumbled and I just... I'm trying to be normal. This happened last time. It took me weeks for my brain to stop acting so foggy. Though, maybe there isn't a difference," she mutters a sardonic laugh. "Let's just... go home. Maybe we can get tea on the way."

[jaxyscreams]

Geek Girl just hits different when you grew up undiagnosed autistic and got bullied for it

Like oooh I see parts of myself in such a kind and caring light and it feels cathartic it feels healing

[sunni-stuff]

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 This is part 4 Part 5

His question hit like a punch, and the pressure of it lingered in the air, heavy and suffocating. Armed Forces Day? Three years ago? A sharp jolt of recognition hit you, though the details of that night remained fuzzy. The memories were there, but they felt distant—like something you hadn't allowed yourself to fully remember after becoming a mother. 

You steadied yourself, trying to mask the unease rising in your chest. “What are you talking about?” you tried to sound steady but the tightening grip on your purse betrayed the rush of nerves running through you.

Simon shifted, his broad frame nearly eclipsing the dim light of the bar. His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he seemed to wrestle in his own head, as though each word carried a burden too heavy to bear. “There was a night,” he began, his tone low and rough, every syllable deliberate. “Here. Three years ago. You were here. So was I.”

Your heart skipped, a wave of realization hitting with an almost physical force. The hazy recollections of that night flooded back, slowly accumulating together—laughter, drinks, an unexpected connection. Something that hadn’t felt planned but had burned far too bright to ignore.

The knot in your stomach twisted painfully, every part of you urging you to push it away, but the truth had already begun to sink in. “You’re…” The words stalled in your throat, heavy and lodged, the sentence unfinished as the reality stung like an accusation between you.

Simon exhaled sharply, part sigh, part laugh—but there was no humor in it. His gaze locked onto yours with unsettling intensity, and for a moment, it felt like he was waiting for you to break. “Yeah,” he replied simply, the word thick with certainty. “And she’s mine, isn’t she?”

A cold shiver ran down your spine, your body instinctively stiffening. The truth strung in the silence between you both, too glaring to avoid. Heart racing, every sense screamed to deny it, to distance yourself from this conversation before it spiraled out of control. But anything that could be said felt wrong, heavy on your tongue as you forced them out: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Simon’s eyes held yours, filled with something you hadn’t seen before—a desperation that cut through his usually composed demeanor. “Please,” he urged, the plea more potent. “Just tell me.”

How could this be happening? How could something so raw, so unspoken, suddenly spill into the air between the two of you? The weight of the moment anchored you, and for a moment, you couldn’t find a way to move past it. 

“She is,” you muttered at last, the confession slipping out like an unwanted secret. Fingers clenched tightly against the table’s edge, grounding yourself against the suffocating reality pressing in. “I never thought… never thought you'd come back into the picture.”

A brief silence stretched out before you spoke again, everything tumbling out in a rush. "I didn’t even know your name. All I recall was you kept making me." The admission hung in the air, lighter than it was, an attempt to lighten everything you didn’t want to say. 

The memory refused to stay buried. His face from that night, the intensity of his stare under the bar’s muted glow, how his presence seemed magnetic and overwhelming all at once—it all surfaced, unbidden. The connection had been undeniable, but that was your secret to carry. He didn’t need to know the details you still clung to.. 

“I don’t even know how it happened,” The sentence barely made it past your lips. “We used protection.” Doubt crept into your mind, unraveling the careful narrative you’d built for yourself. Did we? The past, fogged by alcohol and blurred moments, refused to come into focus.

Simon blinked, the blankness in his expression giving way to confusion, then disbelief. “Did we?” he asked with an edge of uncertainty. He was searching for answers neither of you seemed able to provide. Silence filled the space between you, heavy with unspoken questions.

"That parts a bit fuzzy," you admitted quietly, thoughts drifting away, the edges of the remembrance blurring with every passing second. “And clearly we didn't given our current situation.” 

Meeting his gaze, you knew this was the man from that fortunate night. Only different. More mature as if life hadn’t been kind to him. “All I know is… I woke up, and it was just me.” The recollection hung heavier than expected, twisting in your chest. "I never imagined I’d run into you again."

A heavy silence settled between the two of you, the gravity of everything left unsaid pressing down on the air. Neither of you knew how to move forward, or even if moving forward was possible.

“I knew she was mine,” Simon muttered, his hand clenching into a fist at his side. He looked like he was trying to hold something back, fighting against his own emotions threatening to break free.

You blinked in disbelief, the reality of his revelation settling in like ice in your veins. “You saw her?” The shock was evident. The idea that he had been so close—watching, perhaps even knowing—yet remained silent was almost too much to process.

Simon nodded, his gaze never meeting yours as he began. “Last month. When you were leaving the café with her. Johnny stopped you, and I was there.” He hesitated, swallowing hard as if the bulk of it all was pressing on him. “Johnny and the lads, they were the first to say they saw a little girl with my face. I was skeptical at first But then… then I saw the two of you together. And I saw it. Saw me in her. I had no idea she was even a possibility. Or that you were, for that matter."

Your breath hitched, a sharp sting rising in your chest. The anger that had been simmering beneath the surface, the hurt, and the confusion all collided in one sudden wave. “Why didn’t you say anything?” The question shot out before you could stop it, the accusation sharp and loaded with all the frustration. He had been so close. Watching. Why didn’t he speak up?

Simon paused, his gaze dropping to his hands, fingers flexing as if he were trying to grasp for something he couldn’t hold. The silence stretched long between you, the tension palpable, as if the room itself was holding its breath. He wanted to say something, anything, but nothing came. 

“I…” He started, staring at his hands as though they might hold the answer. “I’m not good with things like this, love.” He rubbed the back of his neck, having a hard time fully expressing how he felt but this moment needed authenticity. “I needed time to figure out if I could step into a life that was already doing fine without me. I was afraid of complicating things, of ruining something that was just fine without me."

You didn’t expect what he said to hit you so hard. The impact of his confession—that he had stayed away because he wasn’t sure if he was fit to be a part of your life, Adira’s life—settled deep within you, heavier than you could have imagined. You’d been fine, hadn’t you? Raising Adira, carving out a life on your own. But there's always been that lingering voice in the back of your mind, that small, quiet thought of “what if?” What if things had been different? What if he had been there from the start? Maybe you wouldn’t have had to quit those overpriced mommy-and-me classes because of those judgmental women who gossiped behind your back. Maybe things would’ve been easier.

“I wasn’t about to just waltz in, love,” Simon’s voice softened, more vulnerable now, like he was carefully weighing his thoughts. “I needed to know if you’d even want me here. You and her…” His gaze darkened for a moment, his voice trailing off as though unable to bear too much out in the open. “I wasn’t sure if I was the right person to step into something already so… perfect.”

In those words, there was something you hadn’t expected to hear from him: honesty. He was afraid. Afraid of being the one to ruin what you had built. Afraid of not being enough for you or for Adira.

“I guess I understand,” you said quietly. "I just wish you showed up sooner."

Simon didn’t answer right away. Something within him flickered with guilt, and for a moment, you both stood there in silence. He glanced down at his hands, fingers twitching like he wanted to reach out, but wasn’t sure if he had the right to.

"Can I meet her?" Simon asked nervously, a grown man fidgeting in his seat, the weight of his request sinking in.

"Now?" You chuckled, trying to brighten the moment. "It's late. I'm sure she's already asleep."

Simon’s gaze flickered with hesitation, but the desire was clear. He was barely holding it together, as if afraid that the chance to meet his daughter would slip away if he didn’t ask now. 

"I understand," he mumbles after a pause, almost to himself, but there was a longing there you couldn’t ignore. "I just…I need to see her. To know her. Even if just for a moment."

The magnitude of the situation pressed down on you again, this wasn’t something you had expected when you woke up this morning. You had no clue what to do with all of this, with him, with Adira’s future—your future. But still, you could hear his sincerity.

"Tomorrow," You decided. "We can meet up tomorrow, but it has to be on her terms. She's not exactly the warmest with new people."

Simon nodded, his expression a mix of relief and determination. "I can wait."

You gave him a small smile, a silent acknowledgment of the moment. There was still so much to figure out, but at least now, for the first time, there was a possibility. A chance to rebuild what had been lost. "Bring toys," you suggested sincerely, thinking about what would make her happy. "She likes trains. Doesn’t need to be anything cartoon-ish, just a proper train."

Simon blinked, a touch of confusion in his gaze. "She doesn't like dolls? Like most girls?" His tone had a hint of disbelief, as though he couldn’t quite picture a little girl who wasn’t into the typical, pink frilly things.

The thought of dolls made your stomach tighten, and you shook your head vehemently, as if to expel the very idea. "God, no," you replied, unease creeping into the conversation. "Please, don’t bring dolls. That’s the last thing I want." You shuddered as you spoke, recalling all the unnerving memories. "She gets all Sid from Toy Story with them."

Simon’s brow furrowed even deeper, clearly unsure. "What does that mean?"

You visibly grimaced, the image flashing vividly in your mind. "It means I wake up to doll heads scattered all over the place," you say, your voice low and serious. "And it's... creepy. Like she's planning something with them. It’s like waking up in a horror movie."

Simon chuckled at first, but as he saw the unflinching seriousness in your expression, his laughter quickly turned uncertain. His grin faded, and the unease that filled his eyes told you that he was realizing this wasn’t some joke. "You’re messing with me, right?"

Your stare at him, completely deadpan. "I wish I was."

For a moment, Simon just stared, taking in your unwavering expression. His lips parted, a nervous laugh escaping him as he absorbed warning. "Alright," he said slowly, now understanding your cautious warning. "No dolls. Trains. Got it."

You gave a relieved sigh, feeling the baggage lift off your shoulders. The tension hadn’t fully gone, but for now, at least the toy issue was settled. There were plenty of bigger things to confront later, but this? This was a small victory.

This one is a little shorter than the rest, simply because I want the meet up chapter to be really long for yall! :3

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[meowdei]

khaenriahn princess reader x knight capitano ; jealous capitano ; implied hidden relationship ; pre cataclysm ; royal au ; capitano is not cursed yet so his skin is supple and youthful ; banter and fluff

“There is word, my lady,” his voice says lowly. You hum, reaching over to grab at his helmet. Capitano gently captures your hand before you can, pulling it away from its path to uncover his face. There’s a fleeting frown on your lips, but it’s gone as soon as he brings it up and presses a small, delicate kiss to the knuckles through the dark cloth that hides him from you.

“Oh? What of, my dear knight?” You ask curiously. Something tells him it’s almost mockingly innocent.

“That there is a rather…determined prince seeking your hand in marriage.”

Sometimes, it feels unfair that very rarely do you get to see the face hidden underneath the armor, but you suppose you don’t need to see Capitano to know exactly what emotion is twisted in his face. You fight back an amused grin—his voice tells you all you need to know.

You’re certain he must taste his own bitterness as the words fall from his tongue.

“Such grand news,” you gasp, “and yet…you speak with such hesitation. Has this news not brought you joy, my captain?”

“Forgive me, my lady,” he says unamused, voice low and just shy of a grumble, “I value your wellbeing above all. Should a capable prince ask for your hand, I would be most delighted if that is what you accept.”

“You do not sound delighted at the idea,” you tease.

“Perhaps my lady has not given me reason to think she would be interested in such a proposition,” he mutters.

This time, his voice does, in fact, sound the slightest bit petulant—like a child who sulks after being scolded. His tone is usually one that is far too courteous. Painfully so, in fact. (You’ve spent a good number of exasperating moments insisting he be more casual with you. You reap the rewards of those efforts few and far in between). But now, he betrays himself with a flicker of frustration, far too evidently for even you to miss.

He realizes too late how childish the words must sound spoken so irritably. You can tell that he clenches his jaw, seeing the tension even under the mask as he forces himself to still the bitterness spreading through his veins.

“Tell me, my dear knight,” you grin. You can imagine the unhappy lift of his brow as you speak, “what makes you so certain I would be disinterested in such an enticing offer?”

“It seems my assumptions were incorrect,” he grunts, straightening his back before promptly adding, “forgive me, my lady. I must see to rather urgent military affairs. I shall be seeing you—”

“Jealousy is unbecoming on you, Sir Capitano,” you quip, your hand grabbing at his wrist, tugging him towards you. He stills, stiff as a statue as your hand reaches for his helmet once more.

This time, he doesn’t stop you. He allows the lithe, delicate fingers he knows so well to grab at the edge of his helmet, carefully tugging it off before his face slowly reveals itself to you. You smile, cupping a cheek before tracing your thumb along the soft skin of his face.

“I am not jealous,” he says stubbornly.

“Haven’t they taught you never to lie to a princess?” You hum, stepping closer. His lips twitch just a fraction at the edges before two strong arms wrap around your waist, pulling you towards him. Flush against his chest. Tucked right against his heart. Pressed so close, you almost wonder if you could feel his heart beating through the armor if you paid close enough attention.

“You torment me, my lady,” he murmurs quietly, “I fear I cannot accept this arrangement. It would tear through my soul to watch you be wed to another.”

“Then do not watch me,” you whisper.

You have seen his eyes flicker with soft, warm affection countless times. There is beauty underneath the helmet he wears so often, beauty that not many are so fortunate to see. You see it often, though. In private, hidden moments that he affords you. In the quiet of your chambers where the maids cannot disturb you. In the corners of the palace where no one can interrupt your fleetingly lingering touches and longing gazes.

Your hands hold his face, slowly pulling him closer as you study every precious slope across his skin. The slightly jagged curve of his nose. The plumpness of his lips. The slant of his sharp cheekbones. Every feature you know by heart, and revisit in your dreams.

You smile lightly at the thought of his jealousy, as guilty as you should feel for teasing him. Your knight—and you, his beloved princess.

“Do you wish to marry a prince?” He asks, leaning into your neck, breathing in your scent as his nose trails up your jaw until it reaches your cheek. Your breath hitches. His lips quirk into a smile.

“I wish to marry someone who owns my heart,” you say breathlessly, “prince or not.”

“Perhaps what you need is someone who is far more capable of carrying the weight of your heart. You possess rather discerning taste—it is not easy to please you, my lady.”

You huff, glaring at him from the corner of your eyes as you ask, “do you mean to call me difficult?”

“Among other things,” he chuckles. There’s a light, teasing trail of kisses pressed to your skin, leading straight to your lips. Capitano knows exactly what he’s doing, though—he stops just at the corner of them, making you pout as you try to lean in and close the gap.

He grins smugly, pulling away just enough to create distance between your mouths.

“You should not toy with a princess,” you say, displeased.

He hums, rubbing the small of your back as he counters, “and you should not toy with the heart of a man devoted to you.”

“Forgive me, my dear knight,” you murmur, gently bringing his face closer as your hands cradle his face once more, “I shall not torment you with such teasing again.”

“I am most grateful, your highness,” he fights back a chuckle.

Jealousy is unbecoming on someone as noble as the captain of your military forces. You like the way it looks on him just a little, anyway. Love the way his posture is more rigid and his voice is sharper when forced to consider the possibility of your heart yearning elsewhere. Enjoy the way he holds you tighter and closer as cool armor steals your warmth.

“Shall I tell this prince I am not interested?” You ask with a knowing look.

He hums thoughtfully, a smug smile playing on his lips as he replies, “no, I think I’d rather witness the expression of his highness when he realizes his charms hold no sway over you—a rare defeat for a man so certain of his allure.”

“Someday I shall marry you, my dear knight,” you whisper. Finally, with a softened look, he leans in to kiss you. Slow. Delicate. So gentle, it almost feels like you are one whisper from the wind away from falling apart.

“I look forward to it, my lady. Not even celestia could stop me from claiming your hand.”

————————

The last line is a big rip if you know what I mean 😔

[rimzaaa]

Happily Ever After

Oneshot!

Pairing: Frontman(inho) x Female reader(y/n)

Fandom: Squid Game (오징어 게임)

Summary: What if the final game never truly ended? What if love survived the arena?

Y/N thought she had lost everything. The man she loved—dead. Her world—shattered. But when the mask comes off, and the truth is revealed, she's forced to face her deepest heartbreak all over again. With a newborn in her arms and her past standing in front of her, will she walk away… or risk everything for a second chance?

This is a story of betrayal, grief, found family, and the kind of love that crawls out of hell just to hold you again.

Warning: Violence & death. Blood & trauma. Canon-typical content. Emotional breakdowns. Heavy angst. Redemption arc. Some soft comfort & fluff. Mentions of suicidal ideation (brief)

Author's Note: This is my first ever fanfiction for Squid Game, and it’s centered around my favorite character—the Frontman (aka Inho/Young-il). I wanted to give the show an ending that we all think the characters deserve. This story means a lot to me, so I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Feedback and reblogs mean the world 💌

Words Count: 4.2K+

✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦

The air was thick — heavy with the scent of blood, sweat, and fear.

Only three players remained: Y/N, Gi-hun, and Player 222 — Jun-hee’s daughter, too young to understand the stakes of the game.

They stood on the broad, red-stained surface of the triangle-shaped platform, raised high above the arena floor. It was wide enough to move, to run — or to fight. The ground beneath them felt solid, but the danger lay in the unspoken rule: one of them had to fall.

Y/N clutched the child tightly against her chest, her breath quick, her heartbeat louder than the ticking clock. A few feet away, Gi-hun stood in silence, eyes locked on the next shape — the circle, waiting for the moment someone would make the first move.

Time was running out.

Only two players could jump forward.

High above the arena, behind the wall of dark glass, the Frontman stood in silence — his mask reflecting the soft glow of the lights. The VIPs lounged nearby, laughing, drinking, placing their bets. But he wasn't listening.

His heart was pounding.

There they were.

Y/N and Gi-hun.

Two names from a life he barely recognized anymore.

Two people he once knew... back when he was still young-il.

Originally, he had entered the games as a player with one mission — to keep an eye on Gi-hun. But the moment he saw you, everything changed.

He fell for you. Hard.

Quietly. Helplessly.

And without telling a soul, he made himself a promise:

He would protect you. No matter the cost.

But now, as he watched from the shadows of power, that promise echoed bitterly in his chest.

Because all he could think about…

was what happened last night.

⟣ FLASHBACK ⟢

The room was dimly lit. Player 100 and Player 333 were fast asleep after the luxurious dinner arranged for them as finalists. Gi-hun and Y/N, however, remained awake — watching over the baby girl Jun-hee had entrusted to them.

Suddenly, a pink guard entered the room and walked toward them.

“The Leader wants to see you both,” he said flatly.

Gi-hun and Y/N exchanged a glance before standing up and silently following the guard.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft beep.

And there he was — the Frontman, seated calmly on a couch in his all-black uniform, his expression hidden behind a dark mask.

Gi-hun and Y/N walked in slowly, stopping in front of him.

“Sit down. This will take some time”

He said in his cold, commanding voice.

They obeyed, taking seats across from him.

“I have an offer for both of you.”

Both Gi-hun and Y/N stared at him, confused.

An offer?

The Frontman reached into the pocket of his long coat and pulled out two daggers, placing them on the table between them.

“Go and kill the remaining two players,” he said evenly. “And I’ll make sure you both walk out of here. The next game won’t happen — I promise you that.”

“Why should we trust you? Why would you help us?”

Gi-hun asked sharply, trying to make sense of what was happening.

Y/N, meanwhile, was silent — her eyes locked on the man behind the mask. Something in her gut told her something was coming… something big.

The Frontman’s eyes flicked between the two of them beneath his mask.

He took a slow breath, then reached up — pulling back the hood of his uniform.

Then, without a word, he removed his mask.

And looked straight at them.

“…young-il?”

Y/N whispered, her voice trembling, her breath catching.

Her hands shook as she stared at the man she had once fallen in love with inside these deadly walls — the man who had whispered soft promises to her in the dark. The man she’d mourned. The man she thought was long dead.

He wasn’t.

He was alive.

Right in front of her.

Part of her wanted to throw herself into his arms, to cry into his shoulder and tell him how much she missed him.

The other part wanted to grab that dagger… and drive it into his throat.

She clenched her fists tightly in her lap, her heart unraveling.

“young-il… you…?”

Gi-hun looked stunned, disbelief washing over his face. The man he once trusted — the one who had fought by his side — was the Frontman?

The Front Man lowered his head.

“In-ho”

He corrected quietly, barely above a whisper. There was guilt in his voice. Shame in his eyes.

He turned to Y/N. She was gripping the hem of her t-shirt tightly, her eyes glassy with tears — but she refused to let them fall.

“Why?”

Her voice cut through the silence like a blade.

“Why did you do this to us?”

Before In-ho could answer, Gi-hun suddenly stood up, grabbing one of the daggers off the table, rage flaring in his eyes. He raised It as if to strike but stopped just short — trembling, breath uneven.

“Why did you kill Jung-bae?”

He asked through gritted teeth.

In-ho didn’t flinch.

“I’m sorry for what happened to him,” he said. “But killing me now won’t fix it. Someone else will just take my place. You both need to get out of here — with that baby.”

There was a flicker of desperation in his voice.

Despite everything — the lies, the betrayal, the pain — he was still trying to protect them.

“I swear I’ll explain everything. But please… just do what I’m telling you. Go back. End this. I’ll make sure you both survive.”

Gi-hun scoffed bitterly, shaking his head before storming out of the room — dagger still in hand.

Now only Y/N remained.

She sat frozen in her chair, staring at the man across from her — the man she once gave her heart to.

In-ho slowly rose from the couch and stepped toward her.

But she was faster.

Y/N snatched the second dagger from the table and stood, holding it out toward him.

“Don’t… don’t come closer.”

In-ho froze.

“Don’t you dare come near me,”

She snapped, voice shaking.

“You’re a liar. A killer.”

Those words sliced deeper than any wound.

He had been called that before. Many times.

But coming from her?

It shattered something in him.

“Y/N”

He whispered, taking a step forward.

“Don’t!”

She screamed, stepping back.

“Don’t come any closer or I swear… I’ll kill myself.”

She pressed the dagger to her throat.

In-ho’s heart nearly stopped.

His hands flew up in surrender.

“Okay — okay. I won’t. I promise.”

“Y/N, please… just listen. Just this once.”

His voice cracked, stripped of all command.

He was no longer the Frontman now — he was just In-ho.

A man begging the woman he loved to believe in him one last time.

“I don’t believe you.”

Her voice was a whisper.

“You’re not young-il. You’re not the man I fell in love with.”

The words hit him like a bullet.

He couldn’t speak. Only watched as a tear finally slipped down her cheek.

“Please, Y/N,”

He breathed.

“Don’t say that. I know I’ve done horrible things. I’ve lied. I’ve killed. But my love for you — it was never part of the game. It was pure. It was real. It is real.”

She let out a bitter laugh.

“Pure? Do you even know what that word means?”

She lowered the dagger. Stepped back.

“I loved you. I really did. But now…”

She paused. Her voice cracked.

“If you love me — even a little — you’ll help us. You’ll help us all escape this sick, twisted world of yours.”

The words struck deep.

She threw the dagger to the floor with a sharp clatter.

Then turned.

And without looking back…

She walked away.

⟣ PRESENT ⟢

Y/N trembled with fear, but her grip on the baby girl remained steady as she cradled her tightly against her chest.

Across from her, Gi-hun stood frozen in thought, still lost in everything that had happened — and likely still struggling to accept the impossible truth: Young-il… was the Frontman.

“We can’t stay here forever,”

Gi-hun’s voice suddenly cut through the silence.

“We have to think of something.”

Y/N stepped closer to him, lowering her voice as if afraid someone — or something — might hear.

“Gi-hun…”

She glanced around warily, then met his eyes.

“Maybe… maybe we should wait. What if what In-ho said… what if it’s true?”

Gi-hun stared at her in disbelief.

“What?”

His voice cracked with pain.

“You think that man — the one who killed Jung-bae — will save us?”

The memory of that moment was still fresh in his mind.

The blood. The scream. The mask.

“Do you…”

He paused, his voice thick with emotion.

“Do you still love him, Y/N?”

Her heart stuttered in her chest.

She didn’t know the answer.

She’d spent the whole night convincing herself that In-ho was a monster — a liar, a murderer. But some part of her — the part that remembered whispered promises and warmth in a cold, brutal world — refused to let go.

“I don’t know,”

She whispered, eyes falling to the floor.

“But… I want to believe him.”

She didn’t dare look at Gi-hun after that — afraid of what she might see in his eyes.

Behind the dark glass wall, In-ho stood silently, watching it all unfold alongside the laughing, drunken VIPs. He didn’t need to hear her words to know what she was saying.

And God…

It was already tearing him apart.

His thoughts spun in every direction — calculating, panicking, hoping.

He turned his head slowly toward the VIPs, who were already placing bets and laughing about who would fall first.

His jaw tightened behind the mask.

He was running out of time.

But if there was even a single chance to stop this game — to end all of this — he was going to take it.

Gi-hun ran a hand through his hair, eyes flickering between Y/N and the baby in her arms.

The clock was ticking.

Tension rising.

He turned his gaze toward the last platform — the circle.

There wasn’t much time left.

If they didn’t act soon, all three of them would be eliminated.

“I’ll do it”

Gi-hun said quietly, not looking at her.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then turned to face her.

Stepping closer, he placed his hands gently on her shoulders.

“Y/N…”

His voice was low. Shaky. Thick with emotion.

“This baby — she’s innocent. Jun-hee entrusted her to us. She deserves to live.”

A beat.

“And you…”

He paused, his lips quivering slightly.

“I know you still love him. In-ho. And I don’t blame you.”

“You’re the best person I met here,”

He continued, voice breaking.

“And I know he loves you too. He won’t let you die.”

He tried to smile — a pained, trembling thing — as tears welled in his eyes.

“I have no one left.”

His voice cracked.

“My daughter… she’s safe. She’s happy. That’s enough for me.”

He looked down at the baby nestled in Y/N’s arms and smiled softly.

“I’ll go.”

“You both need to live.”

Y/N’s silent tears streamed down her face as she stepped forward, wrapping her arms tightly around him.

“No… I can’t let you die for us,”

She whispered, shaking her head desperately.

“You can’t just give up your life like this.”

Gi-hun held her close, his own tears falling freely now.

“Someone has to.”

He pulled back gently, brushing a hand over her arm. Then, leaning down, he pressed a soft kiss to the baby’s forehead.

“Keep her safe, Y/N.”

“And take care of yourself, too.”

“I’m sure In-ho will come for you.”

He smiled faintly, then began stepping backward.

One step closer to the edge.

Y/N sobbed, her voice breaking apart as she screamed:

“NO! GIHUN, DON’T!!”

But he didn’t stop.

In-ho watched as Gi-hun stepped backward, inching closer to the edge of the triangle-shaped platform.

He stopped — just a few feet from falling.

This was it.

Now or never.

In-ho’s jaw tightened, fists clenched. His heart was hammering in his chest.

He couldn’t let Gi-hun die.

Not after the promise he made to her.

Behind the glass wall, his eyes stayed locked on Y/N.

She had fallen to her knees, crying, screaming, begging Gi-hun to stop.

The baby lay beside her on the platform — unaware of the nightmare unfolding around her.

In-ho’s chest burned with guilt.

The sight of her like that — broken, helpless — was unbearable.

“Goodbye, Y/N”

Gi-hun whispered, a faint, resigned smile on his lips.

And just as he was about to fall back—

BANG.

A gunshot tore through the silence.

Y/N screamed.

Gi-hun flinched, stumbling forward in shock.

Behind the glass, the room exploded into chaos.

In-ho stood holding a smoking gun — and one of the VIPs lay dead at his feet.

The remaining VIPs froze — stunned, furious, terrified.

“What the fuck did you just do?!”

One of them roared.

In-ho didn’t answer.

He simply raised his gun again, pointing it toward the one who spoke — who immediately backed off in fear.

“This game ends here”

He said, voice thick with rage and barely-contained grief beneath the mask.

He turned to one of the pink guards and gave a sharp nod.

Seconds later, the cold robotic voice echoed through the entire arena:

“The game has been stopped.”

On the platform below, Gi-hun and Y/N stared upward — eyes wide.

They knew.

They knew it was him.

Y/N lowered her head, tears still slipping down her cheeks — but a deep part of her exhaled in relief.

A part of her that knew he would come for her.

That he would keep his promise.

Another VIP stepped forward, but In-ho fired a shot into the ceiling — making him freeze instantly.

“Don’t even think about it.”

“You can’t do this!”

Another VIP spat.

“We fund your games! You exist because of us!”

In-ho stepped forward slowly, like a shadow rising.

“I’m ending this game.”

His voice was cold now. Final.

“And I’m ending you with it.”

The room was suddenly flooded with guards — all pink suits, all armed, their weapons now turned on the VIPs.

In-ho walked toward the exit.

“Boss!”

The black-mask officer called out.

“What do you want us to do with them?”

In-ho didn’t turn around.

Didn’t flinch.

“Kill them all”

He said quietly.

Then walked out of the room.

Gunshots echoed in the distance as In-ho stormed through the corridors, heading straight for the game arena.

His mind raced. His grip tightened on the gun still warm in his hand.

A pink-suited guard came running from the control room, nearly stumbling as he approached.

“Sir!”

In-ho stopped and turned toward him. “What is it?”

“We’ve got a problem. Coastal guards — they’re headed this way. We believe they’ve located the island.”

In-ho’s expression remained calm behind the mask, but inside, he knew this day would come.

His brother. Jun-ho.

He always knew he’d find him eventually.

In-ho followed the guard into the control room. A monitor flickered, showing the coordinates and proximity of the coastal ships — closer than ever.

Without hesitation, In-ho crossed to a locked panel on the wall.

He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the hidden compartment.

Inside: a single red button.

He didn't hesitate even for a second — then pressed it.

A piercing siren blared, echoing across the island.

“We’re leaving”

In-ho commanded, his voice like steel.

Guards scattered into motion around him, collecting hard drives, burning papers — prepping the evacuation.

On the Platform…

Gi-hun and Y/N looked up in alarm as the siren wailed through the sky.

“What… what is that?”

Y/N asked, her voice trembling.

Was In-ho behind this?

What was he planning?

Or worse… had he changed his mind again?

Gi-hun rushed to her side, knelt down, scooping the baby girl into his arms and wrapping his free arm around Y/N’s shoulder.

“Stay close,”

He whispered.

“Whatever’s coming… I’ve got you both.”

Suddenly, with a mechanical hiss, the center of the triangular platform began to open — revealing a hidden lift.

Both Y/N and Gi-hun stumbled back, stunned.

The platform rose again…

And there he was.

In-ho. Standing in his usual frontman dress. Mask still on.

“You… what the hell are you doing?!”

Gi-hun shouted, stepping forward as he carefully laid the baby back down.

“What’s going on?!”

Y/N froze, staring at In-ho — her chest rising and falling fast.

She wanted to scream, but something about his eyes beneath the mask told her… he hadn’t given up.

“I’m keeping my promise,”

In-ho said quietly as he stepped forward.

“There’s no time to explain. We have to move. Now.”

“This siren — what does it mean?”

Y/N demanded, her voice cracking between rage and fear.

In-ho knelt beside her, took off his mask and gently lifted the baby into his arms.

Gi-hun made a move, but Y/N’s small shake of her head stopped him.

In-ho looked down at the baby, his expressions changed just for a second. Maybe the memories of his unborn child hit him. He quickly composed himself then looked up at her.

“The island is rigged to explode. We don’t have much time.”

A beat.

“Y/N, please… just trust me. I’ll explain everything later. But if we don’t leave now, none of us make it out.”

Gi-hun took the baby from In-ho and gave Y/N a solemn nod.

“He’s right. Let’s go.”

Y/N stood, still glaring at In-ho.

He reached out a hand to help her up.

But she ignored it. As she was still angry at him. She stood on her own — proud, guarded.

In-ho lowered his hand and curled it into a tight fist, but said nothing.

He led them both out of the arena, through a hidden back corridor.

A hidden dock. A ship waiting.

The guards had already boarded the other escape vessels, leaving behind only the sound of alarms and the ticking clock of destruction.

Gi-hun boarded with the baby, Y/N right behind him.

In-ho hesitated, turning for one last look at the island.

And then he stepped aboard.

Moments later, the engines roared to life, and the ship sped away from the shore.

As they sailed into the horizon, a massive explosion lit up the sky behind them — the island engulfed in flames.

It was over.

✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦

The sky was dark, moonlight hidden behind drifting clouds.

The steady sound of waves filled the air as the ship cut through the black ocean, heading toward the nearest safe dock.

Inside a quiet room below deck, Y/N gently rocked the baby girl in her arms — her tiny eyes fluttering closed, unaware of the world she’d survived.

Meanwhile, up on the deck, Gi-hun stood at the railing, staring blankly into the ocean, lost in thought.

Footsteps approached.

In-ho came to stand beside him, silent for a moment. Then he held out two small bottles of soju.

“You remember?” he said softly.

“We promised we’d drink soju together… once we made it out alive.”

Gi-hun didn’t even glance at him.

He let out a dry, bitter scoff and shook his head.

“I made that promise to young-il.”

In-ho lowered his head, guilt crashing over him like the waves below.

“I know,” he said quietly.

“And I know you hate me for everything I’ve done. You have every right to.”

He looked over at Gi-hun, whose eyes stayed locked on the horizon — silent, hard, unreadable.

“But let me fix things now. Whatever I can. I did… horrible things. I thought humanity was dead. But you—”

In-ho swallowed hard, voice thick.

“You proved me wrong.”

Gi-hun finally turned his head, surprised.

“You were going to give up your life… just to save Y/N. And that baby. You showed me… there are still good people left in this world.”

The man who once orchestrated death games… now standing beside him, confessing his defeat?

Gi-hun didn’t know how to respond.

Not fully.

But after a long pause, he reached out — and without looking — took one of the soju bottles from In-ho’s hand.

“Finally,” he muttered under his breath.

He opened the bottle, still not meeting In-ho’s eyes.

But that single action said enough.

In-ho smiled faintly.

He didn’t speak again. He knew forgiveness wouldn’t come easy.

But maybe, just maybe…

This was the first step.

Y/N gently laid the baby down on the bed, her hands lingering on the blanket.

She leaned back against the headboard, eyes fluttering closed.

Click.

The door creaked open.

She sat up instantly.

In-ho stepped in and quietly shut the door behind him.

“Can we talk?”

His voice was low. Hesitant. Not the voice of the Frontman. Just… his.

Y/N didn’t turn to face him.

“There’s nothing to talk about” she said, rising from the bed.

She turned her back to him — because she knew the moment she looked into his eyes, she’d lose all her resolve.

In-ho walked toward her slowly until he stood just a few steps away.

“Y/N…” he breathed.

“I know you hate me. And I deserve that. But…”

His voice cracked.

“Please believe me — loving you was never part of the game. I lied, yes. I did unforgivable things. But you— You were the only truth in all of it.”

His eyes shimmered. His voice, shaking.

Y/N turned sharply and stepped toward him, rage flooding through her chest.

She grabbed his collar with trembling hands.

“How dare you.”

Tears spilled from her eyes now — raw, broken, endless.

“You LIED to me. You faked your death. Do you even understand what that did to me?”

“I wanted to die. Because in a world where you didn’t exist — what was the fucking point of living?”

In-ho’s eyes dropped to the floor.

Her words shattered him.

And then — he fell.

Dropped to his knees.

Like a broken man — like a boy who lost everything.

He wrapped his arms around her legs, clinging to her like a lifeline.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry I made you feel that way…”

His voice was barely a whisper, thick with the weight of every buried emotion he’d ever carried — ones he’d never shown the world… except to her.

Y/N stood frozen — watching him.

The Frontman. The cold-blooded man behind the mask.

Now crying like a child at her feet.

She slowly knelt down, trembling, and gently cupped his face in her palms.

She wiped his tears away with her thumbs.

“I… I want to forgive you,” she whispered.

“But I can’t. Not after everything you did — to me, to us.”

In-ho’s heart lurched. His breath caught. Was this it? Was this the end?

“No” he whispered urgently, cupping her face.

He pressed his forehead to hers.

“Don’t say that. You don’t mean it. I know you don’t. Please — just one chance. Let me prove I’ve changed. Let me be better.”

He pulled back, searching her eyes for anything — a flicker of hope, the softness she used to show him.

But all he saw was pain.

So much pain.

She didn’t answer. She just shook her head.

And something inside him broke.

“Y/N, please…”

His voice cracked under the weight of desperation.

His hands trembled.

“I’ll protect you both — you and the baby. I’ll take you far away from this hell. I’ll keep you safe. Just… please don’t leave me like this. Please—”

He was spiraling — voice unraveling, panic rising.

She slowly stood up.

Took a single step back.

And that was enough.

“It’s over, In-ho.”

⋆｡°✩ 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑 ✩°｡⋆

The house smelled of warm vanilla and sugar. Y/N had just finished baking Yu-ri’s favorite cookies.

Yu-ri — that was the name she’d given Junhee’s daughter. Now one year old, chubby-cheeked, bright-eyed… the spitting image of her mother.

Tiny footsteps pattered into the kitchen.

“Mama.”

Y/N turned with a soft smile. Yu-ri stood there, rubbing her sleepy eyes with her tiny fists. She was still half-asleep, but hearing her voice always filled Y/N’s chest with a bittersweet ache.

She knelt, scooping her up into her arms and kissing her temple.

“Did you sleep well, sweetheart?”

Yu-ri gave a slow nod, wrapping her small arms around Y/N’s neck.

Just then, her phone rang from the living room. Y/N’s face lit up when she saw the caller ID.

Gihun.

She pressed the green button, settled on the couch, and gently placed Yu-ri in her lap.

“Hey! Gihun. How are you?”

“I’m good. What about you? And how’s the little queen?”

“She just woke up. Moody as always”

Y/N laughed, just as Yu-ri peeked into the camera and babbled: “Un..cle!”

Gihun chuckled, but his eyes glistened with tears.

“She looks… just like Junhee,”

He said softly, and a flicker of pain crossed his face.

Sensing the shift in mood, Y/N tried to steer the conversation gently.

“So? Adjusted to American life yet?”

Gihun had moved to the U.S. a year ago to be closer to his daughter — trying to start fresh, to live differently.

“Yeah. You could say I’m figuring it out.”

Then, a pause.

“Y/N… Inho called me last night.”

Her smile faded.

Inho. The man she had once loved. The man who had broken her.

The memories crashed into her like a wave — the betrayal, the lies, the pain… and somehow, still, the love.

“I forgave him,” Gihun said gently.

“He’s changed, Y/N. And I hope, someday, you’ll be able to forgive him too.”

Before she could respond, the front door creaked open.

“I’ll call you later, Gihun.” She ended the call and placed the phone aside.

“I’m home!”

A familiar voice called.

Yu-ri’s entire face lit up.

“Appa! Appa!!”

She scrambled off the couch and ran to the door.

Inho walked in, catching her in his arms instantly.

“Aww, appa’s little princess” He whispered, kissing the top of her head.

“Can appa get a kiss too?”

Yu-ri giggled and gave him a sloppy kiss on the cheek, making him laugh.

He stepped into the living room, holding her, and Y/N stood nearby — a plate of warm cookies in her hand.

“Yu-ri, come baby. Let’s eat.”

Yu-ri gasped excitedly, “Yayyy!” and reached for the cookies.

Inho gently set her down, and she happily took a big bite.

Y/N turned to head back into the kitchen—

But Inho caught her wrist.

She turned to him.

He dropped down on one knee.

A small red velvet box in his hand.

Y/N’s heart stopped.

“I know you weren’t expecting this”

Inho began, his voice trembling.

“And I know you haven’t fully forgiven me. But it’s been a year… and I’m so thankful you decided to give me a second chance that night”

“Today, I want to make it official. I want to be a father to Yu-ri. I want to be yours — forever.”

“Y/N"

"Will you marry me?”

Tears welled in her eyes.

Could this really be happening?

The memories of the games, the horror, the heartbreak… it all came crashing back — but so did every moment of change, of healing, of the quiet love that had grown again.

She nodded slowly, her voice breaking:

“Yes.”

Inho’s eyes widened, stunned.

“I forgave you, Inho. I just never said it. You’ve changed — and you’ve proven it.”

“But promise me… you’ll never go back to who you were.”

He stood, pulling her into his arms.

“I swear. I’ll spend the rest of my life giving you both the happiness you deserve.”

He slid the ring onto her finger.

They both smiled through their tears.

And then he leaned in and kissed her — a soft, emotional kiss filled with everything they couldn’t say. Y/N wrapped her arms around his neck, returning it with just as much love.

“Oooo…”

Yu-ri’s curious voice made them break the kiss and laugh.

Inho picked her up again and tickled her until she squealed with joy.

Y/N grabbed her phone with a grin.

“Time to tell someone the news.”

She video-called Gihun.

“What happened? You ended the call so suddenly earlier—”

She raised her hand.

The ring sparkled on her finger.

Inho stepped in, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

“WHAT? He proposed to you?!”

Gihun’s jaw dropped.

“Damn! I’m so happy for you both,”

He said, his voice cracking, eyes glassy.

“We have decided to officially make Yu-ri our daughter” Inho added.

Gihun nodded in approval.

“After everything… you two deserve this. A real, peaceful life.”

“Finally,”

He smiled.

“A happy ending.”

Y/N and Inho echoed together:

“Yes"

"Happily ever after.”

[bi-writes]

hi! i was thinking if you could write an older!boyfriend simon x reader BUT reader is john price's daughter so is kinda of a forbidden and secret relationship !!!! they've been dating for a long time now until john finds out !!!!!

18+

"how is she?"

"doing well, john. but you don't have to worry about her anymore, you know that right? she's not yours to worry about."

"she is mine. i know she's not..." john huffs. "she may not be blood, but she's mine, yeah? so when i ask 'ow she is, you tell me, kate. can we agree on that?"

"sure, john. she's in georgia. her russian got very good. if you want to know my honest opinion, i think she'll be one of my best."

"well...i wouldn't stand for anythin' less."

"john?"

that voice is music to him. he turns, taking his hat off, and he laughs, genuinely, when he sees you. his whole face lights up, and you make your way to him. it's been months since you've seen him in person--even though he makes you send him constant updates about what you're doing and where you are, you find yourself missing this man and the warmth he gives off whenever you are in his proximity.

he's always looked at you so kindly. he's always taken care of you. whenever you pick up the phone, he's always answered.

"'ello, bug."

he crushes you in a warm hug. he puts a hand on the back of your neck and holds you to his chest, and the tension in his shoulders deflates now that he has you with him.

"hi, john. miss me?"

"well...you were the only one with sense in my house."

"you live alone, john."

"aye."

he pours you a hot cup of tea before he makes you tell him all about your new posting. most of it is classified, and you tell him that, but his face lights up when you talk about the new skills you're learning and all the opportunities that kate is giving you. his face scrunches a little when you talk about the more dangerous ops, but john never has the same regard for his own life.

the mess hall gets busy once dinner time rolls around. his men were not expecting you, and that much is clear when they see their captain even enjoying a meal in public and not secluded in his office. you smile at his sergeants, but when your gaze lingers a little longer on the doors, johnny just nudges you with his elbow.

"miss the big guy?"

"what? no."

"he had a long night last night," he wiggles his eyebrows at gaz, who just laughs a little. "i might need to try the whole brooding, scary look LT has got on. attracts the most bonnie things, fuckin' christ."

your plate flies when you stab at your food too hard. the cutlery clatters as it hits the floor, and you jump a little, swallowing.

"are you alright, bug?"

"huh? yeah, oh...yeah, just...fucking clumsy. i...i'm gonna...find the toilet."

the blood is rushing in your ears as you make your way out. you're vibrating, hot inside, and you feel him before you see him, even in your anger.

when he pulls you into the shadow of a nearby supply closet, you swipe the blade out of your boot and hold it up against his throat. even through the mask, the blade bites, and he hisses as you hold him up against the wall there.

"don't fucking touch me," you snarl, and ghost's eyes are bright and alive as he holds his hands up defensively.

"wot--"

"and don't what me," you snap. "actually, don't fucking talk at all, you cheating, manipulative, british piece of shit--"

"look so pretty," he murmurs, tilting his head to the side. "did you do y'r hair, baby?"

"i will kill you."

"'s olright. last thing i see'll be you."

"i'm not fucking kidding, simon!"

he bends a little, tilting his head, and you breathe out through your nose as he leans his forehead against yours.

"reckon ya spoke t'johnny."

you scoff. "told me all about your winnings last night, lieutenant."

"was no winnings, love, don't be so fuckin' naïve." simon swipes at the handle of the blade, curling his gloved fingers around your wrist and forcing it away from him. "y'r just mad cause y'r cunt missed me."

"don't flatter yourself, asshole."

"so if i pull your knickers down right now, y'won't be drippin', swee'eart?"

"that's irrelevant."

"'s not. turn around and bend over."

simon's sorry, so he eats your pussy from behind. he gets down on his knees, and the crack of them satisfies you immensely, up until you feel his mouth between your cheeks, tongue slicking up your folds. you brace yourself against the wall, palms flat against the concrete as he puts two gloved hands against your ass and spreads you wide to fit himself nicely there. he hums, groans, makes you whine as he slurps obscenely into your cunt, laving at the drip of you until the taste of you floods his mouth.

"simon..." you whimper. "tell me i-it's not true."

he presses a wet kiss to your ass, biting it firm.

"'s not true, love. promise."

"fuck your promises," you sniffle. "you're a professional liar."

"tha' 'ow it's gonna be, innit? not gonna trust me? believe me?"

you rest your forehead against the cool wall, and the shadow of him envelopes you when he stands. he grunts a little as he gets to his feet. his big hands squeeze at the curve of your waist, and you close your eyes when you feel his breath against your neck.

"i'm sorry, simon."

"for wot?"

"i just...i like you so much. so much."

"come 'ere," he murmurs in your ear. he pulls your hips back, pressing your ass against his pelvis, and you dig your nails into the wall when you hear his belt buckle and zipper. "my pretty girl. my pretty, pretty girl."

"i missed you s-so much, simon."

"i know, love. quiet now. someone'll hear."

it's not the worst place you've fucked. you've snuck quickies in the rec room. behind the mess hall. met up in filthy gas station toilets, fallen into the backseat of a car in the parking lot of numerous military bases. even once, you deigned to suck his dick in his office, and you had to hide behind his couch when john came in to ask about an op.

john had a rule. his men were off-limits. he should've thought about that before he hired a man straight out of your wet dreams for his stupid fucking task force.

you're weak. and simon is a man.

inevitable.

you're a mile into pound-town when someone interrupts. simon is cock-deep inside of you, pelvis up against your ass, one hand braced around your throat and the other squeezing your ass. your eyes are rolled back into your head, and there's drooling coming out of your mouth. it's hot, disgusting, filthy to let him have you like this, but it's been weeks since you've seen him, and the phone calls aren't enough.

you love talking to him. you love when he talks to you. he'll never be annoying to you, you'll never get tired of him, but the distances hurts. you want simon to be all around you--inside of you, against you, his voice in your ear and his mouth against yours and his warmth your only sheet, but you can't bring yourself to do more than this.

you're too afraid of disappointing people. you're too scared of simon's rejection. if your relationship is nothing but fun, nothing but sex, you can pretend it isn't real, but you're just lying to yourself now.

you babble, and it sounds like love, but then the hallway light blinds you, and familiar blue eyes nearly kill you.

"jesus christ!"

simon puts his body in front of yours to cover you, using a harsh boot to kick the door closed. you squeak, covering your face with your hands, and you groan audibly as simon pants against your back.

"fuck--" you gasp. "oh...fuck, fuck, fuck!"

simon buries his face into the crook of your neck, laughing a little.

"bloody hell," he breathes. "reckon we're fucked, huh, love?"

"it's not funny, simon! we're in so much trouble!"

"well..." he squeezes your throat gently, tilting your head back. "could still finish. no sense in pretendin' now."

"you are not going to come when he's probably waiting for us outside."

"i'm balls deep in my favorite girl," simon mutters. "could come just fine. just say the word."

"you're disgusting."

"mmm..." simon squeezes your hips. "keep talkin'. i like when y'talk t'me like tha'."

"fucking asshole."

"yeah...yeah."

"you stupid, immature, unhinged pain in my ass--"

"fuck."

well.

you're definitely never leaving this room.

[heedeungism]

𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 | 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨.

•°. *࿐ PAIRING ― riki nishimura x fem!reader •°. *࿐ SYNOPSIS ― in which riki is smitten with you and your sharp tongue. •°. *࿐ GENRE ― one-shot, ????-to-lovers, fake dating, angst, fluff, crack, rich kid au, highschool lacrosse au •°. *࿐ WORD COUNT ― 22k •°. *࿐ CONTENT WARNING(S) ― violence(one fight) and threats of it, lots of tension, mc is a horndog what's new, i meant to make this slow like the first part but im a weak woman, weed, mc is her own worst enemy, mc is stupid before she is smart <3, attempted unwanted touching, riki is the jealous type but in a green flag way, don’t ask where the teachers are, riki has bigger hands than mc, kissing(many a time), once i got the angst out of the way it turned into crack js •°. *࿐ EXTRA NOTES ― thank you all for being so kind and giving me such helpful feedback and love! shoutout to my hg @1ntaks for once again holding my hand and basically beta reading this for me, you're the best queen. •°. *࿐ SOUNDTRACK ― busy woman by sabrina carpenter, don’t smile by sabrina carpenter, big girls don’t cry by fergie, better than me by doja cat, diet pepsi by addison rae, what a girl wants by christina aguilera, positions by ariana grande, he could be the one by hannah montana, bmf by sza

part one.

AT THE BEGINNING OF FEBRUARY you realized how easy it was to get over Eunseok at the same moment that it sinks in that you can’t get over Riki.

Maybe it's the fact that he’s still friendly despite the ‘breakup’, or that he still makes sweet comments that feel too genuine to be taken as flirting anymore. He hasn’t changed much of his behavior at all since the end of January, actually.

The news of the short-lived relationship spread around school. Though it was clear that you both were still friends, most of the rumors were dispelled. However, some were still infuriatingly present.

Now, you’re not the type of person who gives a shit about what other people think of you—especially not a bunch of pubescent teenagers with so little going on in their own lives that they find entertainment in yours. But your patience is wearing thin. If you hear another freshman whisper about you not being over your cheating ex, you are going to go insane. (Despite your reputation, you are above throwing hands with 14 year-olds.)

“So you want something like this, right?” Julie taps on her phone screen from across from you, showing the nail inspiration photo you had sent her just last week. When you only nod, she tilts her head with a curious raise of her brows, “We can do something different, hon’.”

Quickly, you shake your head and straighten your posture in the chair across from her, “No, sorry. I just—I’m just thinking about shit. I still want a set like that.” You force a soft laugh, and she nods with a soft ‘okay’.

“So? Anything new?” She asks with a pretty smile as she plugs in her nail drill and turns on the dust collector.

You lay your hands onto the rest between the two of you, humming and then sighing, “I’m still single.”

Julie begins working at removing her work from three weeks ago with the drill, though the pink mask keeping her from inhaling the dust doesn’t hide her face of baffled confusion, “I thought you were dating that lacrosse guy, though.”

The sound of the drill and fan are like white noise to the both of you as you sigh and drop your head forward, “Didn’t work out.”

Julie gasps softly, clearly upset for you, “What’d he do?”

While you love that her first instinct was to ask what he did and not what you did, the latter is more fitting for the situation. “He was too perfect and I got scared?” You admit softly with a guilty shrug.

Julie pauses in her work and deadpans at you, “Ho.”

“I know!” You whine softly as she resumes, using your free hand to grab the chilled can of Dr Pepper she’d grabbed for you before your appointment started, sipping from the pink straw before you continue to whine, “I fucked up.”

“I never got to see a photo last time, either.” Julie recalls as she progresses to removing the hard-gel off your other hand, “You hadn’t picked anyone for your little plan, yet.”

Julie knowing about your genius plan to ruin Eunseok and Nayeon’s day, everyday, with your tall, hot, and sweet ‘boyfriend’ was inevitable. She had dropped the traitorous bitch as a client the moment you and Belle told her about it, equally as disgusted by Nayeon as the both of you. Not to mention, Belle always yapped her pretty head off during her appointments, so as previously stated, it was inevitable.

“You’re gonna hate me,” You say, grabbing your phone with your now dusty and bare fingers to quickly tap to a photo of Riki that Jake had sent you. He’s got his helmet tucked under his arm and seemed to be captured in a heated argument with another boy on the team. The first thing you noticed was his hands, though.

When she pauses to look at your screen, she looks at you again and sighs like a disappointed mother, shaking her head and turning the drill back on. You whine, “Don’t sigh at me, I’m in mourning.”

“I thought you said you weren’t worried about catching feelings.” She reminds you, and you roll your eyes.

“Bitch, look at him.” You sass, picking up your phone to show the still-lit screen before placing it facedown in your lap again, “and he was just so—sweet. And he liked when I was mean to him.”

“As he should.”

“—and his smile made me want to stick my head in an oven Sylvia Plath style.” You say with a soft pout on your lips, “It was so much so suddenly, and I freaked out.”

Julie turns off the drill and grabs the brush to clean off the dust from your hands as she nods slightly to what you’re saying, “And Eunseok was so recent.”

“—And Eunseok was so recent!” You repeat in vehement agreement, groaning up at the ceiling as you slump slightly, “Why do boys ruin everything?”

You spend the next few hours of your nail appointment ranting about everything. Riki, your ex, your ex best friend, your dad (who had texted you a long message after you left him that you promptly responded to with a ‘that doesn’t look like an apology so im not reading that’).

mommy dearest 🩷: can you pick up some groceries for me? just a few things

The text from your mom as you swipe your card on Julie’s reader is paired with a chime you recognize as your bank app. Your new nails tap on your screen as you open the notification, grinning at the sight of a hefty transfer of funds into your account. 

The small list your mother sends doesn’t come close to costing the amount she sent you to pay for it, so you decide to stop at Sephora while you’re out too.

You choose the highest percentage to tip and sign her phone screen with your knuckle before bidding her a happy farewell and exiting the salon. The drive to the strip center is barely ten minutes long, your BMW filled with Christina Aguilera and the trip slightly delayed by your admiration of your new nails at every red light. 

When you get into the Sephora, which you decided to visit first since your mom’s list included produce, you b-line to the skincare section. 

You’re debating between oil cleansers when you’re tapped on the shoulder. 

The woman before you looks around your mother’s age, a bit shorter than you but with a beautiful smile on her face. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but are you Y/n?”

You blink, caught off guard, but nod.

Her grin widens. “I’m Riki’s mom!”

Your stomach drops. Every instinct screams at you to panic, but instead, you paint a pretty smile on your face, the kind your mother taught you to perfect at charity galas. “Oh my god, hi!”

Before you can react, she pulls you into a hug, warm and tight, smelling faintly of lavender and vanilla. You reciprocate, though your arms are stiff and hesitant.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” she gushes, pulling back to hold you at arm’s length. Her eyes, as sharp and bright as Riki’s, scan you with something between approval and curiosity. “You’re just as lovely as he said.”

“Thank you,” you manage, your voice light despite the whirlwind in your chest at the sudden and  information that Riki talks about you at home. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

“I can’t believe I ran into you like this!” she says, her excitement bubbling over. “You’re like a doll, honey. The photos he’s shown me don’t do you justice.”

Your brain short-circuits at the word photos. Plural.

“Oh?” you manage, keeping your smile intact even as your heart feels like it’s trying to escape the confines of your chest.

“Of course! He’s always talking about you,” she continues, as if she didn’t just drop a bomb on you in the middle of Sephora. “He showed me the cutest one of you two at the bowling alley—said it was his favorite night in a long time.”

Your breath catches, but you quickly cover it with a soft laugh, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “That’s so sweet of him.”

“It is, isn’t it?” She beams like she’s talking about a national treasure instead of her son. “He’s always been so shy when it comes to girls, but with you, it’s different. I can tell you mean a lot to him.”

The words land like a stone in your chest, heavy and impossible to ignore. You can’t tell if she’s trying to hint at something or if she’s just being a proud mom, but either way, you suddenly feel very out of your depth.

“That’s nice to hear,” you say lightly, though your throat feels tight. “He’s a great guy.”

She places a hand on your arm, her touch gentle but firm. “You’re good for him, you know. He’s happier these days, more confident.”

Your mind flashes to Riki’s easy smiles, the way he leans into you during conversations, the soft look in his eyes when he thinks you’re not paying attention. You swallow hard.

“Thank you, Mrs. Nishimura,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel . “That really means a lot.”

Her smile softens, and she gives your arm a little squeeze. “Oh, call me Rin, honey. And if you ever want to come over for dinner, just let me know. I’d love to have you.”

“Dinner sounds lovely,” you say with a polite smile, already running on autopilot. “I’ll have to check with Riki, but I’m sure he’d love that too.”

“Oh, good! I’ll talk to him about it tonight,” Rin says brightly, her excitement only adding to the internal chaos brewing in your chest. “You two are so sweet together—I can’t believe he didn’t tell me you were this gorgeous in person.”

You blink, momentarily stunned, and force out a soft laugh. “That’s really kind of you to say.”

“I mean it.” She gives you an approving once-over before leaning in conspiratorially. “You know, he’s usually so tight-lipped about his personal life. I had to drag it out of him that you two were dating in the first place.”

The air leaves your lungs like you’ve been punched. He hadn’t told her.

“He—uh—didn’t mention that we’re…” you start, the words catching in your throat.

“Together?” she finishes for you with a knowing smile. “Oh, don’t worry. I won’t embarrass him too much about it. I just want him to be happy, and it’s so obvious you make him happy.”

You feel your face flush, your carefully constructed composure threatening to crack. But instead of correcting her, you nod, your smile tighter now. “That’s really sweet of you to say.”

She reaches out and pats your arm warmly. “It was so nice meeting you, sweetheart. I’ll let you get back to your shopping. Tell Riki I said hi, okay?”

“I will,” you promise, your voice light despite the storm in your head.

As soon as she disappears down another aisle, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Reaching for the oil cleansers again, you try to steady yourself, replaying her words over and over.

He didn’t tell her.

A part of you is…warm with the information. The other part wants to puke your guts out. 

You stare blankly at the oil cleansers in front of you, your grip tightening around the bottle in your hand. The woman’s words replay in your mind like a broken record, each one sharper than the last.

“He’s happier these days, more confident.”

“It’s so obvious you make him happy.”

“He didn’t tell me you were this gorgeous in person.”

Your chest tightens, a mix of guilt and something softer—but no less overwhelming—clawing its way up your throat. The whole point of fake dating was to not make things messy. Yet here you are, feeling like a lead character in a rom-com whose life is falling apart. Right now would be an amazing time for Matthew McConaughey to come out and sweep you off your feet. 

(You realize with borderline humiliating speed that you would much prefer if Riki swept you off your feet. Seriously, there must be something wrong with you.)

The bottle trembles slightly in your hand, and you force yourself to set it back on the shelf with a shaky exhale. You’re not the kind of girl who lets this sort of thing get to her. You’re confident, decisive, in control. Except when it comes to him.

The thought makes you pause, your fingers brushing absently over your nails as the memory of his smile creeps in—the one he reserved just for you, warm and easy and dangerous.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath, grabbing the Sulwhasoo cleanser you were debating spending so much on and beginning to mindlessly fill the black Sephora tote as you walk through the aisles. Real therapy has nothing on retail therapy considering you know what your problems are and how to fix them. Paying someone to tell you those things seems counterproductive when you can make yourself feel better by treating yourself.

By all accounts, it’s been a good day for you. Getting out of the school parking lot was exceptionally easy despite the traffic you encounter more often than not. You got your nails done and love how they turned out. You’re currently splurging at Sephora. And now you have reason to believe Riki doesn’t secretly hate you for breaking his heart.

riki 🙈: just got out of practice

riki 🙈: are you coming to the game tomorrow?

You look at your phone as you tap your card on the reader and accept the large black and white striped bag from the girl at the counter.  Thanking her with a smile before beginning to make your way out to your car again. When you settle into the driver’s seat, the heat turns on as you place the bag into the passenger seat.

Your thumbs hover over the keyboard, nails tapping against your case as your phone automatically hooks up to the bluetooth, ‘After Hours’ by The Weeknd beginning to play. “Oh, shut up.” You sigh as you pause the music and finally muster up the right response.

pretty girl 🪩: depends on how nice you are to me tomorrow

riki 🙈: i’ll bring you a gift rn

pretty girl 🪩: im not home

As soon as the text is marked as Read, your screen is replaced by his caller ID, a photo of him at age ten in a Michael Jackson costume lighting up your screen. You can’t help but chuckle before pressing the green button, reaching to turn the volume up as you ask with a playfully suspicious tone, “Can I help you?”

“Mhm, where are you?” His deep voice and hum makes you bite your fist.

You begin pulling out of the parking lot to make it across the street to the grocery store, “Getting groceries, why?”

“I wanna see you.” 

Lord have mercy—

“You sure you don’t just miss Gus?“ You hesitate to mention the revelations made by his very kind mother in Sephora, but decide to hold off.

“Oh, I do miss Gus, but I miss his mom more.”

Oh, you hate the soft laughter that leaves your mouth the moment you hear it, “I won’t be long at the store, it’s just a few things.”

There’s a shuffle on the other side, then he says, “What store?”

“Riki, it’s literally like four things.” You laugh at his shameless eagerness, “I’ll text you when I’m home.”

He chuckles softly before humming again, “Okay, bye pretty.”

“Bye.” A beat passes and ‘What a Girl Wants’ by Christina Aguilera blares through the speakers so loud you jump, “Jesus Christ.”

By the time you pull into the grocery store parking lot, you’ve replayed his voice in your head at least five times. I wanna see you. It wasn’t just what he said, but the way he said it—soft, easy, like he wasn’t asking for anything out of the ordinary. Like it was natural for him to want to be around you, and for you to want the same. You’re...friends. 

You curse the thought away as you grab your keys and step into the cold evening air, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder. You don’t need to be thinking about Riki Nishimura and his stupid, perfect face and voice the whole time.

The grocery run is quick—milk, eggs, a few vegetables, and a bag of Gus’s favorite treats because you can’t resist—and you’re back in your car in record time. You text Riki that you're on the way home and find yourself smiling when he loves the message. It drops a second later when you realize what you’re doing and curse again, tossing your phone into the cup holder like it’s on fire and covering your face to self-reflect.

When you pull into the driveway of your home, it isn’t hard to spot Riki’s black Jeep parked at the curb. What is hard is hiding the grin that forms on your lips as you park your car and get out to grab the groceries in your trunk. The lacrosse player is already exiting his own vehicle and jogging over to help you.

“You didn’t have to come,” you say as he reaches for the bag of vegetables in your hands, but there’s no bite to your words.

“You said you’d text me when you were home,” he replies, his voice light and teasing as he takes the other bags with ease. “I figured I’d save you the trouble.”

You shake your head, grabbing your Sephora bag and locking your car. “So damn impatient.”

“Only when it comes to you.” His response is so casual, so effortless, it knocks the air from your lungs. You glance at him, but he’s already halfway up the path, waiting for you at the door like he hadn’t just said something that made your knees weak.

When you catch up, you unlock the door with the code and nudge it open with your foot, paising once you’re inside to shut it behind him. You kick off your shoes and pass Riki to get to the kitchen, placing your Sephora bag on one of the island’s chairs and watching him place the few grocery bags on the counter. 

“Gus~” You call out as you begin to unpack the paper bags, and there’s a soft warbled meow in response in the direction of your room. The plump tuxedo cat appears around the corner, rubbing his body against the wall with another soft cry for attention that has Riki cooing and lowering himself to the ground to oblige him.

Once you’ve got groceries put away, you watch the 6’ something lacrosse player pet your cat with gentle scratches under his chin that he leans into with slow blinks, “Are you happy?”

Your softly giggled question has Riki smiling up at you, “So happy.”

With a soft huff of amusement, you grab your Sephora bag and walk in the direction of your room, choosing not to glance behind you to see if he’s following. Just act natural, bitch.

You leave your door open as you enter your room, thanking the lord that the cleaning lady had visited while you were out and your room isn’t as dirty as you left it this morning. Walking into your bathroom to start putting away your new skincare, you ignore the sound of him entering your room. 

“You have a lot of perfume.” You hear him comment, glancing over your shoulder to see him admiring the organized collection on your open vanity.

“Yeah, I...have a problem” You say with a soft laugh of slight embarrassment at your habit of buying yourself anything pretty or relatively cutesy. “I have more in my closet.”

Riki whistles lowly, seemingly a bit impressed, “Which one’s your favorite?”

With a hum of thought, you step out of your bathroom to walk to your closet. You don’t mind the open door as you enter, reaching the island in the center working double as storage and where you keep your perfumes. Riki follows just to the doorway, leaning against it as his eyes move from you to the expanse of your walk-in closet. The floor-to-ceiling shelves in the back displaying heels and boots of different luxury brands, the pretty runner rug beneath your feet, it all screams you.

You’re plucking your favorite bottle from the display when his eyes land on the corner of something flat and white hidden behind a woven hamper. The easy smile on your face drops the moment you see him pull it out from its hiding spot, a boyish grin on his face. “You sneaky fuck.” 

He laughs at your immediate cursing, holding the white board out of your reach as you hasten towards him to take it from him, “Pros and Cons?”

“Oh my god.” You give up on taking it from him, hands moving to try and cover his eyes, “Riki!”

“It’s about me, pretty girl.” he argues playfully, still laughing while trying to dodge your hands, “C’mon, just a peek!”

“Boys aren’t allowed to peek—Riki!” You fight laughter as his arm hooks around your head, his hand covering your face as he begins to read out the words you wish you had erased when you had the chance.

“‘Nickname kinda dumb’, you think my nicknames dumb?” He asks in an offended tone, laughter seeping into his words.

“That wasn’t me, that was Jongseob—“

“Cut his hair—Why is cutting my hair a con?” He asks incredulously, finally letting you push his hand away from your face to look down at you. Your back is still half-pressed to his chest, and the moment you can look up at him your heart skips like it’s playing hopscotch in your chest.

You catch the glance his eyes take down below your nose and find yourself pulling away quickly, grabbing the whiteboard from him to haphazardly use your sleeve to wipe the marker off, ignoring his laughed ‘hey!’ and sighing in relief when you erase enough for the rest of its contents to look like random pink lines across its surface.

When you spin around with a playfully pointed finger to curse him out, your words catch in your throat at the look in his eyes. 

How a look could be both heavy and so soft, you do not know, but it's the best way you can describe Riki’s gaze.

“Wh—“ You stammer with hesitation, face heating up as his soft smile turns into a smirk of amusement, “Stop looking at me like that.”

“How am I looking at you?” He questions in a light tone, almost soft. If you didn’t know better you’d think him genuine in his innocence, but the slight twitch of the corner of his lips and the way his eyes flit to yours gives it away.

“Riki.”

His name leaving your lips draws his gaze away from them, and his smirk turns into one more wry. “I left your gift in my car.” 

Your chest clenches painfully as he turns to exit your closet, your lips parting yet no words leaving them as he walks out. You follow after him, abandoning your perfume on the closest surface, “Riki, wait—“

“It’s okay—” he starts, turning just in time to stop you from crashing into him. His hands find your forearms instinctively, steadying you, but the sudden proximity freezes you both in place.

You blink up at him, startled, your breath hitching at the closeness. His fingers are warm through the fabric of your sweater, his touch gentle, like he’s afraid to hold on too tight.

“I—” You start to say something, anything, but your voice falters when you meet his gaze. There’s something there, something unspoken and unbearably soft that makes your chest ache. 

Your words catch in your throat when he gently steps back, his hands slipping away as though he’s suddenly aware of the space—or lack thereof—between you. “It’s fine,” he says, a faint smile tugging at his lips, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. His voice is soft, but there’s a distance in it that wasn’t there before, and it only makes the knot in your chest tighten. “I’ll go grab it.” 

You take a step forward before you can stop yourself, “Riki, I didn’t mean—”

“Really, don’t worry about it.” His voice is light, too light, as he cuts you off with a small wave of his hand. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

You hesitate, watching as he turns toward the hallway, his movements just a little too deliberate. His usual ease is gone, replaced by something quieter, more careful.

Your heart sinks. Is he upset with you? He doesn’t seem angry, but there’s a tension in the way he carries himself that wasn’t there before.

“I wasn’t trying to make things weird,” you blurt out, desperate to bridge the gap forming between you.

He pauses mid-step, his back still to you. For a moment, it seems like he might say something, but instead, he exhales quietly and turns just enough to glance over his shoulder.

“You didn’t,” he says, his tone softer now, but there’s a flicker of something in his expression—regret? Frustration? “It’s not you. I just… I need a second. That’s all.”

His mother’s words ring in your head again, “It’s so obvious you make him happy.”

Yet, you feel like the opposite is all you can see. You ask him to be your fake boyfriend to make your ex mad, not even considering his feelings. You tell him you can’t date him despite him treating you with more respect and care than Eunseok ever did. You let him kiss you. You kissed back.

Clearly, you have royally fucked up a few times now.

Confronting him about not telling his mother felt like it would only make things worse between the two of you. Maybe, it’d be better for him to hear it from his mother instead of you.

Your stomach twists, guilt gnawing at you even though his words tell you otherwise. You nod, unsure what else to say, and he offers a faint, almost apologetic smile before disappearing down the hall.

“And then what?” Belle questions with a vehemence that startles you slightly. Eunchae, Hiyyih, and Jongseob are all listening intently from their normal spots in your room, your oldest friend of the four standing with her hands on her hips.

When you had informed the group chat you were staying home the next day, you definitely did not expect the four to show up to your house after piling into an Uber. One look at your tear-streaked face was enough for them to ask the questions that brought you to now.

You stammer slightly, “He—He came back with the gift and made up an excuse to leave.”

“You let him leave?” Belle asks incredulously, and you shrink under her gaze, “Bitch.”

“I don’t know, okay!” You say with your face in your hands, frustrated tears burning your eyes again as you groan, “It’s all so complicated.”

Jongseob raises his hand, waiting for Belle to motion for him to speak before he asks, “Do you like him? Also, is this a bad time to say I have a joint in my bag?”

Eunchae punches his arm, and your hands slide off your face, mind too preoccupied by your current dilemma to even insult the only boy in the friend group for his lack of ability to read the room as usual. Hiyyih leans forward to let the youngest reach over her to get to him, “That was a good question until you ruined it.” 

”Do you like him, though?” Eunchae asks once Jongseob’s arm is surely to bruise and his hands are up in surrender.

You look up from your hands, “I don’t know—“

“You’re pissing me off.” Belle sighs, palm moving to her forehead, and while you know she means well. “You like him.”

“I can’t.” You argue, voice shaking as you fight tears. Eunchae moves from her bean bag to sit next to you. “All that shit with Eunseok was barely a month ago—“

“Who gives a shit about Eunseok anymore?” Belle snaps, throwing her hands up in frustration, “Just because you dated that asshole for two years doesn’t mean it’ll take that long for you to move on.”

“It still feels like I’m using him.” You finally let the tears fall, and her frustration seems to dissipate. She sighs softly, kneeling in front of your sitting form at the edge of your bed.

Her hands move to cover yours, “Do you still have feelings for Eunseok?” The face you make answers her question and she adds, “Do you still think of Riki as a way to get back at him?”

“Of course not.“

“Then you aren’t using him.” She finishes. “He went into this knowing your plan, and you said he even told you it wasn’t you that was the problem.”

You shake your head, tears falling as you blink them away, “He looked upset—“

“Then that’s his problem.” She argues again, “It’s his job to communicate how he feels if he likes you.”

“He does communicate. I’m the issue!” You cry pitifully, “I don’t want him to think I’m not over Eunseok because—I’m still so angry.”

“He cheated on you with your best friend, you don’t have to forgive him to be able to move on to a healthy relationship.” She states.

“But it feels—“ You can’t find words for why it feels wrong to want to date Riki, because the thought of it makes your heart race, “I don’t know! I’ve known him for barely a month and I just—“

“You like him and feel like it’s not real because it happened too fast?” She reads you like a damn book, but you’re almost thankful for it.

“Yes!” You cry, “And he deserves better than that.”

“So, you like Riki?” She repeats her question, her tone matching yours.

You find yourself answering before you can even think, “Yes!”

Your stomach drops as Belle stands like her work here is done. 

It isn’t you realizing you like Riki that has your stomach filling with dread and guilt, it's the fact that you like him more than you have ever liked anyone. 

You liked Eunseok, even told him you loved him, but that seed hadn’t grown in your chest no matter how many times it left your mouth in the form of ‘I love you.’

Yet, you imagine yourself with Riki—loving him—and it all sounds so…easy. The mundanity you dreaded having to live with Eunseok sounded like a dream with Riki. Falling in love with him sounded like something you wouldn’t mind experiencing. 

Which, all things considered, is fucking terrifying to you.

Hiyyih, who had been silently watching the interaction, pats the shoulder of the boy beside her, “I think she’s gonna need that joint now, Seob.”

The shaggy-haired producer straightens up, nodding and quickly reaching for his bag to pull the baggy from the front pocket.

Belle moves toward your closet, “Manchae, Hiyyih, help her wipe her face while I find her an outfit for the game tonight.”

Your eyes widen, and you shake your head in a panicked way that makes Belle grab your face in her hands, uncaring of the fact she’s squishing your cheeks, “Do you want Riki to be your boyfriend, yes or no?”

“Yes.”

“Then you are going to this game, and you are going to look hot.” She walks you through it like she’s talking to a child, “And when he scores the winning home run, you’re going to run onto that field and jump him, got it?”

Jongseob raises his hand again, though doesn't wait to be called on as he interjects, “Home runs are baseball—“

“That isn't the point, dipshit.” Eunchae sasses before turning her attention back to you, “Can I ask what the gift he got you was?”

You nod as Belle releases your face, sniffling softly as you hold up your hand to showcase the charm bracelet on your wrist. Two charms hang from it, your birthstone and a tiny lacrosse stick. “He said he got it before…everything happened.”

“He bought you a charm bracelet after a week of knowing you?” Jongseob asks in a suspicious tone, and when the three girls besides you shoot him a dirty look, he holds his hands up in surrender, “Sorry—it’s just I think I’ve…connected some dots.”

“You haven’t connected shit.” Eunchae says, before promptly adding, “I just wanted to say that, you can continue.”

Jongseob shoots her an annoyed look, before looking at you and beginning, “Well, I was talking to Soul the other day—y’know the one that goes to music club with me— and he said he and Riki were friends in Freshman year.”

His hesitant pause has you looking at him and saying, “What does that mean to me?”

He continues, “He mentioned him having a huge crush on a girl then—“

“Why would I want to know this, Seob?” You question with exasperation.

“Let me finish!” He insists, and you sigh, motioning for him to land the damn plane, “I did some digging—aka asking his teammates about it—and while most of them didn’t know or wouldn’t tell me, Jake kind of insinuated it was you.”

You blink, “How did he insinuate it was me?”

“Well, I asked him what he thought about your breakup and he got all weepy about it. Said he was rooting for you guys to be endgame.” Typical Jake. “Then, I mentioned you guys not knowing each other for long and it sounded like he almost said that Riki’s been into you for years.”

The four of you blink at the boy’s retelling of events, and Belle is the first to snap out of her surprise, “And why didn’t you tell us this when you found out?”

“You guys never let me talk. Plus, that seemed like the last thing she wanted to hear.” He argues, then motions to you, and none of the girls in the room can really argue back. He doesn’t seem all that bothered about the truth of his own statement, though, as he holds up the bagged joint once more. “Now, are we smoking this or not?”

Parking your car has never left you with such a dreadful feeling in your gut, which Jongseob swore a hit of his shitty joint would ease, yet all it did was jumble your thoughts more. 

The temperature sensor reads a biting 30°F, and as you zip up the thick teddy puffer jacket you shiver with pure nerves. “Fuck.” 

Flipping down the sun visor, you check your reflection in its mirror. The warm light reflects off the gloss on your lips, which you fuss over with the pad of your finger even though it’s as perfect as it was when you applied it. 

Stalling. You’re stalling.

With a deep breath, you snap the visor shut and cut the engine, grabbing your purse and phone before stepping into the biting cold. The frigid air slashes through the layers of your outfit, your jacket doing little to stop the chill. You already regret picking the cuter option over something more practical, but you’d made your bed. Now you had to lie in it.

Ain't that the truth.

The field is already alive with movement and muted chatter. Teams are warming up, their voices cutting through the chilly air as balls thud against lacrosse sticks and cleats crunch on frosted grass. You can’t see Riki yet, but the sight of the players in their jerseys stirs the knot in your chest.

Decelis Demons v. YG Pirates

As you near the bleachers, a familiar voice calling your name stops you in your tracks. 

“Over here!” 

You turn, spotting Riki’s mom waving at you with a warm smile, flanked by two young girls bundled in matching puffer jackets. His sisters. The younger one is tugging impatiently at her scarf, while the older stands with her arms crossed, looking vaguely unimpressed by the entire ordeal.

“Mrs. Nishimura, hi!” you manage once you’ve climbed the bleachers to join her side, hoping your smile doesn’t betray the whirlwind of emotions brewing beneath the surface.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she says, her voice as kind as you remember. “Riki didn’t mention anything, but I figured you’d be here for him.”

Your face heats at her words, but you force a nod, gripping the strap of your purse tighter and attempting to ignore the cold nipping at your fingers. “Of course, even if it's colder than a Yeti’s ass out here.” 

You almost regret your colorful language before the older girl snorts softly, “Preach.” 

Mrs. Nishimura chuckles, “It is freezing,” she agrees. “I told Riki he should’ve picked an indoor sport, but you know how stubborn he is.” She jests, and then proceeds to add, “Oh, and these are my daughters, Maki and Runa

You smile at the two of them, Maki’s a bit more subdued but Runa’s bright as she waves. At the mention of Riki, your eyes scan the field for a glimpse of his number. The players are still warming up, running drills and shouting plays back and forth.

And then you see him.

Riki stands near the goalpost, casually balancing his stick across his shoulders as he chats with a teammate. Even in the midst of the pregame chaos, he moves with the same effortless confidence that always draws attention, his tall frame impossible to miss.

The sight of him stirs something unfamiliar and electric in your chest. It’s not the usual comfort you’ve come to associate with him—it’s sharper, more restless, like an itch you can’t quite get to.

You tear your gaze away from him when you hear your name called once again, finding Gaeul quickly climbing the steps of the bleachers to get to you, her free gloved hand catching your arm happily, “I was hoping you’d be here!”

You smile, part of you relieved that she isn’t acting differently despite everything, and your eyes fall on the poster board in her other hand, “Is that for Jay?”

She follows your gaze and nods, unrolling it to reveal ‘Go Jay!’ with a big 19 under it, which you assume is his jersey number. The dark red sweatshirt under her puffer reads the same number as well. “Cute, right?”

“Very cute.” You reply with a soft laugh, smoothing a crease from the corner of the poster board as you add, “I’m sure he’ll love it.”

“He better,” Gaeul huffs in a mock seriousness, “M’freezing my ass off for him.”

Mrs. Nishimura, who seems to have been listening in from her spot beside you, chimes in with a knowing smile, “He still insists you come to every game?”

You momentary confusion is quickly shaken off as you remind yourself that Gaeul and Jay have been dating since sophomore year, of course Riki’s mom knows her, and the girl in question nods fondly, “He says I’m his good luck charm—“ She gasps, and you blink, “—I forgot to kiss him before I left earlier!”

Your brief panic induced by her gasp subsides as you giggle softly, “Oh, no!”

She playfully smacks your arm and grabs it, “You’re coming with me for that.”

Your laughter doesn’t subside, only grows, as she motions to the Nishimura’s that you’ll ‘be right back’ and begins tugging you along down the bleachers, “Where are we going?”

“To kiss my man.” She answers, but pauses in her step to look at you and clarify, “I’m kissing him, you…can kiss Riki.”

“I will not be doing that, but I respect the effort.”

She groans melodramatically as the both of you continue walking down the bleachers, “Aww, c’mon, you guys were so cute together!”

You thank the lord that it’s too loud for Rin and her daughters to hear the girl from this distance, both for your sake and Riki’s, but laugh softly, “I don’t think kissing him a week after breaking his heart is the right move to get him back.”

Gaeul pauses on the last step to look at you with an unhinged jaw as soon as you realize your mistake, opening your mouth to deny before the accusations leave her pink lips, “You want him back?” 

Her words are shrill with excitement and you have the sudden urge to shrink into nothingness as you hover a cold shivering hand over her mouth and avoid the gazes of those around you both, “Bitch, shut up!”

She flattens her lips in an attempt to compose herself but fails to muffle the excited squeal and bounce of her gait as she tugs you down the side steps of the bleachers to get to the field.

The lacrosse field feels bigger up close, the expanse of frosted grass sprawling out under the big lights on either side of it. Gaeul marches ahead with purpose, her poster now tucked under her arm as she scans for Jay. You lag behind slightly, your thoughts still buzzing from the last few minutes.

“Gaeul, slow down,” you mutter, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself as the cold nips at your ears.

She ignores you, her focus locked on a cluster of players by the bench. You spot Jay among them, laughing at something one of his teammates says. Gaeul picks up her pace, her excitement palpable, leaving you to follow at a more hesitant shuffle.

You scan the group of players, not recognizing any of them as Riki. When you do find him, you exhale heavily at the sight of him deep in conversation with Jungkook, the coach clearly getting on his ass for something.

“Hey there,” a voice calls out, smooth and laced with a confidence that plants a murky feeling in your gut. You glance up to see a guy in a YG Pirates jersey standing in front of you, his helmet tucked under his arm and a cocky grin on his face. 32 is bold and dark green on his chest.

“Lost, sweetheart?” he asks, his tone dripping with mock concern.

You take a step back instinctively, your eyes narrowing. “Do I know you?”

He raises a brow, his grin widening as if you’ve said something amusing. “Feisty, huh? Just my type.”

Your stomach twists at his boldness, irritation bubbling under your skin. You glance over his shoulder, hoping to spot Gaeul, but she’s already halfway to Jay, oblivious to your predicament. “Ew,” you blanch curtly, trying to sidestep him, but he shifts to block your path again.

“C’mon, don’t be like that,” he presses, leaning in slightly. “I’m just trying to be friendly. What’s your name?”

Before you can muster a surely bitchy reply—or a curse—a presence appears behind you.

“I don’t think this is your side of the field,” a familiar voice cuts in, light yet edged with authority. You glance up to see Heeseung standing at your side now, his lacrosse stick casually balanced over his shoulder, his expression calm but his gaze sharp. “Can’t you tell by the colors, dude?”

The opposing player stiffens slightly, his grin faltering as he sizes up Heeseung. “Just talkin’, man,” he mutters, his tone defensive now.

Heeseung doesn’t flinch, his smile remaining intact as he tilts his head slightly. “Right. And now you’re done.”

The player hesitates for a moment before shrugging and backing away, muttering something under his breath as he turns and jogs off. Once he’s gone, Heeseung turns to you, his easy smile returning. “You good?”

You refuse to utter ‘that was hot,’ so you settle for a, “Yeah. Thanks for that, though.”

Heeseung shakes his head, “Nah, you had that handled.”

You barely miss a beat with your response, “Yeah, but it was sweet of you.”

He shrugs with his hand up and that same grin, “What can I say?”

You make a face, “Not that.“

He goes to defend himself, but Gaeul appears with smeared lipgloss and a pretty grin to happily say, “Coach is kicking us off the field.”

“Joyful.” You say with a playfully stiff smile that has Heeseung whining. A soft giggle from you has his frown turning into a grin again and he shoots you a salute.

“I’ll tell Riki you wished him good luck, ma’am.”

“Don’t get concussed, say that too.” You call back as Gaeul tugs you back toward the bleachers, poster under her arm creased. She’s beaming, and you giggle at her glowing smile, “I think I know what you and Jay got up to while I was harassed.”

Her smile drops as she gasps with concern, “Harassed? What happened?” 

“It’s not that serious.” You quickly assure her, “Heeseung kinda scared him off, he was a guy on the YG team.”

“Ew.” She makes a face as you both arrive at the bleachers, and you nod.

“That’s what I said.” 

As you both arrive back to your seats, and you gasp and happily accept a hot chocolate Rin had thoughtfully gotten for you with a sweet side hug. God you hope Riki still wants you and you can keep this saint of a woman in your life.

As if on cue, the referee blows a sharp whistle, and the players jog to their respective side of the field. Riki is dismissed by Jungkook and pulls his helmet from under his arm as the other members of the team crowd around the coach, his head turning just enough to scan the bleachers.

Your heart skips as his gaze locks onto yours for a fleeting moment.

He doesn’t smile, not exactly—but his expression softens, his eyes warming like he’s relieved to see you there. The corner of his mouth twitches just enough to feel like a secret, like something meant only for you.

And then he pulls his helmet over his head and focuses on Jungkook’s words, it almost feels like a shock to your system but the lingering warmth in your chest makes it hard to feel the cold anymore.

You watch the team huddle, Jungkook’s game face amusing enough to you that you snicker softly before your attention falls back to Riki. Heeseung, who if your memory serves you right is 01, catches Riki’s shoulder in a brotherly way. 

Your brows furrow as you see Riki’s head tilt slightly at what Heeseung says, glancing in your direction and then the opposing teams, and you assume his eyes search for a jersey that reads 32.

The players move onto the field with another whistle, and you watch with dread as two opposing jerseys approach the center of the field. 10 and 32.

Now, you know very little about lacrosse despite it being your school’s biggest sport and your brother playing it, but you know that Riki is a midfielder. You know this through his excited play-by-plays of practice to you on the phone whenever he was finally out, as well as the basic knowledge of how a lacrosse game starts. Two midfielders wrestling for the ball. 

It couldn’t be called wrestling, however. Riki swipes it barely millisecond after the ref blows his whistle, tossing the ball to 05. 

You gasp softly as his shoulder slams into 32s chest hard enough to send him stumbling back, but his body moves quickly toward the opposing defense and away from the startled enemy. If you didn’t know any better you’d assume he was only doing so to keep him off Jake’s back. “Geez, what did you feed him?”

You ask Rin softly, eyes trained on her son and your brain attempting to wrap itself around the difference in his body language and…aggression on-field, when he had barely risen above a loud speaking volume in your presence. She chuckles, “Would you believe me if I said his diet largely consisted of taiyaki and ramen growing up?”

“No.” You awe at her words, eyes still on him but flitting to meet hers for a brief second, “That’s just unfair.”

“Tell me about it,” The elder of his sisters huffs, “I ate my vegetables and have glasses an inch thick, but he gets to eat sweets all his life and has perfect vision.”

“That’s your fathers genetics, not mine.” Rin clarifies, offering you an explanation like it’s second nature already, “That man can’t see something coming straight at his face until it’s already hit him.”

“My brother has horrible vision, too.” You snicker softly, your eyes rarely leaving Riki but only doing so to look between the three Nishimuras, “Refused to wear contacts, even for lacrosse.” You motion in the general direction of the field, and the older woman seems intrigued.

“Your brother plays?”

You shake your head with a soft laugh at your brother’s expense, “Not since highschool, and he was benched most games because he couldn’t see the ball,” your words have Rin laughing and Maki snorting, “plus he generally sucked. He really only joined because his friend was on the team.”

Jake scores a goal and the crowd around you goes wild with cheers, mainly higher in pitch. You let out a supportive cheer and immediately act like you didn’t when his helmeted head turns your way. You’re almost positive a shit-eating grin has formed behind his helmet.

The game continues, the scoreboard leaning toward Decelis’ victory as the first two quarters come to a close and half-time ensues. 

“No.” You reject Gaeul’s suggestion almost as soon as it leaves her mouth.

“Aww, c’mon!” She whines, tugging your arm closest to her, “His face would be so funny!”

“He’s wearing a helmet, you can’t see his face. And it’s small enough for you to hold up by yourself.” You point at the poster-board in his hands, which she had happily held up for a good portion of the game until her arms got tired.

“But my arms are gonna fall off.” She groans melodramatically, “Please?”

“Buy me another cocoa and I’ll think about it.”

As half-time comes to a close, your right arm is screaming for relief while you hold your side of the poster up and nurse a cup of steaming cocoa in the other hand. Gaeul shamelessly screams in support of her boyfriend, who you see hunch over slightly like he’s holding back laughter of amusement.

Your hand feels like it’s about to fall off, and you curse yourself for refusing the mittens Eunchae had offered in favor of showing off your new nails. ‘They’re too pretty to cover up,’ you had whined, yet now you wouldn’t be surprised if your fingers started breaking off like a vampire’s from Twilight.

The scoreboard reads heavily in the home team’s favor, and you pray to every deity that the game finally ends for your arm’s sake (and your crippling anxiety). Though, watching Riki slice through YG’s defense and score points like they're nothing doesn’t look like it’ll be getting old for you anytime soon. 

“You’re drooling.” Gaeul teases as you suck in a sharp breath at the sight of Riki once again shoulder 32 off balance, hard enough for him to fall onto his ass this time. Tensions are high as the time counts down, though part of you’s hoping this never ends. 

“I don’t drool.” You retort in a soft grumble, yet you rub the side of your wrist over the corners of your mouth self-consciously. “I’m a fucking lady.”

“Right…” Gaeul agrees with playful doubt in her tone that’s punctuated by giggles as you playfully shove her shoulder.

The final whistle slices through the winter air as Riki launches the ball into the goal, accompanied by an uproar of cheers and groans from the crowd. Decelis has won, 12-7, the scoreboard glowing with the decisive win. The players pour onto the field, some celebrating, others trudging off in defeat. Your eyes dart instinctively toward Riki, helmet under his arm, hair damp with sweat as he exchanges fist bumps and quick words with his teammates. The way his expression softens to a grin when Jake slings an arm around his shoulders makes your stomach twist.

You clutch your empty cocoa cup, suddenly desperate to find a reason to approach him. Before you can muster up a plan, the chaos swallows him—players crowding, parents flooding in from the sidelines, and Gaeul’s excited tug on your sleeve pulling you back to the moment.

“Let’s go find Jay!” she beams, and you immediately look toward Rin, Maki, and Runa.

The woman smiles warmly and pats your shoulder, “We always wait in the parking lot for him. You two can have a moment.”

Gaeul is dragging you down the bleachers the moment you softly thank the woman. Your heart thrums as you scan the chaos for Riki, but he’s nowhere to be found. Gaeul bounces ahead, her attention locked on her boyfriend. 

Her hand slips from your arm as you’re both swept into the excitement, and her curls disappear in the crowd. 

The field feels like a warzone, buzzing with shouts, laughter, and the rhythmic stomp of cleats against frozen grass. You’re jostled in every direction, bodies pressing and colliding as parents swarm to congratulate their kids, and the players themselves disappear into the fray. Your fingers curl around the half-empty cocoa cup as if it might ground you, your pulse hammering in your ears.

Where is he?

You catch glimpses of Riki’s teammates—Jake’s unmistakable blonde head bobbing as he jokes with Heeseung, Sunghoon hoisted onto someone’s shoulders—but Riki remains elusive, swallowed by the tide of bodies.

“Riki!” His name slips out, barely audible over the noise, and you feel a flush creep up your neck. What are you even doing? Someone brushes past you, hard enough to make you stumble. “Watch it,” you mutter, turning to see a player in a YG jersey, helmet off and grin too familiar.

32.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just gives you a once-over that makes your skin crawl. His shoulder brushes yours again as he angles toward you, his smirk sharper now. “Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he drawls, voice low enough that it’s almost lost in the noise.

You make a face of disdain, like speaking to him both disgusts you and is beneath you, “Is that supposed to be cute?”

“C’mon,” He says, tone dripping with what you assume is his attempt at charm, “Don’t be like that. You’ve been watchin’ me the whole game.”

“I don’t even know you.” You respond with the same look on your face that reads you’d rather be anywhere else than where you are, listening to him.

He steps closer, undeterred by your tone and clear disgust, “That can be remedied,” His voice is low, and you see his hand move from his side to reach for your waist.

Your anger takes over your motor control, and the half-empty, long chilled cocoa in your hand splatters over the front of his jersey, “Don’t fucking touch me.”

The cocoa splashes onto his jersey in a satisfying arc, the dark liquid seeping into the white fabric. His grin falters for a moment, replaced by a stunned look that quickly twists into irritation. “Are you fucking serious?” he snaps, brushing at the stain, but it’s a futile effort.

“Yeah, I’m fucking serious,” You retort, mirroring his tone, “Who the fuck told you that you could fucking touch me?” 

The players around you have started to notice the commotion, a few stopping to watch as Number 32 bites back, “You’re not even worth half of what that bitch offered me.”

If what boiled within you was anger, then what it morphs into at the player’s statement must be seething fury, “Excuse me?”

“What’s goin’ on here?” A hand clasps over your shoulder but the voice calms any volatile reaction brewing in your gut, Jungkook stepping between you and the YG player.

Jungkook’s presence immediately shifts the energy around you. His broad frame looms between you and Number 32, the way his body blocks out the other player like a wall of stone, calm yet unyielding. The cocky grin fades from the YG player’s face as he holds up his hands in mock surrender, shooting a glare at Jungkook.

Jungkook doesn’t even glance at the YG player, his focus entirely on you as he steps closer, his gaze softening slightly when he sees the tension in your shoulders and the shift in your jaw. “You okay?” he asks, his voice surprisingly gentle in the midst of the chaos.

You nod, even though the heat of anger still lingers in your chest. “I’m fine,” you say, but your voice shakes just enough that Jungkook catches it.

His eyes flick briefly to the YG player, who’s clearly not in the mood to test Jungkook’s patience any further. “Walk with me,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. You want to protest, to stay and search for Riki, but something about the way Jungkook stands there—tall, unshakable—tells you it’s not worth resisting.

He guides you through the crowd and off the field with his hands on your shoulders. When the two of you arrive at the edge of the field where the bleachers drop off and the parking lot comes into view, he releases you. “Do I need to go talk to that kid’s coach? Or parents?”

“No, I think the shit-colored stain on his jersey says enough.” You retort swiftly, the implications of his words stick with you, though. ‘You’re not even worth half of what that bitch offered me.’

It isn’t as if you woke up yesterday, you know he’s talking about Nayeon. Whether it be some kind of intuition or you’re just that fucking familiar with her thought process from years of what you had thought was friendship, you know it. 

“Hey.” Jungkook’s gruff but somewhat gentle call snaps you out of your stewing, and you blink at him, “Don’t do anything I’m gonna hear about, okay?”

Your immature response is interrupted by the loud cheers and chatter morphing into shouts and hollers of a more alarmed tone that has the both of you looking in the direction of the field. Jungkook doesn't seem eager to let you involve yourself in whatever it is that’s going down on the field, you know this because he’s shooing you off toward your car in a dismissive but authoritative tone. 

If you cared at all about anything except beating Nayeon’s face in at the moment you would be protesting and following after him as he jogs toward the commotion, but you don’t. Instead, you walk to your car, toss your Prada bag into the passenger seat as it begins to warm up, and plot.

Watching your friend group’s grins fall while learning that you did not, in fact, kiss Riki after the game but left without even speaking to him in a fit of blind rage was not how you wanted to start your weekend. You blame their soured moods for the fact that all four of them were avidly against your plan to beat Nayeon’s face in the next time you see her, but begrudgingly decided to not jump to conclusions.

The only proof you have that Nayeon was the one to sic that cretin on you may be his words, which aren’t worth much, but you refuse to believe anything else.

Monday arrives with not a singular text or call from Riki, and while Belle has already talked you off of the metaphorical ledge about it, you feel the urge to disappear off the face of the Earth every time you imagine seeing him again after leaving the game he asked you to attend without so much as a word.

Part of you figures the silence on his end is payback, or him deciding to finally let his alleged crush on you go. The other part of you really hopes he was just busy.

Jake is…silent in your second period. Not that you’d mind the silence on any other day, but it’s definitely not normal. Well, he’s silent until he catches sight of the charm bracelet on your wrist as it clinks softly on the desk. His grin is back in seconds and he takes his phone out.

“Want a picture?” You offer sarcastically. When Jake eagerly nods and holds his phone up for the picture, you shoot it a mock smile and manicured middle finger as your charm bracelet catches the light above.

With giddy giggles, Jake takes the photo and practically bounces in his seat in joy as he taps his thumbs on his screen hastily. You’re rolling your eyes and looking down at your worksheet when he asks, “Wanna know who I’m texting?”

“If I wanted to know I’d ask.” You respond swiftly, tapping the eraser-end of your pencil on the desk absentmindedly.

“It’s Riki.” He states with a smugness that pisses you off.

Looking up from the paper, you raise your brows, “Okay?”

“He needed proof,” He adds on with his arms crossed as he leans back in his seat, “Wanna know why?”

“I feel like you’re gonna tell me anyway.”

He’s still smirking as he proves you right, “He thinks you hate him.”

You blink, annoyed nonchalance pushed aside by genuine confusion, “Why would he think that?”

Jake shrugs, though his face seems anything but clueless and you hate that he knows more than you do, “Maybe ‘cause you left the game without saying anything to him.”

“Jungkook made me get off the field.” 

“You could’ve waited with his family in the parking lot.”

“Well, I didn’t.” You snap, growing frustrated with the conversation despite it being your own damn fault, “Why are you telling me this, Jake?”

“‘Cause he’s my friend and he’s been miserable.”

“Then he should talk to me.” You retort with a sigh, guilt filling your gut despite your defensive words, and he tilts his head with a nod of agreement, “If I hated him he’d know. I don’t exactly keep that shit a secret.”

Jake, who had bore witness to your fight with Jaclyn Delvacchio in junior year, hums, “Well, can you do us all a favor and talk to him, please?”

“We have fifth period, I’m not gonna ignore him for an hour when he sits next to me.” You roll your eyes and focus back down at your worksheet.

By the time the bell rings, you’re halfway between plotting your own demise and debating if you should actually try to talk to Riki. The idea makes your stomach twist. What if Jake was wrong, and Riki doesn’t want to hear from you? What if your silence solidified something in him—pushed him away for good?

But then you remember how he smiled at you that day in the hallway, the soft tug of his lips like he couldn’t stop himself, and how his eyes lit up when you agreed to come to the bowling date. You remember the way his voice faltered ever-so-slightly when he asked you, like he was bracing himself for rejection but couldn’t bear not to try.

The thought makes your stomach hurt and your chest heavy, and you realize something that makes you want to kick yourself: you don’t want to lose that. You don’t want to lose him.

Yet, you so easily brushed him aside in your list of priorities to stew in your anger about someone who shouldn’t even be a thought in your mind at this point. 

You screwed up. Again. 

At this point, you feel like you’re winning the losing game. Not only do you hate losing, but you hate the feeling in your chest and gut that makes you want to go home and rot until Riki forgets you ever existed. Belle’s voice screams in your head to talk to him, to make the effort to speak to him and throw away your pride.

So, instead of staying in your old Latin teacher’s class for fourth period grading papers, you persuade her to let you spend your fourth period ‘at lunch with your friends’. 

Your friends all share the same lunch period; sixth, when you’ve already gone home. So you lied, yes.

But Riki has fourth period lunch.

You slip through the cafeteria doors, the clang of trays and the murmur of conversation fading as you scan the room for him. The place is packed, and your heart beats louder than the chatter around you. It’s ridiculous—Riki isn’t hard to find. But your anxiety builds anyway, sending a slight tremble through your hands.

You spot him by the window, his profile framed by sunlight, his usual quiet demeanor marking him as an island in the chaos of the cafeteria. His friends surround him, but they’re not your focus. Your eyes zero in on him, his long sleeves pulled up to his elbows, his hair messy and covering his forehead like he didn’t feel like styling it this morning, the rings on his hands that glint in the cafeteria light.

But before you can make your way over, the sound of a voice you loathe cuts through the air, sharper than glass.

“A couple hundred bucks and he was practically my dog.” Nayeon muses at the two girls you barely recognize that sit across from her at a table not far from you, “Sucks that he failed, though. Would have spent my money on someone else.”

“So you…had him hit on her?” The girl on the left asks, a bit confused as she exchanges a look with the girl beside her.

Nayeon seems eager to relay the details, “I told him she liked playing hard to get,” She shrugs disinterested, yet you see a sliver of the smirk on her face from your angle, “made him all the more eager to knock her down a peg.”

The two girls seem peeved by what she says, like any sane person would be, but anything either wants to say dies on their tongue as they catch sight of you. “Girl…”

One trails off as you begin your approach, the same lightness in your gut that has your vision clouded with seething fury.

She looks over her shoulder just enough for you to see her smirk drop into wide-eyed fear.

Your hand catches the back of her head, slamming the side of her face into the table with little care for the eyes that immediately find you, “Sorry, I didn’t hear you, bitch. What was that?” There’s ‘ooo’s and ‘oh shit’s from the wuickly forming crowd as you pull her up by her hair, launching the flailing girl onto the ground. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

She scrambles off the ground, immediately getting in your face as she hisses, “You don’t deserve him.” 

“Oh, fuck you.” You curse as your hand meets her face, and she shrieks as her head snaps to side. 

Nayeon recoils for a moment, eyes wide with shock, but the anger on her face quickly replaces any hesitation. "You think I'm scared of you?" She spits, moving toward you with a snarl. She may not have expected this, but now that it's happening, she seems desperate to prove herself.

Grabbing her by the shoulders, you shove her into one of the metal chairs, the clattering sound of it screeching across the floor as she stumbles backward. The two girls hasten to get out of the way, faces a mix of fear and ‘oh shit’. 

Nayeon picks herself up with blind fury guiding her actions, hands flying out as she lunges forward to shove you back. Your hands grasp her hair again, and the crowd surrounding the scene roars.

Her nails claw at your wrist as you yank her forward. She’s small, but her anger makes her stronger than she has any right to be. The fight is a mess of hair pulling and shoving, curses from you and shrieks from her.

You shove her hard into the table again, the force sending a tray of half-eaten food crashing to the floor, and the crowd goes wild, hooting and cheering. The heat in your chest ignites with every movement. The adrenaline rush is undeniable.

Nayeon's attempts to push you back only seem to fuel your anger further. Her breath is ragged, and you can practically taste the bitterness she's been carrying since the moment you stepped into her world. Every movement of hers is desperate, like she's trying to claw her way back to a victory she's long since lost.

"Get the fuck off me!" she yells, her voice barely audible over the chaos. But you don't listen. You slam her against the chair again, hard enough that she falls onto her ass, eyes wide with disbelief. Nayeon's face contorts in pure anger as you approach again, her hands flying up in a futile attempt to strike you. Her nails scratch at your arms, but the pain barely registers.

But then, someone grabs your waist, lifting you off the ground effortlessly. The world tilts as you're pulled off of Nayeon, feet leaving the ground. For the split second that you’re struggling against them, thinking it’s one of her friends or a teacher, you curse at them too.

Then the cologne hits your nose and the voice hits your ears, “Alright, that’s enough, pretty girl.”

Your heart stutters in your chest as Riki’s voice cuts through the frenzy, low and soft in your ear, but with a sharp edge of firmness that you’ve never heard from him before. His grip on you doesn’t waver, and despite the anger still coursing through your veins, you freeze for a second, thrown off by the ease he had pulling you off of that traitorous bitch—who’s being held back by Jake and Jungwon.

“Skank!” Nayeon shrieks, clawing at Jake and Jungwon’s arms that keep her from lunging at you again.

Any calm that Riki’s presence brought you is washed away, but he pulls you back by the waist as you move to have a go at Nayeon again. His arms wrapping around you to keep your arms at your sides as you bite back,  “Says you, bitch.”

“Easy, easy,” He eases, your back hitting his chest as your jerky and angry movements force him to pick you up again, “Cool it, baby. You got her good.”

“Get her out of here before the teachers get here,” Heeseung orders in a hushed tone as the other members of the lacrosse team grab at phones and shove the crowd back.

“I’m not—hey!” Your defiant statement is interrupted by the arm around your waist tightening and your feet lifting off the floor once more. “Riki!”

“I know, I know.” Riki’s hold is firm as you struggle weakly against him, his voice deep and low like he’s easing a wild animal, his touch warm. You can’t bring yourself to fight back the way you did with Nayeon as he walks you out of the cafeteria building. His presence, the warmth of his chest against your back, it all has your defense mechanisms easing up and your anger softening to a low simmer.

When he finally sets you back down, the cool chill of the air eased only by the sunlight hitting the two of you, you turn to face him with a charged glare, “I can walk.”

He holds his hands up in good faith, or maybe an attempt to calm you down, “I know, baby.”

“And she deserved that.”

“I know, baby.”

The way he repeats himself so softly, how he’s letting you take out the remnants of your anger on him, it only makes the ache in your chest worsen. You exhale sharply, “Stop that.”

“Okay.” He says, voice soft but no pain or hurt to be detected in his voice, only in his eyes.

Your own sting almost automatically with both frustration and anger at yourself and no one else, “No, not—“ Taking a deep breath, your hands move to your face, “This is all wrong.”

“What is?” You try not to notice how he doesn’t attach ‘pretty girl’ or ‘baby’ to the end of his question. You fail.

“Everything.” You mutter, exhaling another soft, “Fuck.”

“You’re bleeding.” He points out, his hands pulling yours from your face to examine the scratches up your arms. 

“Nails are intact, though.” You mumble softly, trying to make yourself feel better. Riki looks at you in slight disapproval, brows furrowing, and you add, “I’m okay.”

He sighs, shaking his head, “There’s a first-aid kit in the locker room, let me clean you up.”

“Ew, I’m not going into the boys locker room.” You reject his offer with an obstinance that would usually amuse him, yet he shows a sliver of frustration in his body language. “And I told you, I’m fine.”

“Okay, you can either walk or I can carry you.”

“As if.” 

Your challenge is met with him raising his eyebrows and lunging for you a second later. You flinch and swat at his hands, “Okay, fine!” He pulls back again with a ‘that’s what i thought’ look, “I’ll walk.” you add with a defiant ‘hmph’ as you walk past him.

He doesn’t press the issue, following you towards the athletics building and holding the door open for you to enter first, to your utter fury of course. Stupid boys. Stupid emotions.

When you find the boys locker room, you pause as he pushes the door open, “I’m not going in there.”

He sighs with a nod like he expected as such, “I’ll be right back, stay here.”   

You sigh and cross your arms, rolling your eyes and leaning back against the wall across the locker room entrance.

Riki returns with a first aid kit and his hoodie, “Let’s go to the bleachers, no one’s got practice today.” You assume the hoodie is for you, and you’re proved correct when he tosses it into your face and snickers when you curse at him. “C’mon.”

You begrudgingly walk with him out of the athletics building to the school field not a far walk from the entrance. 

You hear the bell ring from where you sit on the bleachers minutes later as your chilled fingers are tended to by the lacrosse player, “You’ll be late, you know.”

“We’ll both be. It’s fifth period now.” He states as he delicately cleans the raw skin streaking up your wrist with an alcohol wipe.

“Ow.” You mumble, and he tsks with a growing smile.

“Don’t be a baby.” He teases, and you mock his words in a higher pitched voice back to him.

“Fuck you.”

He snickers softly, gently rotating your hand in his to clean the visible lines tainting the delicate flesh, “Baby.”

His statement isn’t the beckon or fond coo you wish it’d be, but it causes flutters in your gut all the same. You mock him again and he huffs softly in amusement, refraining from continuing the back and forth to focus on your scratched up wrists and forearms. 

As he moves to your right hand, his touch lingers on the charm bracelet hanging off your wrist as he dabs at the skin. The metal chain catches the sunlight, twinkling faintly against your wrist as Riki pauses. His thumb brushes over one of the charms absentmindedly before he speaks, voice softer than you expected. “You’re wearing it.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” you reply, trying to sound casual despite the way your pulse stutters. His touch, even as fleeting as it is, sends a warm shiver through you.

“I just…” he trails off, dark eyes flicking up to meet yours briefly, his gaze filled with something tender. “I wasn’t sure if it was your style.”

“Why’s that?” You ask with a slight furrow of your brows, and he snickers softly.

“I’m sure it’s not the luxury you’re accustomed to.” 

“Everything I wear isn’t expensive. I’m not a snob.” You huff in slight offense, though he finds it amusing.

“Never said you were a snob, princess.” He clarifies, discarding the alcohol wipe to grab the ointment from the kit, “Nothing wrong with being spoiled.”

“I’m not—“ you go to argue, but the amusement on his face has the words dying on your tongue as you look away from him, “You’re such an ass.”

“Aww, I’m wounded.” He pouts softly, before it turns into that pretty smile again and he laughs softly, “It looks good on you.”

It takes a half-second for you to remember he’s talking about the bracelet, and your instinctive reply comes in the form of a weak, “Fuck off.”

His head falls forward as he laughs at your weakly aggressive statement. His touch is still gentle as he continues, hands unbelievably warm around yours. How unfair.

“Your hands are freezing.” He states softly, tube of ointment placed aside in favor of engulfing your hands in his. You watch him rub at them, your nails clicking against his rings with every movement until they catch his attention, “These are nice.”

“I know.”

He huffs in amusement, biting his bottom lip before he says, “‘Course you do.”

The tension between the two of you shifts, delicate and tenuous, like a thread stretched too tight. Riki’s touch is warm and steady, and you hate how easy it would be to let yourself relax into it. His thumbs keep brushing over your knuckles, slow and deliberate, and your chest tightens with every pass.

You clear your throat, trying to focus anywhere but his hands, but when you look up, his gaze is already on you. It’s not intense, exactly. Not piercing or overwhelming. Just…soft. Patient, even. The kind of look that has your fight or flight instincts kicking in to protect the 

“What?” you snap, defensive and unsure, your voice sharper than you mean for it to be. You regret it instantly when his brow furrows slightly, though his hands don’t pull away.

“Nothing,” he replies softly, his voice steady. “Just glad you’re okay.”

The simplicity of it almost knocks the wind out of you. You blink, trying to find a reply that won’t give you away, but the words stick in your throat. All you can manage is a mumbled, “I told you, I’m fine.”

“Yeah,” he says, his tone carrying a gentleness that makes you ache. “But I worry about you anyway.”

You don’t know what to do with that—how to handle the sincerity in his voice or the way his touch lingers like he’s afraid to let go. It feels like too much and not enough all at once.

“You shouldn’t,” you mutter, trying to pull your hands back, but he holds them lightly, just enough to keep you there without forcing you.

“Can’t really help it, pretty girl.” His lips curve into a faint smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Especially when you’re getting into fights.”

Your stomach twists, a cocktail of guilt and frustration bubbling to the surface. You want to tell him it wasn’t just a fight. That it was Nayeon, that she deserved it, that you were defending yourself in more ways than one. But that isn’t the truth, is it? Not really.

“I—” You start, then stop, swallowing down the lump rising in your throat. “I don’t—” Your voice wavers, and you hate it. “Riki, I can’t—I’m not good at this.”

“At what?” his hands grasp yours tighter as he leans forward with his gaze so…so attentive. 

“This.” You motion vaguely between the two of you, trying to not cry in front of him. You’re failing horribly. “Us. You. Me. God, fuck.”

“Talk to me, pretty girl.” He pleas softly, and your chest feels as warm as your hands are in his.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” You exhale, head dropping back in an attempt to keep your frustrated tears from falling, “And I keep fucking up everything good in my life, and I just—“

His neck cranes slightly to meet your gaze as you avert it to his hands around yours, waiting for you to continue. Listening.

You take a deep breath, “I like you, I really do,” his thumbs slow to a stop against your knuckles, but you don’t look at him, “and you’re so—perfect and I’m not—“

“Don’t say that—“

“I’m not.” You insist, and one of his hands moves to your cheek as you continue, thumb gently wiping away a stray tear, “I’m…messy and mean-“

“I don’t care about that.” He argues gently, but you’re not done.

“-and I can’t even handle my own shit in a mature way so why should I be able to give you anything better—“

You don’t get to finish as his lips press against yours, cutting off your spiraling words with a kiss so sudden and deliberate it steals every thought from your head. 

His hand on your cheek tilts your head up toward him, his other remains holding yours. It’s not a hesitant kiss. There’s nothing unsure or tentative about it, not like the first one he gave you. He isn’t suffocating you, or doing anything more than moving his lips against yours like it’s all he’s wanted to do for years but knows to take his time savoring it instead of rushing in with teeth and tongue.

All you know is that you’re leaning into him, your anger, frustration, and self-doubt melting away under the weight of his touch. It’s a good kiss—better than good. It’s consuming, overwhelming, and entirely too much, yet you feel like more wouldn’t be all that bad.

When he pulls back it isn’t far, his forehead resting against yours. You’re breathless, your lips tingling in the aftermath and brain foggier than you’d like to admit. His nose brushes against your as he says, “I don’t care about any of that,” his voice is low and hoarse, “I just want you.”

You exhale shakily, feeling his words hit you lips, “Riki—“ 

“I’ll wait.” He promises softly, a hint of desperation in his words that has something in your gut fluttering, “However long it takes for you to be ready, I’ll wait.”

Your eyes flutter shut as you shake your head weakly, looking down at your lap. “That’s not fair to you.”

“I don’t care about fair, pretty girl.” He responds with a slight smile, hand moving from your cheek to tilt your chin up and make you look at him. His gaze flits between your eyes and lingers below your nose, a pattern that mirrors your own. “I can wait.”

His words are soft, spoken like an oath as his eyes find your lips again and decide to stay there a while.

“Why?” You ask, barely a whisper.

Riki lifts his gaze to look you in the eyes, a soft smile on his lips as he says, “‘Cause I like you more.”

You roll your eyes, “Is it a competition?”

He hums low, as if apprehensive, “Not much of one.” Your jaw drops slightly as if offended and he laughs softly, “I mean, I have you completely outmatched, pretty girl.”

“Oh, yeah?” You challenge with a slight laugh, “How so?”

He shifts closer as he hums again in thought, “Well, you’ve liked me for how long? A few weeks?” The question is more of a statement, and he seems unbothered by the short time-span with the smile on his face, “Yeah, I’ve got you beat.”

“You didn’t know me until recently, so it doesn’t count.” You argue with defiance, and he raises his brows.

“Are you invalidating my feelings for you right now?” He asks in a mock-offended tone, hand moving to his chest.

You scoff with playful annoyance, looking away from him briefly before your gaze finds him all over again, like a moth to a flame, “How long?”

His smile turns shier, and he chuckles awkwardly, “Nah, it’s not a competition. You’re right.”

“Nuh-uh, you started it,” You laugh, shoving his sturdy chest weakly, “C’mon, I already know. I just wanna hear it.”

Your smug words paired with the shrug you give have his eyes narrowing, “You know?”

You nod, “Jake ratted you out.” 

Riki’s eyes widen slightly and he groans, head dropping forward in embarrassment, “I’m gonna kill him.”

Riki lifts his head, still chuckling under his breath as he finally relents, “Alright, fine.” His eyes meet yours again, warm and steady, even as a blush creeps across his cheeks and ears. “Since freshman year. Happy now?”

Despite you being the one to force it out of him, you hold back the urge to giggle and turn away from him. “Very.” You answer with a slightly blissful grin on your face.

“You gonna hold that over my head?” He asks playfully, leaning closer like he wants to kiss you again.

You fight every impulse telling you to close the distance yourself, but let your eyes move between his eyes and smirking lips freely, “I might.”

“Yeah?” He jests softly. 

You hum, deciding to be a little mean. “I could also hold over your head that your mom still thinks we’re dating.”

His eyes shut and the hand creeping towards yours again freezes. His head falls forward and you panic for a moment thinking you went too far before you realize his shoulders are shaking and you can hear soft wheezing. “You’re mean.”

His muffled whine makes you snicker gleefully, and you add, “She said I’m good for you.”

You don’t realize the joy behind those words until he raises his head with a teasing but genuine (and flirty) grin on his face as he asks, “You’re happy about that, huh baby?”

You find yourself teasing him back instead of getting hostile at his flirty tone, probably due to the boost he gave your ego, “Mmm, not as happy as you seem to be with me as your girlfriend. According to your mom, anyway.”

Before he can reply, a familiar voice cuts through the moment.

“Nishimura.”

Both of you whip your heads toward the source of the sound. Standing at the bottom of the bleachers with his arms crossed and an exasperated expression is Jungkook. He’s wearing a hoodie and joggers, looking like he just came from the gym with his curls in a bun, but his sharp eyes land squarely on Riki first, then shift to you.

“What the hell are you two doing up there?” Jungkook asks, though there’s no real heat in his tone.

Riki straightens up, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Just…taking care of something, Coach.”

Jungkook’s brows rise, and he gestures toward the field. “And why aren’t you in class?”

“I—uh—” Riki stammers before Jungkook waves a hand dismissively.

“Save it. I don’t need the whole story. Just get your ass to class before I have you running suicides until next week.” His gaze softens slightly as it flicks to you. “And you? ”

You shrink a little under his stare, mumbling, “I wasn’t feeling well.”

Jungkook lets out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You—” He shakes his head before gesturing toward the parking lot. “Go home, kid. And no more fights, please—or distracting my team.”

“Alright, alright,” you mumble as you stand. You glance at Riki, who’s already grinning like this whole thing is hilarious, and shoot him a glare. “Stop smiling, you ass.”

Riki just snickers, his grin growing wider as he stands. “I’ll walk you to your car, pretty girl.”

Jungkook shakes his head, muttering something about teenagers and their hormones. “She can walk herself, get to class.” 

Any complaint Riki wants to make is silenced by the pointed finger Jungkook sends him, and he sighs. Your cheeks burn as he leans down to press a kiss to one of them with a soft, “See you later, pretty girl.” 

Riki averts his eyes from Jungkook’s judgmental gaze as his star midfielder jogs down the bleacher steps, offering a respectful bow of his head as he passes.

Jungkook then looks over at you, and you’re already arguing, “I have to get my bag from my locker.” 

He deadpans, clearly unimpressed as he says, “Ask one of your friends to get it for you.” 

Unable to argue with his reasoning, you let out a soft huff and begin patting your pockets for your phone. A relieved sigh escapes your gloss-smudged lips when your fingers brush against the device through a layer of fabric. Silently, you thank whichever of your spirit guides prompted you to button your back pocket before entering the cafeteria.

You suddenly remember another reason to stay a bit longer, “My keys are in my bag!”

Jungkook sighs, “If I see you in the halls in 10 minutes you’re getting banned from my field.”

You grin, bouncing down the steps with a happy, “Thanks, Coach Jeon.”

He makes a face of disgust, hand gently pushing the side of your head as you walk by, “Get out of here.”

It’s almost laughable how quickly the situation disappears, like it never happened. No one snitches—not one person. Even the crowd of students who saw everything miraculously forget when teachers start asking questions. It’s the lacrosse team who spins the story, their collective loyalty so seamless you almost believe they rehearsed it. Nayeon threw the first punch, they all swear. You didn’t fight back. You defended yourself.

The only video evidence of the fight are clips of Nayeon lunging for you and blurry photos, another thing you’re sure the lacrosse team took care of, so the school really have nothing to go off of. By the time the dust settles, it’s like the cafeteria incident is just another school rumor, one of those things everyone knows happened yet every retelling of events sounds skewed in some way.

Your mother hadn’t been informed by the school of the issue, thankfully, but you had endured a scathing voicemail from your father about the ‘stunt’ you pulled with Eunseok’s ‘bright and good’ girlfriend while eating Chinese takeout with Belle Tuesday night. She sat there munching on an eggroll and snatching small pieces of your sweet-fire chicken while your father’s angry ramble drew on and on for a few long minutes before he ended it with a, ‘call me back.’ The laughing fit you and Belle had over that one has become a bit of an inside joke now.

Thursday evening finds you in the kitchen of your home following your Aunt’s slutty brownie recipe with Riki on FaceTime propped up against the egg carton. “Butter, butter, butter…” You mumble to yourself as you reach for the ingredient, making a face as some of the softened dairy gets on your thumb. Riki, who had been silently observing you through the screen, snickers softly. You send a pointed look to the camera, “Don’t laugh at me.”

“M’not, you're just cute.”

“Fuck you.” You lose the fight against the smile forming on your face as you unfold the waxy wrapping of the butter and tip it into the mixing bowl, “I’m always cute.”

He only hums low with that same smirk on his face as he rests his chin on his arm, watching you switch on the mixer and grab a brownie pan from the cabinet beside the stove. A beat passes and he asks, “You don’t have to, you know?”

You glance away from pressing your knuckles into the cookie dough to flatten it along the bottom of the greased pan, “I know, but I don’t want your friends to have anything over me.”

Your joke is received with a soft laugh, “I wouldn’t let them hold it over you.”

“While I would like to see that, this is much easier.” You dismiss as you move to the sink to wash your hands and grab the pack of oreos. “Plus, Jungkook loves slutty brownies so maybe he’ll take the stick out of his ass if he gets one.”

Riki snorts softly on the other end, his bangs messily covering his forehead and eyes, “It’s game day, I don’t think the stick will come out.”

You hum in defeat, shrugging slightly as you begin to place the layer of oreos into the pan, “A sweet treat for good graces then.” 

Once you finish the layer of oreos, pour the brownie batter over it, and stick it in the oven, you sigh loudly. Fanning yourself and pulling your hair off your neck as you move toward your phone to grab it. “Jesus Christ, it’s hot.”

“It’s 30° outside.” 

“I’m not outside, I’m inside.” You sass with a ‘duh’ look on your face as you hold the phone angled up at your face as you walk toward the living room. “And how dare you try to contradict me.”

“Sorry, pretty girl. It won’t happen again.” He responds after a light chuckle.

You feign another roll of your eyes as you fail to fight the smile growing on your lips once again. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” 

The next morning, you arrive at school earlier than you’d like—especially with how fucking cold it is. Still, you look cute and feel it too, with a new lip gloss on your lips and a pair of pearls on your ears to match the ones on your eyes.

Exiting your car, you hasten your trek to the field. The bags rustle at your sides as you chant a soft tune of “I’m so fucking cold” under your breath. Your hands are, once again, not protected by gloves as you so vehemently refuse to cover up Julie’s masterpiece. She was very pleased that her hard work stayed intact during the fight, but recommended you treat your hands with care if you want them to last as long as they usually do. 

Jungkook notices your approach, tipped off by the high-pitched shiver that escapes your lips as you finally arrive on the field—a sound that doesn’t go unnoticed by the rest of the team either. They seem to all slowly get distracted by your figure’s approach, eyes drawn to either the bags at your sides or cute way you’re walking in the cold.

“What are you doing?” Jungkook snaps in annoyance, his tone almost dismissive.

“Jesus Christ, this violates the Geneva Conventions in some way, I'm sure.” You huff softly, holding up the bags as you arrive at his side, “I made slutty brownies.”

Jungkook’s frown softens as the team parrots your words hopefully, and he then barks, “Single file, maggots.”

You’re almost too cold to enjoy the spectacle the team provides racing to get first in line, yet keeping a respectful distance ahead of you. You snicker softly as you set the bags down, bending with a shiver to grab them to pass out before the one in front of the line protests. 

“You’re cold?” Kai asks with worry from the front of the line, and the one behind him, Taehyun, steps out of line with his arms held out.

“I’ll pass them out, you need to warm up.” He fusses with a slight scolding tone, “There are hot-packs over there.” He cocks his head toward the bleachers as he takes your place in front of the bags.

You’re left standing there in confusion as Taehyun takes over your current job, walking towards the bleachers in search of the stated hotpacks before a warm object is pressed to your cheek and you startle. 

Riki snickers softly as you look at him in disgust before realizing it’s him, and your face softens to an eyeroll with a soft ‘fuck off’ muttered under your breath. You move to grab the hotpack from him, but he cheekily holds it out of your reach with a boyish giggle. 

The look you give him has him flattening his lips to hold back a grin as he silently hands the heat pack to you with a muttered apology. 

“Why aren’t you in line?” You question, and he has that same smirk on his face.

He shrugs, “Wanted to talk to my girl first.” You give him a look and he groans, “Can’t you just let me indulge for a second?”

“Patience is a virtue, Riki.” You muse as you cross your arms to tuck your hands away with a hotpack in each hand. “Plus, you said you’d wait.”

“And I will—I am.” He confirms with a shake of his head and a lighthearted grin, “But you could be a little more forgiving, pretty girl.”

“I don’t believe in forgiveness.” You retort with a shrug and a pretty smile.

“Niki!” Jake calls out from the line a few yards away, he’s a few players behind with a grin on his face as he says, “Don’t worry about getting in line, I’ll get you one!”

“Yeah, keep talkin’ to your girlfriend~.” Sunghoon teases, causing most of the team to snicker or whistle.

Riki’s ears go red, but when you point it out with a giggle, his hand immediately shoots to one of the red appendages and he shakes his head, “It’s the cold.”

“Niki, our shy boy!” Heeseung coos from the line, and the rest are all too eager to join in.

“Wow, Niki, you're so cute!”

“Niki, kiss her!”

“It’s giving Romeo!”

Riki groans softly, hands covering his face from your vision as you laugh, a warmth blooming in your chest that eases the chill in your bones. “I’m gonna kill them.”

He’s about to say something else when Taki takes a bite of the brownie in his hand and grunts something sounding like “oh yeah” with his words garbled by the mouthful he’s chewing. 

You watch the scene unfold with amusement, leaning back on your heels as the team collectively loses their minds over a baked good. Taki, still mid-chew, looks like he’s having a near-spiritual experience, while Jungkook shouts something about chewing with his mouth closed.

Riki uses the distraction to lower his hands from his face, a grin breaking through his earlier embarrassment as he watches you watching them. His voice cuts through the chaos, low and teasing: “You seem happy.”

Your gaze moves to him, “Is that an issue?”

“Not at all.” He responds smoothly, “You look good when you’re happy.”

“I always look good.” You retort out of habit. 

He seems to have expected it, nodding along in agreement before he asks, “So, if I asked you to wear my jersey instead of whatever cute shirt you were gonna wear tonight, would you?”

“Look good? Yes.” You answer with a light, teasing tone, “Agree? Mmm, maybe.”

“You’re killing me, baby.”

“Sweet names will get you nowhere.”

“So, you like it when I call you that?” He asks, stepping closer with a cheeky grin.

You remain defiant, arms crossed as you instinctively lean away from him with a laugh, “I never said that.”

“You didn’t deny it either.” He retorts swiftly, his head tilting and his eyes moving over your face with a smugness that pisses you off.

“No, I didn’t.” You agree, and his eyes narrow slightly at the almost flirty smile on your lips as you turn away from him to make your way back to Taehyun. 

You fight the giddy feeling in your chest as you feel his gaze on you, deciding against sparing a glance back as you hear the crunch of his steps following after you.

As always, you’re right. Riki’s spare jersey looks adorable on you.

“He’s gonna die.” Gaeul practically squeals at the sight of you. It’s a bit warmer than the morning had been when you arrive at the opposing school’s stadium, the long sleeved fleece-lined undershirt protecting you from the chilled breeze. “Bitch, your ass looks fantastic.”

A grin brightens your face and laugh leaves your glossy lips as she fawns over your look, “Right?” You turn slightly to give her a better view of your behind purely out of excitement, because yeah, your ass looks good in these jeans. 

“It’s smiling at me,” She gasps, smacking your butt lightly with a laugh before hooking her arm with yours and beginning to tug you along. “I didn’t know if you’d come tonight with everything that happened last game.” 

“Why?” You ask a bit cluelessly, before remembering the event clearer and shaking your head, “Oh, that weird guy? No, I’m fine.”

She hums with a slight frown as the two of you get to the concessions, “I’m so sorry for leaving you in all the chaos, I didn’t realize you weren’t behind me until I got to Jay.”

Sensing the remorse behind her words, you find yourself quickly saying, “Don’t feel bad, I’m okay.”

“Ugh, I need your number! That’s been eating me alive all week!” She huffs softly as the line moves up, “I tried to find you at school but you kept evading me.”

“You couldn’t ask Belle? Don’t you two share a class?” You question with a slight tilt of your head and her jaw slacks.

“Why did I not think of that?” She mutters to herself as you both reach the front of the line and she orders herself a soft pretzel before looking over at you, “My treat, an apology.”

You aren’t one to reject free food when offered, so you look at the concession worker and say, “A Dr Pepper and another soft pretzel, please.” 

Gaeul pays and a worker in the back pulls out two warm pretzels as another grabs the familiar maroon bottle from a cooler. She starts speaking again the moment the food and drinks are in your hands.

“Food isn’t allowed on the field, but I already gave Jay a kiss before he went on the bus.” 

Her smile is suggestive, and you make a face that has her whining, “C’mon, I’ll hold your food while you go—“ She shimmies her shoulders and purses her lips into a kissy face that has you letting out a shrill ‘ew, stop!’

“That’s deplorable.” Your words contradict the laughter seeping into your speech, “I am not going down there.”

“Boring.” She groans, but her face brightens suddenly and she waves ahead. When you follow her gaze and find Mrs Nishimura approaching, you internally freak out until she smiles at you and you remember how lovely of a woman she is. 

A lovely woman who seems to zero in on the jersey you wear the moment she’s within arms reach, “Oh, don’t you look darling!”

She pulls you into a warm hug and you accept it keenly, “Thank you! Are Maki and Runa with you?”

Your question comes as she pulls away, keeping you at arms-length as she shakes her head, “No, they stayed home with their father, neither wanted to make the trip.”

The trip being about an hour long car ride to the other side of town, which is fair. Feels shorter when you’re driving, though. You got through SZA’s new album on the way, too.

The three of you make it to the bleachers, finding a spot to watch the game as the ref whistles and the teams start to huddle. The board reads:

STARSHIP ALIENS v. DECELIS DEMONS

You sporadically tear pieces off of your soft pretzel as your eyes follow Riki the entire game, catching his eye at multiple points and having to act like you don’t see he’s got a shit-eating grin on his face under that face-guard.

The Demon’s win 12-8 long past sunset, a chill nipping your nose and the empty paper your pretzel came in crumbled into a ball in your hand. Rin sends you the same look as the last game before retreating toward the parking lot.

The moment you step foot on the field after releasing Gaeul’s arm, Jake appears in your view with a big grin, “Didja see the weaving I did? I looked cool, right?”

You debate breaking it to the boy that you may have entirely forgotten he was even on the team, too focused on his teammate to even notice him.

“I don’t think she was watching you.” Heeseung appears with his helmet off and his sweat-drenched hair sticking to his forehead. He moves to throw an arm around your shoulder and you quickly dodge with an ‘eugh’.

“You’re sweaty and you stink.” You grumble with a grimace on your face, and Heeseung seems ready to complain before he grins again at something behind you and a second later arms engulf you from behind. 

“You’re cute from the back too, pretty girl.” Riki muses into your ear, lifting you up held against his chest with his arms wrapped around you. 

“Riki, you sweaty bastard, let me go!” You whine, struggling against him as he lets your feet touch the ground again.

He giggles boyishly as he obeys, and as you turn to give him a piece of your mind you find the curses dying on your tongue at the grin on his face.

His smile is wide and unapologetically smug, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes your chest feel like your heart is trying to claw its way out. His helmet dangles loosely in his hand now, his hair a damp mess but somehow still looking good.

“You can’t just pick people up like that,” you say, trying to sound annoyed but betraying yourself when your lips twitch upward. “It’s rude.”

He leans forward slightly, closing the gap between you as if he can’t keep himself away. “Oh? You didn’t like it?”

You roll your eyes, stepping back to put some space between you, but Riki matches your movement with an exaggerated pout, clearly enjoying himself. Before you can fire back with something probably aggressive or mean, another voice cuts in.

“Alright, Romeo, stop flirting and help us pack up,” Jungwon calls, dragging the duffel bags of gear toward the bus. He tosses a water bottle at Riki, who catches it without really looking.

“I’ll see you in a minute,” Riki says softly, his grin softening into something warmer that sends an entirely different kind of shiver through you. He leans down and kisses your cheek before jogging off to join his teammates. 

Holy fuck.

Your heart is racing in your chest like an old woman whose heart is about to give out, and your long sleeve undershirt is suddenly too damn hot. 

You barely manage to pull yourself together before Gaeul pops up next to you, a knowing smirk spread across her face as she loops her arm around yours. “He kissed you~,” she sing-songs, her tone just low enough not to draw attention, but her amusement is blatant.

“Fuck off,” you mumble, pressing a hand to your cheek like it’ll somehow stop the warmth there from spreading like the grin in your face. You hope the shadows cast by the stadium lights are enough to hide your flustered state.

Gaeul doesn’t let up as the two of you wander toward the edge of the field, her giggles like little daggers stabbing at your already tattered dignity. “He picked you up. And got touchy.”

“I’m aware,” You huff, “I experienced it.”

“I mean, I don’t think you get how big a deal this is,” she practically rambles, “Riki’s never been this…confident!”

“Oh?” You question with your brows furrowed slightly.

She nods with an eager hum, “Riki’s shy! At least he was when I first met him.” Everything up to this point hadn’t pointed you in that direction regarding Riki’s personality, too familiar with the smug smiles and nonchalance, “I mean, he’s like a different person now that you’re around.”

“That’s…good, right?” You question hesitantly, “I mean, he wasn’t weird or anything, right?”

Your voice must have failed to convey the jesting tone you intended because Gaeul quickly begins to backtrack as you approach the bus. Jungkook is at the driver's seat of the bus while some of the team boards it with their duffles hanging from their shoulders and others are loading the luggage compartment with gear, free of their shoulder pads and helmets. 

Even without the padding, Riki’s back is broad, jersey hanging off muscle. You can barely see Jake past him, who's on the other side of the compartment helping organize it. 

You forget about any questions on your tongue when the shorter male cheekily points out your approach from behind and he looks over his shoulder for you with the prettiest smile you’ve ever seen.

Beautiful bastard.

He wastes no time in loading the equipment bag in his hands into the compartment before stepping away from the bus, jogging toward you with that grin. Gaeul begins to pull away with a grin, but leans in to speak quietly enough for him to not hear, “I’ll give you guys a second.”

She shoots a wink at you as she and Riki pass each other, a soft snicker leaving you as she calls out happily for Jay, who’s just stepped off the bus.

Riki slows as he reaches you, his smile turning slightly sheepish now that it’s just the two of you. He lifts a hand to scratch the back of his neck, his other hand gripping the hem of his jersey. “You’re not mad about earlier, right?”

You ignore the fact his movements cause the jersey to ride up, revealing a sliver of his abdomen that makes you feel like a Victorian man seeing an ankle for the first time.

“I haven’t decided yet.” You respond with a nonchalant shrug and a thoughtful tilt of your head. 

He chuckles softly, his hand dropping from his nape as he steps closer with the same magnetism as before, like he doesn’t want to be too far, “C’mon, I was happy you’re here.”

“And you just had to pick me up?”

His laugh is warm and full, the sound washing over you and melting away any annoyance you could have pretended to feel. “Yes.” he says with a nod, his eyes crinkling at the corners again as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. 

This time, you roll your eyes and half-fight the smile naturally growing on your face, “Fine, but that’s your first strike.”

His brows raise in curiosity, his grin turning to a smirk as he asks, “First strike? How many do I get?”

“Three. Duh.” You sass, and he seems to find that just as amusing as your very serious strike system, though you find it kinda hot that he didn’t question the logic behind it. (The answer: if Sheldon Cooper can have a strike system, so can you.)

“And what happens after three?” He asks, leaning closer with intrigue and that stupid smile.

“Let’s hope you never find out.” You retort, having an idea of what to say but not sure if ‘flogging’ is too far. (You know Belle would laugh, though.)

“Nishimura!” Jungkook barks from the open doors of the bus. The last of the team is filing onto the bus, probably eager to get home. “Stop lollygagging and get on the damn bus.”

You snort softly at the word choice, but find that you aren’t safe from the Coach’s annoyance, “You too, go home. Don’t make me tell them about Shadow.” 

The gasp that leaves your lips is one of pure betrayal. The audacity. The nerve. “You—”

He raises his brows in a ‘do it, i dare you’ way and your lips fall shut.

Riki is unable to move past the Shadow thing. “Shadow? Like the Hedgehog?”

“No, like my cat.” You snap sarcastically, “Get on that damn bus.”

Your gaze moves to the vehicle in question, and you find the eyes of the Decelis lacrosse team trained on you and Riki. Through an open window, you hear a voice you think is Kai’s saying, “I thought her cat’s name was Gus.”

“Baby, you have to tell me now.” He laughs breathlessly, like he’s not sure whether to let it out or keep it in for your sake.

“It will never leave my mouth, and I swore him—“ Your words shift from defiant to angry as your finger shoots out to point at the tattooed man impatiently waiting at the bus’ door, “—to secrecy!”

Your words are full of betrayal as you vehemently continue with your manicured finger still pointed, “You took the Unbreakable Vow!

“You were eight.” The Coach retorts. “You used a Crayola marker. It was pink.”

You want to argue, but hold yourself back for everyone’s sake as you look back at a heavily amused Riki and say, “Get on the bus.”

“I’m not letting this go.” He warns with pure joy on his face and a laugh in his voice as he begins to slowly walk back.

You simply shake your head and cross your arms defiantly, “I’m not gonna tell you.”

He only tilts his head with ‘really?’ look, too smug for his own good, the bastard. 

Jay and Gaeul appear, her lipgloss smudged on his lips and messy on her own. Jungkook notices them with a disgusted frown and chilling glare. Jay mutters a ‘sorry Coach’ after kissing Gaeul goodbye, and she happily begins to approach your side.

Riki takes the brief moment of time to circle back and ask you quickly, “Are you free tomorrow? Or tonight?” 

You blink, mindful of Gaeul’s approach but finding his impulsivity endearing, nodding instead of saying something you’ll cringe at later.

His grin stretches wide, lighting up his face like you’ve just made his entire night. “Cool. I’ll text you,” he says casually, though there’s a spark of excitement in his voice that betrays him. Before you can respond, he jogs back toward the bus, shooting you one last look over his shoulder as he climbs the steps.

Gaeul sidles up to you, her arm sliding through yours with practiced ease, the grin on her face telling you she heard the exchange, “Ready to go?”

You’re thankful she doesn’t tease you again, nodding as the both of you begin to walk toward the visitor parking. 

With your back turned, you don’t see one of the slightly ajar windows sliding open more, or the boy that pops his head out of it until he calls out, “Hey!”

You stop mid-step, glancing back over your shoulder to find Riki leaning halfway out the window, his hair messy and damp but looking entirely too perfect for someone who just played an entire game.

You raise a brow in silent question.

“You look good in my jersey!” he calls out, his tone playful but tinged with something softer—something that makes your heart skip.

Your cheeks heat instantly, and you can’t fight the smile breaking across your face. Gaeul snorts next to you, gripping your arm like she’s about to combust.

“I know!” you shout back, doing your best to sound casual, though the warmth in your voice betrays you.

His grin widens, impossibly charming, and he shoots you a two-fingered salute before disappearing back into the bus as the vehicle begins to roll away. Gaeul finally releases her pent-up laughter, practically bouncing on her toes.

“You know?” she echoes, mimicking your response and clutching her stomach. “Girl, you’re gonna kill him one day with that play.”

You start walking toward the parking lot again, tugging her along to keep her from lingering. “I wasn’t playing anything,” you say, though the warmth in your cheeks tells a different story. “I do look good in his jersey. That’s just reality.”

“Sure, sure,” she teases, bumping her shoulder into yours. “But you could’ve just said thank you. Or blushed. Like a normal person.”

“Showing that he affects me is embarrassing.” You grumble softly, “I’ll die before I boost a man’s ego like that.”

(Though, you did cry in front of him about how much you like him, so maybe that argument isn’t valid anymore.)

She cackles at that, nearly stumbling over her own feet as you reach your car. “But, seriously, I’ve never seen him like that. He’s so…” Her voice trails off as she unlocks her own car a few spaces down, but the twinkle in her eye says enough.

“So what?” you press, opening your car door but pausing before you get in.

Gaeul grins knowingly, pointing at you with her keys. “So gone for you.”

You spend the next minute acting like the thought of him being ‘gone’ for you, as Gaeul put it, doesn’t make you want to squeal into a pillow and kick your feet, and when the two of you part ways that feeling remains.

The hour drive home feels longer with Riki on your mind, but maybe it’s the fact you aren’t sure if seeing him again tonight is the best idea. 

Something you’ve realized about yourself since meeting Riki is that you suck at impulse control. You preach self-control yet the moment he’s around you—or even mentioned—you find yourself wanting to act on every impulse the chemicals in your brain fire.

When you get home, pulling into the garage as your parents were once again out of town, you read a text Riki had sent not ten minutes prior.

A beat passes before he responds and you huff in disbelief.

The response comes in the form of a phone call. His contact photo lights up your screen, and you huff softly in amusement before pressing the answer button and bringing it to your ear as you get out of your car, “Yes?”

“Both?” His voice comes through, playful yet tinged with something warmer. You can hear the muffled chatter of his teammates in the background, he must not be home yet. “You’re really not making this easy for me, you know.”

“You asked,” you counter with a soft laugh, locking your car and slinging your bag over your shoulder. “I just gave you the answer.”

“Yeah? Which door should I be knocking on? Front or back?”

“You’re not seriously coming tonight, stupid,” you say, though the idea isn’t unappealing. You reach the door, cursing softly at how loud the garage is as it closes. Your hand wraps around the door handle.

“Why not?”

“Riki,” you start with a laugh, entering your home and flipping on the light.

“What? You said both,” he teases. You can hear the grin in his voice, and you roll your eyes even though he can’t see. “Besides, Coach is gonna drop us off at the field to grab our cars anyway. It’s not like I’m going out of my way or anything.”

You hesitate, caught between the thrill of seeing him tonight and the logic of how tired he must be after the game. “Are you sure you don't wanna go to bed?”

“Not really,” he says softly, a bit more serious now, warm. “I’d rather see you.”

Your stomach flips, the sincerity in his voice knocking the wind out of you. “You’re annoying, you know that?”

“And you love it,” he shoots back, but there’s a gentleness there that makes you smile despite yourself.

“You better shower before you get here,” You say after a beat, and you swear you hear a whispered ‘yes’ before adding, “Don’t need your stench stinking up my house.”

“Yes ma’am.” He chuckles on the other end, a sound that comes through your phone beautifully. “Just don’t fall asleep before I get there.”

“Yeah, yeah, just text me when you’re on the way.” You walk toward the kitchen, dropping your purse on the counter and unzipping it to grab the eyedrops as you say, “Also, do you have a curfew?”

“Why? You tryna keep me for longer, pretty girl?” His teasing words are unfortunately true, but you refuse to admit it.

“Well, it’s already almost 10:00.” You dodge his question as you unscrew the tiny bottle in your hands, “I didn’t know if your mom would want you home sooner rather than later.”

“Nah, she’s fine with it.” He assures you, and then a beat passes and he asks, “What about yours?”

“They’re out of town, so it doesn't really matter.” You shrug, “So to answer your question, the front door is fine.”

You hear shuffling on the other end, a car door opening and closing, “So, you don’t mind if I stay a while?”

You can hear the smile in his words, and with a bite of your nail you say, “I’ll kick you out when I get sick of you.”

He laughs softly on the other end, “I’ll stay till you kick me out, then.”

You exchange a few more words before he hangs up to drive, and you have a window of time to panic(and clean up). 

After a five minute debate with yourself about taking off or keeping on your makeup, you decide the former is the better option with how late it is and your track record of falling asleep without doing so. 

(You also make a promise to yourself that if you fall asleep in front of Riki, death is the only option.)

So, when you get the text that he's arrived and you open the door with a bare face, you half-expect him to comment on it. You had FaceTimed him late enough for the boy to bear witness to your nighttime routine on multiple occasions, but he’d never shown any reaction to it.

The only reaction you get is the same boyish smile as always, the warmth behind his eyes making your heart lurch in your chest.

“Hey,” he greets softly, hands stuffed into the pocket of his hoodie as he steps inside. He smells like some mélange of citrus and musk, his body wash and cologne you assume, and it makes your head feel funny.

“Hey.” You respond with a light huff of amusement as you step aside for him to enter, closing the door behind him, “I see you showered.”

His damp hair covers his forehead, the same messy style he has everytime he takes off his helmet and sweat saturates each lock, yet a bit frizzy like he towel-dried it before he left.

He chuckles, head shaking lightly in amusement as he lets you lead him toward the kitchen, “I listen.”

His words are playfully defensive, the boyish smile on his face and the way he cranes his neck slightly makes you laugh, “You better.” He hums, dropping himself onto one of the barstools at the kitchen island, eyes flickering over the space as you move to grab yourself a drink. “You want anything?” 

“Whatever you have.” He shrugs, so you grab two Dr Pepper cans from the fridge and move back to the island.

Riki watches you pull two straws from the drawer in amusement, his elbows on the counter as you pop open the cans with practiced ease and an unhurried leisure. You catch his eyes with a raise of your brow that has him smirking slightly and saying, “Just watchin’.”

“I’d prefer you didn't stare.”

“Can’t help it.”

You roll your eyes at him, but put the straw in and hold the can out toward him anyway. When he takes it with that almost besotted  look in his eyes and his fingers brush yours, you find yourself turning away from him the moment it’s out of your hand, “Are you hungry?” 

Riki shakes his head, tapping his fingers against the can before taking a sip. “Nah, we stopped for food after the game.”

You nod, opening the pantry to browse and distract yourself, but it does nothing to drown out the weight of his gaze. This was a horrible idea. When you glance at him, he’s still watching you, straw between his lips, eyes holding something unreadable.

“Stop it.”

Riki obediently averts his gaze, turning in his stool until he’s no longer facing you—though he playfully overachieves, turning his back to you completely. You can’t help but poorly conceal a laugh at his actions, which prompts him to look back over his shoulder for your smile.

You act like you don’t catch the way his gaze follows you, ignoring the way it forms a knot in your gut. “C’mon, let’s sit in the living room.”

He follows without hesitation, the soft thud of his socks against the floor trailing after you. You settle into the couch, tucking your legs beneath you, and he drops down beside you like he belongs there.

He does it so easily—makes himself at home in your space, in your presence. It should annoy you. Maybe it does, but not for the reasons you wish it did.

Riki sets his drink on the coffee table, stretching an arm across the back of the couch. He doesn’t touch you, but he could. If you shifted even slightly, if he reached just a little further.

You pretend not to notice.

You scroll through the options absentmindedly, hyperaware of Riki’s presence beside you—the way his fingers drum idly against the couch cushion, the way his head tilts slightly in your direction when you stop on a show.

“This good?” You ask, your voice quieter than intended.

“Yeah,” he says softly. You get the feeling he doesn’t really care what’s on.

You settle into the silence, the soft hum of the TV filling the space between you. For a moment, it’s almost comfortable, normal. But the stillness makes your mind race, and it’s impossible not to notice how close he is. You shift slightly, your side brushing against his as you settle deeper into the cushions, and the air feels thicker somehow, heavier.

You steal a glance at him, his eyes fixed on the screen, but there’s a subtle tension in his posture that wasn’t there before. His shoulders are a little tighter, his jaw a little more set, like he’s holding something back.

Like a ray of sunshine on a rainy day, Gus appears around the corner with a sweet trill and takes the attention of both of you away from the movie(and each other).

Riki perks up immediately, his gaze shifting from the screen to the small ball of fur trotting toward the couch. “Oh, hey, buddy,” he greets softly, leaning forward slightly as Gus hops onto the cushions with practiced ease.

You watch with amusement as he settles in Riki’s lap, loafing contentedly and blinking slowly at you from his spot. Unable to bear it, you shift slightly closer to the boy beside you to reach your cat more comfortably, muttering a soft and fond, “Traitor.”

The midfielder laughs softly, ringed fingers gently scratching the tomcat on his head near your own, “He loves me.”

“He’s a lovey cat.” You retort, and though your words are true, you’ve never seen him lay in anyone’s lap this fast, much less a boy. He was never too fond of Eunseok, and doesn’t really care much for Jongseob, yet seeks out affection from Riki every time he comes over. “He likes warm laps.”

“Maybe he just has good taste.”

“Or maybe he’s a cat.” You retort, shifting again in your seat to make sure you’re not too close. He comments this time.

“Am I making you nervous?” He asks teasingly, voice low. 

“Excuse me?” You ask with a judgemental confusion on your face.

He seems undeterred, only motivated by the tone you give him, “You keep fidgeting, baby.”

“What did I say about calling me that?” You lightly smack his side, and he winces playfully.

“My bad,” he concedes, hands lifting from Gus momentarily in mock-surrender, “it won’t happen again.”

“Don’t lie.”

He chuckles, “It’ll happen again.”

A noise begins to play from the other room, and Gus immediately launches himself from Riki’s lap to run off. You laugh softly at Riki’s slight pout, the boy dramatically reaching after the feline longingly, “That was his automatic feeder.”

“Damn.” He sighs, his hands falling back to his sides on the sofa. The tip of his thumb brushes your knee accidentally, and the tension in the air shifts once more.

Both of you seem to zero in on the simple contact, accidental and barely-there yet electric in a way you’d never experienced such minute touches. The tip of his thumb turns into the pad of it, a gentle tracing of circular patterns on your knee. Then, his knuckles join, as if testing the waters.

When you glance at him he's already looking at you, his eyes dark with something unreadable, something intense that makes your stomach flip and your chest explode with warmth. Like an itch, one you know how to quell but the side of your brain dealing with critical thinking tells you it’s probably a bad idea.

His palm flattening against your knee is enough for you to disregard the advice of your logical brain and act on the only impulse your brain can fire at the moment. 

Riki’s other hand moves to your cheek when you’re close enough, long fingers tangling into the hair behind your ear as his thumb brushes your cheekbone. His head tilts to the side, nose brushing yours as he shakes it lightly. He doesn’t use the hand on your cheek to push you away or tease you further, any playfulness gone and replaced by a warmth and desire that makes your chest fill with butterflies. 

Your breaths mix, the sound of the TV drowned out by the sheer madness of him. He looks like the last thing he wants to do is pull away, like it’s a struggle to not close the short distance between your lips and his—to not cross any lines. Then, his forehead presses to yours gently and he says, “We don’t have to. I can wait.” 

His words are soft, nearly whispered, yet his deep voice makes them heavier on your gut than you’d ever admit. You find yourself speaking in a mirrored tone, “I don’t want you to wait anymore.” 

His eyes widen just slightly, and his lips part, just barely, his gaze dropping to your mouth. His thumb continues its delicate path across your cheekbone, his fingers flexing in your hair as if anchoring himself to this moment. You can feel the warmth of his breath mingling with yours, the proximity making your heart race.

“I want you to know,” he begins, his voice a low rumble, “I’m not going anywhere. I meant what I said about waiting…I won’t rush you.”

You take a deep breath through your nose, his words a tender weight against your chest. But it doesn’t change what you’re feeling now or how close he is. How easy it would be to just close the gap and kiss him, to let all the tension and uncertainty dissolve with the space between your lips.

“I know.” You say with a slight smile.

Before you can second-guess yourself, your lips find his in a soft and brief kiss. 

Riki’s intentions seem to differ from your own as you move to pull away, the hand on your cheek sliding into your hair as his lips chase yours to pull you back in. There’s no hesitation behind it like before, his lips moving against yours with a building urgency that you can’t help but reciprocate.

You gasp softly against his mouth when the hand on your knee glides up your thigh, fingers pressing into skin and pulling you closer almost desperately. He tilts your head just enough to deepen the kiss, a low sound from his chest setting your blood aflame as you maneuver into his lap.

His hands move as your knees settle on either side of his hips, warm palms splaying over the curve of your waist and fingers digging into flesh to feel you as close as possible. It’s too much, yet somehow not enough.

Your fingers thread into his slightly damp hair, another deep sound escaping his intoxicating lips that has your stomach flipping. His breath is warm against your skin, his lips brushing yours again and again, each kiss deeper than the last. You can feel the way his heart beats beneath your palm, just as fast as yours, and it makes something tighten in your chest.

Riki tilts his head slightly, his nose brushing against your cheek as he exhales softly, his grip on your waist shifting as his hands trail up your spine. He pulls you impossibly closer, a restrained urgency in the way he holds you. He's patient—always—but there's something in the way his fingers press into your skin, in the way his lips part just enough for his breath to mix with yours, that tells you he's feeling this just as intensely as you are.

Pulling away feels like the worst idea in the world, but your lungs ache and something in the back of your mind tells you this is all too soon, too fast. The sound that the disconnect of your lips with Riki’s makes sends a thrill up your spine that the look in his eyes only exacerbates.

His forehead is warm against your own as your breaths mix and his hands slide back down to your waist. His lips ghost yours as you pant softly against him, his head tilting and his nose brushing over your cheek as his lips find the skin there, then your jaw, and your pulse point. You can feel the chastity of his kisses, the type that’s so gentle you’re not sure if you actually felt his lips on you or you just want them there enough to trick your mind into believing it.

“God, pretty girl.” He sighs, burying his nose into your neck to stop himself from kissing you more.

“Riki,” you murmur, unsure of what you want to say, only knowing that you don’t want him to move away just yet.

He hums against your skin, his breath warm, sending a shiver down your spine. “Yeah?”

You hesitate, then exhale softly. “Nothing.”

He chuckles, low and knowing, before pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark, but there’s something tender in the way they study you, like he’s trying to commit this moment to memory.

His thumb brushes absentmindedly over your waist, his touch light, reverent. “You good?”

You nod, though your heart is hammering in your chest. “Are you?”

He tilts his head slightly, as if considering, then grins—small and lopsided. “Yeah.”

His gaze drops to your lips again, lingering for a beat too long before he exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “I should go before I do something stupid.”

The admission has your stomach flipping once more, but you find yourself huffing softly in amusement, “Yeah, you should.”

The moment your hands move to his shoulders and you attempt to dismount his lap, his arms wrap around your waist and his nose returns to its home buried in your neck, “Mmm, in a minute.” 

A laugh escapes you, breathy and light, as your fingers absentmindedly trace the line of his shoulder blades. “You just said you should go.”

“I should,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your skin. “Doesn’t mean I want to.”

You hum softly, deciding against teasing him and instead settling into the security of his embrace. You feel him smile against your skin, slowly pulling his face from the junction between your neck and shoulder.

Then, his hands move, one sliding up your spine while the other lifts to cup your jaw, and he kisses your cheek. Soft. Chaste.

“Okay,” he murmurs, still so close. “Now I’ll go.”

You don’t stop him this time when he loosens his hold, when he gently shifts you off his lap. You don’t say anything as he stands, raking a hand through his already-messy hair(courtesy of your hands, of course), or when he stretches and his hoodie rides up. When he looks down at you, you almost shrink under his gaze before he smiles that warm way you love and he leans forward to grab your hand in his.

You let his fingers slide between your own, your eyes on him as he tugs you gently and prompts you to get off the couch to step closer to him with a soft huff of amusement, “I thought you were going?”

His hand in yours slips out in favor of joining the other on either side of your jaw, thumbs gently brushing your cheeks fondly as he mirthfully smirks down at you. You have no choice but to tilt your head back to look at him at this proximity, and he doesn’t seem all that eager to widen it.

“I am.” His muttered confirmation is contradicted by the way his lips find yours again, soft yet eager, no longer hesitant to join them as often as he’d like with your prior statement. When he pulls away and you chase his kiss, he hums with amusement in his grin, nose nudging yours. “How am I supposed to leave if you keep making me want to kiss you, huh?”

“I didn’t even do anything.” You defend yourself with a soft laugh.

“Mm, you don’t have to.” He groans softly, eyes shutting as he presses his forehead to yours and sighs, “You’re mine now, right?”

The bluntness of his question has your heart skipping but you hum as if apprehensive, “Maybe. You didn’t ask.”

His eyes open and he looks at you with playful disbelief and a whole lot of amusement, “You want me to ask you out, pretty girl?”

“I never said that,” You retort reflexively, ignoring the way his eyebrows quirk up in challenge and entertainment, “But I might be yours if you ask nicely.”

“Nicely. Right….” He nods in mock understanding, and when he leans in to kiss you again, you meet him halfway. “Will you…” He starts with his voice soft and deep in all the best ways as he pulls away between kisses to continue, “be…my girl?”

He pulls away just enough to see your face as you recover from the dizzying way his lips find yours, and your words are softer than you intended as you breathlessly reply, “I’ll have to think about it.”

His shoulders shake with soft laughter as he shakes his head and mutters, “shut up,” under his breath before he closes the distance once more.

𝒇𝒊𝒏.

©heedeungism : do not rewrite, copy, repost, or translate any of my works without my permission.