#and never once is she forced into masking

[amara-scott]

Just friends.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 — Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x female!Slytherin Summary: Hiding the one thing you truly loved, the one person you trusted most was a horrible way to live. But if it was the only way to be with him, you would do anything. And he would do the same. warning: torture, lots of angst, mention of abuse

The silence in the dungeon was shattered by the sound of heavy boots approaching. Theo and I barely had time to exchange a glance before the iron door groaned open. A masked Death Eater stepped inside, gaze fixed on Theo.

"Your turn."

Theo stiffened as the Death Eater advanced, roughly hauling him to his feet. I scrambled forward instinctively, but the second guard slammed a boot into my shoulder, sending me crashing back against the cold stone floor.

"Theo—" I gasped, but he didn’t look back. He didn’t fight, didn’t resist. He simply let them drag him away, the door slamming shut behind them with a finality that sent ice through my veins.

Then came the screams.

I had heard Theo shout before. In frustration, in anger, even in rare moments of unguarded joy. But never like this. The sound was raw, torn from his throat with such agony that it sent me into a shaking mess against the dungeon wall. I pressed my hands over my ears, but it did nothing to drown out the gut-wrenching cries of my best friend.

I squeezed my eyes shut, breath coming in ragged gasps. I wanted it to stop. I needed it to stop.

"Please," I whispered to no one. "Please…"

Minutes stretched into eternity. Every scream, every choked curse made my stomach churn with helpless rage. By the time the door opened again, I had curled into myself, trembling.

Theo was barely standing as they dragged him back in. His face was pale, sweat-slicked, and his arms hung limply at his sides. His legs gave out the moment they released him, and he collapsed to the floor with a harsh grunt.

"Theo!" I crawled forward despite the searing pain in my arm. My hands cupped his face, finding his skin burning hot beneath my fingers. "Hey, look at me—come on, you’re okay. You’re okay."

His eyelids fluttered weakly, lips parting as though to speak, but nothing came out.

"No time for reunions, little one."

A cruel hand twisted into my hair and yanked me backward. I screamed, nails clawing at the Death Eater’s grip, but I was too weak, too slow. My body betrayed me, exhaustion weighing me down as they dragged me away from Theo, his feeble attempt to reach for me nothing more than a sluggish twitch of his fingers.

The dungeon door slammed shut behind me.

I was thrown onto the stone floor, pain jolting through my knees and palms as I barely caught myself. The air was thick with tension, charged with something dark and suffocating.

And then I saw them.

Draco and Mattheo.

They stood near the edge of the room, eyes trained on me. Draco’s face was blank, his hands clenched at his sides, but Mattheo—

His face paled, horror flickering through his dark eyes before he schooled his expression into cold indifference.

But Bellatrix noticed.

"Ah!" She clapped her hands together in delight, her sharp grin stretching wide. "So it’s true! What an adorable little betrayal."

I forced my head up, locking eyes with Mattheo, silently begging him not to react. Not here. Not now.

But the damage was done. Bellatrix stepped closer, her wand tracing lazy patterns in the air. "The Dark Lord was right to be suspicious. You’re quite the little weakness, aren’t you?"

Voldemort stepped forward, his presence drowning the room in ice. "Let’s see if your devotion holds under pressure."

Pain exploded through me before I could brace myself, a thousand knives stabbing through my veins. I choked on a scream, body convulsing against the floor. Through the haze of agony, I barely registered Mattheo taking half a step forward before stopping himself.

Bellatrix chuckled. "Oh, darling, this is going to be so much fun."

I barely managed to lift my head, my gaze finding Mattheo’s once more. His face was a mask, but his hands trembled at his sides.

And I knew, in that moment, that we were both doomed.

Then Voldemort’s voice cut through the chaos, chilling and amused. "Let’s make this even more interesting, shall we?" He turned his piercing gaze on Mattheo. “My dear son, prove your loyalty. Torture her yourself."

The room seemed to freeze. Mattheo’s breath hitched. He didn’t move, didn’t blink. His hands curled into fists at his sides, but his face remained eerily blank.

Draco shifted uneasily beside him, his usual arrogance stripped away, revealing something dangerously close to fear.

Bellatrix tittered. "Oh, how deliciously tragic! What will you do, little Riddle? Obey, or betray?"

Mattheo finally moved, taking a slow step forward. My heart pounded wildly, bile rising in my throat. He wouldn’t—he couldn’t.

But then his wand was in his hand, aimed directly at me.

I held his gaze, silently pleading.

His fingers trembled.

He hesitated.

And Voldemort noticed.

Mattheo hesitated.

Voldemort tilted his head, the ghost of amusement curling his lips. "Well? Do it. Or shall I assume your hesitation is an answer in itself? If not you, I will have Bellatrix take her turn."

Mattheo's jaw clenched. His wand was still aimed at me, but his grip shook, his knuckles white. I could see the war raging behind his eyes, the desperation, the silent plea.

Don’t make me do this.

I could barely breathe. My body was already weakened from the Cruciatus, but the pain of what was happening—what was about to happen—was worse. My vision blurred, but I refused to look away from him. If this was the end of us, I wanted to see him. I wanted him to see me.

Bellatrix hummed, stepping closer to Mattheo, her lips curling in delight. "Oh, my sweet boy, don’t tell me you’re hesitating? What would dear Father think?" She tutted, shaking her head. "What would our Lord think?" She whispered harshly, probably hoping she could take over.

Draco swallowed thickly beside him, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He wasn’t enjoying this—none of them were. But none of them could stop it. Not without damning themselves.

Voldemort’s patience was wearing thin. "Do it."

A single breath. A single moment.

Then—

"Crucio."

White-hot agony tore through me once again, burning through my veins like molten fire. My screams echoed off the stone walls, splitting through the suffocating silence. My body convulsed against the cold ground, every nerve ignited in unbearable torment. It was worse than before—so much worse.

Because it was him.

Mattheo.

And he had to mean it to cast it.

Tears streamed from my eyes, but whether they were from pain or betrayal, I couldn’t tell. My mind was drowning in agony, my muscles locking and seizing beyond my control. And still, somewhere through the haze, I could hear it—

A strangled breath. A broken gasp.

Mattheo’s.

His hand trembled violently as he held his wand, his face ashen, his eyes wild with horror. The spell flickered—weak, unstable—because he couldn’t bear to do it properly. But even this, even his hesitation, was enough to rip me apart.

Bellatrix cackled. "Oh, how tragic! Look at him—so tortured, so conflicted!"

Voldemort, however, was unimpressed. His voice was as cold as death. "Pathetic."

With a flick of his wand, I was released from the curse, my body collapsing like a ragdoll. Every limb was shaking, my breath coming in short, choked gasps. My skin was clammy with sweat, my heartbeat a frantic, erratic mess.

Mattheo dropped his wand. It clattered against the stone floor, the sound deafening in the silence.

He took a step back, his expression shattered, his hands shaking as though they’d never be steady again. His lips parted, forming my name, but no words came out. Because what could he possibly say? The tormented look on his face, the tears running down his cheeks, as realization hit him of what he had just done. But I wasn't mad. I couldn't be.

Voldemort watched him with cruel amusement, then turned to me. "You should be grateful," he mused, stepping closer, my view of Mattheo now blocked by the dark lords feet. "If he had put real effort into it, you’d be much worse off."

A slow smirk curled his lips. "But he failed me. And failures… must be punished."

Mattheo barely had time to react before Voldemort’s wand slashed through the air.

"Crucio!"

Mattheo didn’t scream.

His body buckled, knees slamming into the stone, but he didn’t make a sound. His teeth clenched, his face contorted in pain, but he swallowed every cry, every plea. Like he has been through this before. Like it has been nothing new.

And I broke all over again.

"Stop!" My voice was raw, barely more than a sob. I tried to move, but my limbs refused to cooperate. "Please—please stop!"

But Voldemort didn’t stop. He watched Mattheo writhe, his suffering an idle amusement, his punishment a lesson. The room was filled with the sickening crack of Mattheo’s nails scraping against the stone, his muscles spasming under the curse.

"My, my," Bellatrix purred. "He’s quite the resilient one, isn’t he? But how long do you think he’ll last?"

Draco was pale, his fists trembling at his sides. But he did nothing. He couldn’t. No one could.

Tears streaked down my face. I couldn’t look away. I was unable to stop this. I was helpless.

I was the reason he was suffering.

Voldemort finally lifted the curse, and Mattheo collapsed forward, his forehead resting against the stone, his breaths ragged and uneven. His body twitched with aftershocks, his shoulders shaking from something that wasn’t quite pain—

But something much worse.

Voldemort’s voice was quiet. Deceptively calm. "Let this be a lesson to you, my son. If you ever hesitate again, I will make you regret it."

Mattheo didn’t answer. He didn’t move. He just knelt there, broken.

Voldemort turned back to me, his expression unreadable. "As for you…" His wand traced the air lazily. "I think you’ve had enough fun for one night. We still need you and that weak boy."

And with that, the guards wrenched me up, dragging me away. I barely had the strength to struggle, my body limp, my spirit crushed.

But as they pulled me through the doorway, my eyes found Mattheo’s one last time.

He was still on his knees, his hands curled into fists against the stone.

And I knew, with every shattered piece of my heart—

This would never stop haunting him.

Neither of us would ever be whole again.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Taglist: @genterom903 @a-little-funny @revesephemeres

[holyblonded]

does estrella ever just shut down? like not even want hugs from olga or ale?

— yes, estrella fs has moments where she shuts down completely

— she’s learned how to hide everything so well, how to put on the cocky smile, the trash talk, the “i don’t care about anything” mask, but when things really get too much, when she’s overwhelmed in a way she can’t even name, she doesn’t lash out. she just disappears into herself

— she’ll get really, really quiet. not in a sulking, angry way. just distant. like she’s not even there in the room

— ale and olga know her so well by now, they pick up on it immediately. but sometimes estrella won’t even let them near. she’ll flinch when they try to hug her, or say “i’m fine” too sharp, too empty

— those days are the worst for them, because they know estrella’s not okay and there’s nothing they can do to fix it except wait her out

— olga will usually camp out nearby, not hovering, just there. she’ll sit in the same room, doing something quiet, letting estrella feel her presence without forcing her to talk

— ale will keep checking in, soft and patient, sending estrella messages even if she’s in the next room: “te quiero,” “i’m here,” “you don’t have to say anything”

— and eventually, when estrella’s ready, it usually hits her all at once. she’ll fold into herself and then let herself fall apart, let them hold her

— but sometimes, it takes days. sometimes she doesn’t want hugs or words or comfort. she just wants to disappear for a bit. and they let her. because they know she’ll come back

— when she finally does, when she finally lets them back in, they hold her like they’ll never let her go again. because she’s their girl, even when she thinks she isn’t

[lilithschosen]

my liege, this I, Public-sex-but-they-get-caught lover. I have returned with another idea that came to me in a dream. unprofessional cop Agatha leaving a suspect in the car to bend her partner Agent Vidal over the hood... do you see the vision .... oh wow handcuffs

i don't have any Normal Answer for how i went with this? because it hit me suddenly i should add this to the possessive/jealous series since Rio and Agatha have shit goin on. but like.. what if... Alice.... enjoys it?

walk with me here

Somehow the force was short-staffed and they asked if Agatha would pick up a shift after promising time and a half. She nearly said no, too. But Rio promised she'd tag along, solely due to how little even goes on in Westview. 

For the most part, it was a slow night. The two sat at a busy intersection for the majority of the shift before driving off. They talk here and there, but otherwise are listening to the radio.

Once the walkie-talkie pinned to her shoulder chirped with her squad car's information, her head thuds back against the driver's seat. Rio chuckles under her breath, flipping the switch on the dashboard to turn the lights on. 

"You're cute with the uniform too," Rio flicks her tongue into her cheek, watching as Agatha lets out a dramatic, exhausted sigh. "Think we could keep it? Would love a bit of roleplay." 

Agatha picks her head up, groaning. "How are you so horny right now? I have to go play cop and arrest some fucking idiot." 

Rio laughs, buckling her seatbelt. She reaches across the center console to pat Agatha's thigh, hand lingering for a second before she takes it back. 

"Well, hope the idiot runs. You can just say they got away." 

Agatha starts the car, having been sat in the empty parking lot of the town grocery store. She doesn't turn the siren on, instead just leaving the flashing lights as she pulls out into the intersection. After the light turns green, she turns left, and continues driving as the walkie-talkie chirps again. 

Suspect was of an unknown age, in a full black ensemble was caught spray-painting a warehouse not too far from their position. They were stopped by the property owner and were being held for Agatha to scoop them up. The suspect was refusing to speak with the owner and had a mask on to hide their face. 

"Some punk ass defacing property," Agatha grips the steering wheel as she turns again, foot pressing harder on the gas pedal as she speeds. "Waste of my fucking time." 

Rio grabs onto the handle on the ceiling of the car, heart fluttering as she feels the cop car vibrate. "In a hurry, officer?" 

Agatha's eyes dart from the road to Rio and she breathes a laugh. After a couple more minutes, she turns into the parking lot of the warehouse. She flashes her high beams on, illuminating the building as she slows and eventually stops. An older man approaches, hands on the masked individual as he drags them toward the cop car.

Agatha throws the car into park but doesn't kill the engine, keeping the lights on as she exits the vehicle. Rio exits as well, but stuffs her hands in her pockets to watch. 

"Thank god someone showed up," the older man shouts, shoving the masked person forward. "This miscreant was spray painting my property. Take them away!" 

Agatha clears her throat, grabbing on her belt as she moves closer to the two people. The handcuffs attached to her side jingle together with each step. 

"What were you doing?" Agatha asks, a tone deeper than anyone was expecting. Rio shivers at it, biting part of her lip. "Trespassing on top of tagging? Good bit of jail time in your future." 

She watches the person roll their eyes before tugging their hand from the old man's grip. They shove down their hood and lift up their mask. Rio laughs abruptly as she recognizes the person.

"Agatha, I never thought I'd see you out here." 

Alice Wu-Gulliver stands sheepish, head low as she winces from Rio's obnoxious laughter. Agatha groans, shutting her eyes as she wishes for a meteor to strike her where she stands. 

"Come the fuck on Alice. You're an adult!" 

The older man frowns, crossing his arms over his chest. "Are you going to take her in?" 

Agatha raises a hand to the man, silencing him. "Does Jen know?" 

"Yeah, she knows. I promised I wouldn't get caught though. It's for an art piece!" 

Agatha grabs Alice by her hand, reaching across her to grab the other as she yanks her forward. "I got her, sir. Please go back to whatever you were doing. I'll take her in." 

The man gives a grateful smile before waving at her. They all stand awkwardly for a beat before he turns around and heads back into his building.

Agatha leads Alice to the car, stopping her at the backseat. "I'm not arresting you, but you'll have to act like it. I'll just drop you off at your place. God, this paper work is going to suck."

Alice sighs, rubbing the back of her neck. "Yeah, sorry. Jen's going to be pissed, too."

Rio hums, trying to stop herself from laughing again. She makes eye contact with Alice and just wiggles her eyebrows with a smirk on her face. Alice breaks the gaze, looking down to the ground as Agatha quickly opens the door and shuffles her in. 

Agatha reaches for the driver's side door, ducking in to shut the lights off before she stands and rests her forehead against the top of the car. Rio leans forward, standing on her tippy-toes to reach across and brush Agatha's hair with her fingertips. 

"Don't." 

Rio's hand stops, "Don't what?" 

Agatha picks up her head, pointing a finger at Rio. "Don't start right now."

Rio scrunches her nose, crouching down to look at Alice in the backseat. She ducks her head with her hand raised, waving off Rio. As she stands back up, she shrugs to Agatha. 

"She doesn't know what you're talking about either." 

Agatha presses her lips into a line, circling the car to face Rio. She pats at her hip until her hand hits metal. Before Rio has a chance to react, her arms are behind her back and Agatha is slapping handcuffs on her. 

She gasps, Agatha leading her away from the passenger side door to the hood of the car. 

"You wanna play your dumb little game, Rio?" she bites, folding Rio over the hood and kicking her feet apart with her boot. "I'll fucking play." 

Rio moans, face pressing against the cold metal of the cruiser hood. Agatha presses in behind her, bulge in her pants giving Rio something to grind up on. She grabs at the handcuffs on Rio's wrists with one hand while the other undoes her belt. 

Alice picks her head up at the thudding sound on the car and blushes furiously at the sight in front of her. She couldn't look anywhere else, the same as the last two times this has happened. Rio's head was turned away with Agatha fully focused on removing her belt. 

"You're fucking kidding me," Alice mumbles under her breath, leaning back in the seat. "Not again, dude.”

Agatha shifts her hips, belt buckle swinging by her side as it slips from the belt loops and falls to the ground by her feet. Rio grinds back again at the sound, work slacks providing less friction for her clit than ever before. She whines, lifting her head up from the cruiser to look back at Agatha. 

"You wanna get fucked by an officer, baby?" 

Rio nods, "I'm sorry I was speeding, sir. I can't have a ticket, I've always been a good girl." 

Agatha snorts a laugh, the over-acting from Rio nearly breaking her fully. She rolls her eyes, dropping her wrists and pins her to the car from behind. Pressing her crotch into Rio's ass, she slithers her hand down the front of Rio's slacks, then running it back up and underneath them.  Her fingers meet wet heat, no underwear. 

"Good girl, huh?" Agatha questions, "Seems like you're nothing but a slut to me. Were you planning to get caught and ditched your panties in hopes you'd be left off with a warning?" 

She parts Rio's folds with her middle finger, swallowing her own groan from how soaked Rio was. The walkie-talkie on her shoulder chirps but she ignores it, stroking Rio's slit as the woman mewls underneath her.

"You have the right to remain silent," Agatha roughly shoves down Rio's slacks, exposing her bare skin to the night air. "Anything you say can and will be used against you." 

"Fuck, daddy."

Agatha palms her ass, grabbing a fistful of the flesh while her other hand teases Rio's entrance. She smacks her ass cheek, watching the impact ripple out before she soothes the stinging spot with her palm. Rio's hips lift from the squad car, pressing into the bulge again. She hisses at the sensation of Agatha's uniform against her sensitive cunt, desperately grinding again and again.

"Tell daddy what you want, hon," Agatha's thumb lifts at the hem of Rio's white button up blouse, hand roaming up under it to trace along her spine. "Use your words." 

Rio whines, her brain fogging over with her desire. She lifts her hips once more, but Agatha's wandering hand finds it's way back to her side and pins her back against the cruiser. The car bounces gently from the force, making Alice look up at the two of them again. 

"Need you," Rio cries out, her lower belly being held against cold metal only stoking the fire that grows between her thighs. "Need you so bad." 

Agatha pouts mockingly. "So needy, baby. Always so needy for me." 

She drops to her knees, both hands now spreading Rio apart. Seeing Rio's dripping pussy so perfectly on display, her swollen clit and glistening folds has her mouth watering. 

She swipes her tongue up from her clit to her core, tip of her tongue circling with a brief promise of slipping inside before she licks back down to her clit. She sucks it into her mouth, holding it carefully between her teeth. Rio's fingernails scrape against the paint of the hood, puffing through her teeth as she grinds her hips against Agatha's mouth. 

Alice tries to look away but can't. As if she were fully entranced in her friends fucking in front of her. She feels guilty initially, not needing to watch like a pervert. But when Rio lifts her head to turn it and drop it back down on the hood, their eyes connect. Alice catches the sparkle of amusement before Rio's eyes close and she cries out Agatha's name.

Heat rushes to Alice's core, fingers twitching as she slowly slips a hand underneath her baggy cargo pants and spreads her legs. It's wrong to feel this way, the intense arousal from the display in front of her. She knows it's wrong. However, her mind starts to wander. Remembering those nights years ago when she was the one under Agatha. Feeling her rough hands on her thighs, lips on her neck. 

Alice swallows down the guilt as her fingertips press into her throbbing clit, hips bucking into her hand.

Rio's gasps have Agatha working harder, tongue lathering against her clit. She sucks and licks and prods at the engorged bundle of nerves, smirking against Rio's slick as Rio clenches around nothing. She cums with a high-pitched yelp, muffling herself by biting the back of her hand. 

Agatha shifts her head back with the lower half of her face coated in Rio's arousal. She swipes at her bottom lip with her thumb, sucking the leftover juices from it, and reaches for her pants. 

"I'm not done with you yet, babygirl." 

Rio blinks lazily, the intense orgasm just from Agatha's mouth making her grumble in response. She feels Agatha's firm hand on her hip again and she groans. Agatha tugs the toy out from her pants, guiding it to Rio's cunt. She holds the tip against her entrance, watching how fast Rio tries to push against it, trying to take it inside of her greedy hole. 

"Beg for it." 

Alice bites her lip from moaning too loud, eyes rolling into the back of her head as her other hand slips underneath her hoodie to twist a nipple. Guilt long gone now, her wet heat coating her hand as she continues to grind against it. 

"Please," Rio whimpers, "I need it, daddy. Fuck me with your cock, need to feel you in me." 

The corners of Agatha's mouth turn up in a subtle smirk, eyes lifting from Rio's backside to Alice in the car. She catches the sight of what Alice was doing and she grips her silicone toy around the base. She blinks, train of thought stuttering for a second before she lifts the toy off of Rio's pussy and taps the underside against her core. 

Rio breathes out a moan, bringing her arms underneath her head as she rests against them. Agatha does it again, the slick sound of her arousal against the toy was too loud in public but neither of them cared. 

As she lifts the shaft from Rio's cunt again, she thrusts her hips in while pointing the tip against her entrance. It slips in easily and Rio bounces herself on it without second thought.

Agatha lets Rio take it all, as much as she wants. She watches the toy disappear inside of her until the harness is against her skin, fully sheathed inside of her. She feels the resistance of Rio's walls tightening around her silicone cock and pumps her hips out then back in again. 

"You like being fucked in a parking lot at night, Rio?" Agatha pants, "Bet you would've wanted me to fuck you regardless if Alice was the perp, huh?" 

Rio can't speak, tongue-tied from the rough pace Agatha was setting inside of her. She feels the tip of the toy driving into her cervix and she just rocks back into her girlfriend to take it all, as she always does. 

Agatha's hand grips the back of Rio's head, pulling it up off her arms by her hair as she fucks her. "Come on, hon. You were so snarky before, where'd the brat go?" 

Rio cries out in her wanton lust, teeth bared to the night sky as Agatha ruts into her. Still unable to speak with her sex-induced brain fog, she grumbles out moans that increase in pitch each time Agatha drills her strap into her. 

Agatha, however, keeps an eye on Alice in the backseat. Her head is back against the seat, eyes closed as she furiously rubs at her clit while palming her breast. Agatha's lip curls in a snarl as she manages to fuck Rio harder. The car rocks underneath them, bouncing Alice gently as well. 

"Only I get to fuck you," she growls, loud enough for Alice to hear. "Only I can get your cunt this wet, only I can be this deep inside of you." 

Alice gasps quietly as she kicks a leg up against the driver's seat, fingers shaking as she plunges them inside of herself. Rio chants Agatha's name rapidly, tears welling in her eyes as her orgasm unfolds. She pleads with her, the jumbled words sounding like marbles in her mouth, and Agatha responds by staying consistently on the rhythm she set. 

Lightning flashes behind Rio's eyelids, pinching them shut as she cums. Her slick dribbles out around the toy and coats Agatha’s waist. Agatha chokes out her own moan as she cums as well, an arm wrapping underneath Rio's hips as she twitches and snaps her hips up into her. 

Alice's eyes are wide, watching her friends unfold as she strokes her walls with two fingers, curling them up in the right way, sending her into an orgasm as well. She collapses back against the seat, gasping for breath, and splays her hand under her hoodie against her stomach. 

She stares up at the ceiling of the cruiser, panic rising yet again at what unfolded. She wipes herself off of her fingers, smearing her juices against the inside of her pants before stuffing both hands inside the front pocket of her hoodie. The car stinks of sex, she realizes. Her cheeks tinged pink as her clit throbs with the dull, post orgasm reminder of what she did. 

Agatha pulls the toy out of Rio with a wet pop and she tucks it back into her pants. Having soaked through her boxers herself and Rio soaking her pants, she was surprisingly confident. She coughs, clearing her throat as she adjusts herself and her outfit. 

Once Rio regains herself, she chuckles. The deep exhaustion from her antics catches up to her as she tries to deliriously push off of the hood of the car but forgets about the cuffs keeping her hands behind her back. Agatha grabs her, steadying Rio for a beat before she unlocks the cuffs and rubs at the reddened spots left behind on her skin. She kisses the side of Rio's face, mumbling an apology. 

"Hold still, baby." 

She gently and delicately tugs Rio's slacks back up around her waist, patting her on the ass once they're buttoned tight. She takes Rio's hand in hers, squeezing her fingers affectionately, and guides her to the passenger side of the cruiser before tucking her into it. She extends the seatbelt, which Rio grabs and buckles herself in. Before Agatha can pull away, Rio puckers her lips for one final kiss. 

Agatha rolls her eyes playfully, accepting the kiss with a quick peck. "Love you." 

Rio smiles, head resting back as Agatha shuts the door and hurries to the driver's side. She sits down, starting the car, and shutting the door. A hand reaches up to adjust the mirror, eyes honing in on Alice in the backseat.

"So," Agatha finally says, "Are we gonna talk about this like adults? Or are we gonna pretend this never happened.”

Alice hesitates, not wanting to answer. She licks her lips nervously before scooting to the edge of the seat. “I don't even know what happened, honestly. But I don't mind if you don't mind.” 

Rio rolls her head to the side, hand reaching across the center console to grip Agatha's thigh. Agatha layers her hand over Rio’s as she takes hold of the steering wheel with the other. 

“This'll be a long ride home, then.” 

[blackjackkent]

OK, with Neve back in the party, it's onward through another Venatori fight, and then--

In the brief silence after the last enemy mage falls, a strange voice echoes through the air. It is not a voice like any Helena has heard before - it is flanged and resonant and dripping with unearthly malice.

And it belongs to the creature standing on the ledge of a shattered building just above them - a creature of winding tentacles beneath a long and skeletal body with more than the recommended number of limbs.

"Chaos. Decay. The past in ruin..." the voice hisses malevolently. "And the last few mortal servants of the Dread Wolf..."

Helena goes suddenly still, horror and terror melding together and surging up and down her spine. She remembers seeing the vague shape of the two blighted gods emerging from the Veil rip in the wake of Solas's botched ritual - but she never got a clear glimpse until this moment, and it is perhaps the most unsettling thing she has ever witnessed.

"Ghilan'nain..."

(A/N: Once again props to the design team here - Ghilan'nain is VERY unsettling; her proportions, tentacles, and movement are all super off-kilter and the whole thing is very atmospheric.)

"We only need one thing from you..." Ghilan'nain hisses. "Surrender it, and you may go."

Between one blink and the next, she jolts forward, close enough that Helena can see the glinting details of the battered mask she wears over her corrupted features.

"Give up the Dread Wolf's dagger."

Involuntarily, Helena's hand goes to the dagger on her hip. The chill at her spine hardens into ice. Ghilan'nain came to find her, here, for the dagger. That means Ghilan'nain knows exactly who she is, and that she would be here.

Perhaps that means Minrathous is burning because of her. Because she has this dagger. Because Varric dragged her into this war.

A sudden surge of guilt and panic rolls through her and she backs up a few steps, her fist white-knuckled around the dagger's hilt. There is, perhaps, a subtle instinct to hurl the dagger towards Ghilan'nain, flee the scene, hope that the city might be spared if the creature is given what she wants.

But no. She gulps down air, steadying herself. Ghilan'nain is at heart just another powerful, corrupted mage. Helena has fought plenty of them, and there is never any point in running. A power-hungry mage, given more power, will only use it to crush those beneath them. There is nothing to do but keep fighting.

"Come get it," she growls.

The eerie curve of Ghilan'nain's long neck twists as she draws back. And there is a strange mocking smile in that unearthly voice as she answers. "By force, then. Whatever remains of you will become my new creations..."

The dragon crashes to the ground in front of them. This, too, Helena has not had a chance yet to examine at close range - but the corruption is now obvious. Blight pustules coat the dragon's scales, its face, its legs and wings. Writhing tentacles drip from its jaws and its ribs.

And in agony and rage it screams, sending a blast of heat forward that almost knocks them off their feet. And then it leaps with a single great beat of its wings to slash its claws down at Helena's face.

[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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[euthymiya]

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 😔

[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.

[murderofravens]

fly me to the moon

pairing: hwang inho/young-il/frontman x fem reader

part: 3/3 [finished]

warnings: age gap (reader is 20, he's in his late 40s) angst, slight masochism, made him very fatherly again, mutual obsession, badly written smut, conflicting feelings, she's kinda crazy about him, brat reader, brat tamer inho, unhealthy dynamics, slight infantilization

summary: you're desperate to piss him off. it doesn't end well.

word count: 4.2k

FULL SERIES MASTERLIST | MASTERLIST

the ankle monitor attached to your leg itches.

you grunt in irritation as you use a spoon to scratch the area. it barely helps— you know the itching is more mental than it is physical. the mere presence of it bothers you. but at the same time, you're relieved. you were given two options— either that, or still having your hand chained to the bed with those insufferable straps. you chose the former. atleast it allows you to walk freely.

you're still not used to this lifestyle. honestly speaking, you've lost track of how long it's been. you mainly tried to count the days based upon the games, but inho doesn't allow you to witness the brutality of the newer games he's designed. he never even mentions them— pretends like it was all a dream and that everything between the two of you is okay. you pretend you don't almost piss yourself whenever his voice switches mid conversation— or when he puts on that mask and grabs his gun before leaving.

while it irritates you, a part of you is almost grateful. atleast this way, you can pretend you don't know exactly how sadistic he can be.

you almost snort at your thinking. you feel pathetic— but then again, do you have a choice?

he's given you free reign of his lavish penthouse— conveniently keeping any and all electronics or sharp objects away from you. which, you need to clap him on the back for. because the first thing you did when you were left alone and uncuffed was look for anything that you could use to hurt yourself— to touch an empathetic nerve in inho. your confidence in thinking of doing so was because he's made it clear how much the idea of losing you scared him. you tried to joke with him the other day— something about him coming back to find you bleeding out on the floor, and he got so furious that he threw his bottle of whiskey against the wall and then gave you an earful about making distasteful jokes. you almost considered running over and grabbing a glass shard and killing yourself in front of him to truly traumatize him like he did with you; but then the thought of your family and your dignity stops you.

you will not kill yourself over a man.

you've thought of many jokes since then, but never dared mention them in his presence.

currently, you were frolicking around— eyeing the massive screen on which he apparently watches the games. you'd insisted upon it once— and he'd pulled you into his lap and allowed you a single glimpse before hiding your face in the crook of his neck and patting your back till you fell asleep to the sound of 'fly me to the moon.'

your eyes narrow. you look around, desperate to find something. there's an itch within you that you need to scratch—it's different than your ankle. it's the itch to be insufferable, to take a sweet little revenge against your old man; to frustrate him and ruin his day like he ruined your life. you can only hope that if you succeed in doing so, he won't kill your entire family in a fit of rage. you've been forcing your heart to believe he's only bluffing, even though you know he isn't.

your eyes fall upon the side table placed by the couch. you look at it, then at the screen. then back at it. with a newfound vigour, you rush forward and pull out the drawer— it's empty except for a few files. you toss them out and hold the drawer in both hands, before looking back at the screen with the most devilish glint in your eyes.

you let out a victorious roar before lunging— using all the strength you can muster and then thrashing the drawer against the screen.

it doesn't budge. the blow has you stumbling over your steps, and the drawer falls upon your feet. you let out a cry, tears of frustration appearing in your eyes. you scream and pick up the drawer again, and then thrash it against the screen over and over— till your hands hurt and sweat builds across your skin.

the screen remains spotless.

amidst your one sided battle, you fail to hear the sound of the door opening.

"it's shatterproof." a heavy voice announces, distorted through the mask.

panting, you drop the drawer and shoot him the meanest glare you can muster with mascara running down your cheeks. he cocks his head to the side— the barrier of the mask between you two making you feel uneasy.

"are you done acting like a child?"

you release a heavy, shaky breath as you stare at him. you want to jump at him, tear that mask off and slam his head against the wall. you want to kiss him and beg him to spare you and your family. your heart races with adrenaline— and your skin feels hot. acting like a child, he says. he's treated you like a child forever. what's so wrong in acting like one?

you slick your hair back, eyes darting around the room— examining everything you can see, till an idea pops in your head.

against your better judgement, you pick up the drawer again. slowly, like a predator, you walk to the side, your gaze never leaving his figure. you stand before his music box— the one with the pretty jazz band that plays 'fly me to the moon,' whenever he watches the games. you've heard it quite a few times since you got here, and you have buried your head in the pillows a few times to avoid hearing it.

you used to adore frank sinatra, but now you can only associate his lyrics with impending doom.

you wish he wasn't wearing that mask, because you would've loved to see his reaction when you ruined something he visibly finds comfort in. you would've felt bad, if he hadn't done the same to you. if he hadn't taken your young-il from you.

you raise the drawer, and then bring it down fiercely. it almost happens in slow motion— how the music box shatters into pieces, and the tiny dolls fall to the floor.

you pant as you drop the drawer then, and wipe the sweat off your forehead. suddenly feeling brave, you shoot him the most smug smile you can muster in your breathless haze.

the silence that follows is suffocating. you blink at him, shoulders rising and falling with your heavy breaths — while he stands there patiently with his hands clasped behind his back.

"are you gonna keep standing there, watching me?" you ask, quirking an eyebrow.

you resist the urge to step back as he advances towards you ever so slowly. he looks at his broken music box, then redirects his blank, masked face back at you.

you egged him on, "aren't you gonna say something?"

"was this supposed to anger me?" he asks. you can detect a hint of amusement in his voice, "a man in my position doesn't have materialistic attachments."

you scoff, vision almost turning red with rage at his tone.

"i think i can afford another music box," he adds dryly, cocking his head to the side, "but what do i do about your manners?"

your eyes narrow with agitation— you were so desperate to piss him off, to evoke an actual reaction out of him; but he isn't giving you one. it frustrates you. before you can do anything, his foot pops out, hits your leg in just the right place to make you shriek and drop to your knees immediately— till the shattered pieces of the box dig into your skin painfully— wood and glass.

"fuck!" you wince, letting out another pained groan. he watches you blankly, and in this moment you wish that mask would just disappear. it makes him look more like a stranger than he already is. you want to see his reaction, even if it is at the expense of your pain. "you— ow! you asshole—"

"language." he chides, bending down slightly so he can grab your hair and yank your head up. you squirm around, trying to get up but he holds you in place, "why must you keep acting like a child—"

"why, i thought i was a child!" you snap back at him angrily, recalling his words from when he refused to send you back into the games. you're furious, "why shouldn't i act like one if you keep treating me that way!"

"do you not want me to?" he asks, giving you a humourless chuckle, "you want me to treat you like the adult you are, huh, darling? i'll treat you like an adult."

you grumble in confusion and he gives your head a little push as he lets go of your hair and straightens up. his hand comes down to shift his robe to the side so he can have access to his dress pants. he pulls it down slightly along with his boxers, revealing how hard he's been by your little show of defiance. your eyes widen and you almost choke on your spit as he grabs your head again, his free hand guiding his cock to your eager mouth, "fuck— is this what you wanted?" he groans, throwing his head back slightly as you wrap your lips around him with the enthusiasm of a slut. he's so unbelievably thick— and all your knowledge for sucking dick comes from porn, so you try your best— forgetting almost every vengeful thought as the skin of his neck is exposed to your vision.

you have never wanted a man this badly.

small cuts on the skin of your knees open up because of the damage you caused, but you can't bring yourself to think about it— not when you lick a long, wet stripe on the underside of his cock, before placing a teasing kiss upon his tip. he looks down at you again, his gloved hand digging into your hair, guiding your head up and down as you try to take him fully into your mouth. your hands come up in an attempt to hold what your mouth can't, but he slaps them away, "put those behind your back."

this time, you obey. your eyes water as he immediately pushes himself to the hilt till your nose presses against the coarse hair at his pubic bone— and only then you know that you are truly gone, because you moan at the smell of him. he lets out a soft grunt again when he pulls your head back, before thrusting in and out of your mouth gently. your hands stay clasped behind your back as he uses your mouth, his balls slapping against your chin as your watery eyes look up at him. you wish you could see him— you want to see his face, you want to see what he looks like when he cums in your mouth for the first time.

you whimper, pulling your head back slightly. he allows you, and you lean down to press a needy kiss to his balls before licking up his cock again. your voice is hoarse when you speak, "let me see your face."

he looks at you for a bit— the stoic face of the mask making you feel more and more isolated— like you're pleasuring someone else. and perhaps, you are, in a way. this isn't your young-il anymore.

"after that little stunt," he answers quietly, voice grim, "you don't deserve it."

you almost whine as he grabs your head again and forces his cock back down your throat— and then you realize what this is. what you thought started as some sort of reward is actually a punishment. you whimper as you gag around him, choking with each sharp thrust as his movements begin to get harsher. tears run down your face as you glare at him, and in retaliation you bring your hand up and grab his thigh. he hisses at being disobeyed, pulls your head forward till you nose is quite literally pressed against his stomach. "hands. behind your back."

despite struggling to breathe, you shake your head as best as you can given the situation. you can't see his face, but you can tell the exact expression he must be making. the one where his eyes get all intense, and his lips start quivering with rage, as if he wants to explode.

you moan slightly and take the opportunity to pull your head back. and then get back to sucking his cock— your tongue rolling deliciously across his shaft as you cup his balls. it almost makes him stumble with shock— the sudden pleasure he feels, judging by the throaty moan that escapes him. motivated by his newfound weakness, you jerk him off while mouthing at the soft skin of his balls, and he almost bends down as he lets out a raspy groan, "fuck! that feels— fuck!"

"language," you tease slightly, voice raspy. you enthusiastically indulge him, your brain suddenly consisting of him, and only him. his voice. his face. his moans. the way his eyes crinkle. you switch from sucking his balls to kissing his tip and jerking him off.

as if to reward you, he suddenly pulls his mask off, one hand of his going up to hold onto the wall for support. he squeezes his eyes shut, and the mere sight of his face has you crumbling— you let out a soft moan as you take him down your throat again. one of your hands slips into your panties, and you start rubbing your clit with vigour as he fucks your throat.

"you little fucking brat—" he grunts, thrusting shallowly in and out of your mouth, the vein in his neck popping and a few strands of his styled hair falling beautifully down his forehead. he's hot when he swears, you think— starry eyed as you look at him. you've never seen a more angelic sight. as you gurgle around his cock, he holds your head down again and throws his head back, cumming with a loud gasp. you cum with a choked moan of your own, your hand shaking as you rub circles into your clit, overstimulating yourself.

you choke as you feel him spill down your throat, and he pants heavily as he slowly pulls himself back, before quickly tucking himself into his pants. you swallow it and cough slightly, covering your mouth with the back of your hand as you wince a little— it leaves a bitter and sticky aftertaste, but nothing too bad. you're sure you'll get used to it. he grabs your wrist and bends down to stick your wet fingers in his mouth, licking your slick off. his tongue rolls around the digits and you moan, eyes dazed as he ensures your entire palm is clean, before pulling back while smacking his lips and humming in appreciation like you were the most prized delicacy in the world.

as if nothing happened, he swiftly picks you up like you're a mere doll— carrying you bridal style to the bathroom. your hair— damp with sweat, sticks to your skin, and your eyes are bloodshot.

and though you can remember your original intention being wanting to take revenge, this somehow felt much more better.

perhaps, you really are too far gone.

you look off into space thoughtfully as he settles you on the bathroom counter. his face is uncovered but guarded— he takes his gloves off, grabs a towel and wets it with water before tending to you. with utmost gentleness, he pulls your bottoms down and tosses them in the basket, before analyzing your wounds.

your panties are so wet it's almost shameful. you got that horny just by sucking his cock. he glances at your face, and you look away sheepishly. the smell of you makes his head spin, but he needs to concentrate on something else. you clear your throat and redirect your attention to his face.

you stare at him while he stares at your knees. he gently wipes the blood off, ensuring no remaining pieces of the music box stick to your skin. he disinfects your wounds and it makes you hiss— he almost winces at the sound, but you're not sure.

you don't understand why he's doing this. how can he hurt you and tend to your wounds at the same time? but then again, how can you hate him and let him do this to you at the same time too?

perhaps, you both are confused. you need someone to rely on, and he needs someone to need him. but neither of you know how to deal with the complications that come with your unconventional relationship, so you pretend it's normal. it's okay.

you look at him but he doesn't meet your gaze. you wish you could go back in time, or travel to another dimension. meet him under different circumstances. perhaps, that relationship would've been healthy. you clear your throat, and change the subject.

"you know, back in the hall," it hurts a little to talk, but you want to hear his voice, and you're desperate to talk about something. anything to end this silence. "before i was leaving to come to you, the old lady said something funny."

he stiffens at the mention of her, and you pretend not to notice. he doesn't glance at you as he cleans your knees, before placing a comforting palm on your thigh. he hums in question, gaze lowered.

"she called you my father," you chuckle slightly, your voice suddenly getting shaky, "isn't that funny? such a funny thing to assume."

he tenses at your words and clenches his jaw. his thumb rubs circles onto the skin of your thigh, before he lets out a small chuckle of his own— it sounds dry. he finally looks up at you— and you almost see a glimpse of your young-il in his eyes. you think he looks upset. you wonder if you offended him, and you consider apologizing, but he interrupts your train of thought.

"really?" he asks quietly, giving you a small smile. it's odd, engaging in casual conversation with him after the little fight you two just had. "well, with how many times i looked after you—"

"—you might as well be," you finish his sentence with a roll of your eyes, "yeah, i know."

he gives a soft, hearty laugh then, tapping your knee. "yeah." he trails off, voice getting quieter. distant. "might as well be."

his mind drifts off. if he hadn't been so late, his kid would've been around your age. perhaps, that's why he immediately grew protective of you during the games. perhaps, it was fate.

your gaze softens, face falling slightly. he looks distant again— like he's fighting a war within himself. you swallow the lump in your throat.

"i saw you that way at first, you know." you said quietly, blinking down at your lap. "you made me feel safe." and now all i feel is fear around you.

he looks at you wordlessly, gaze unreadable. he's thinking— reading you, but you can't do the same with him. he has way more experience at hiding his thoughts and expressions than you do. he's spent decades confined within these walls with people in masks being his only companions— he learned how to wear one himself. permanently. he wants to tell you that you're an open book to him— since the start.

"do i not anymore?" he questions instead, cocking his head to side. you roll your eyes, shoulders slumping as you shoot him an impassive glare.

"seriously?" you ask, voice obvious. it makes him smirk slightly, and he clenches his jaw to hide it.

he cups your face, pulls it up as he looks into your eyes. you don't say a word, simply glaring at him as he places a kiss upon your forehead.

"let me tell you," he quirks an eyebrow— a hint of a smile on his face as he squishes your cheeks, "no kid of mine would be a brat."

you scoff, pushing his hands off as you look away from him. he looks unbothered as he grabs you and puts you back down on the floor.

"i can do that myself, thanks." you huff, straightening your shoulders as you brush past him.

he grabs your hand, pulls you back towards him till you collide into his chest. he cups the side of your face, gently leaning down to rub your noses together. it almost leaves you breathless with how flustered you feel.

"would you rather i give you the silent treatment again?" his voice is unabashedly soft as he speaks. "you didn't like that last time."

your breath hitches, and your heart begins to race again. you clench your jaw before closing your eyes, releasing a shaky breath. you remember collapsing in his arms and crying your heart out when he gave you the silent treatment— being ignored by him hurt and made you feel alone in a way you hadn't felt in years.

you shake your head no.

he smiles. it's almost sinister. his eyes are still crinkly and he would look so utterly adorable to you before— but now, you know his intentions. you can tell when he's smiling only because he's hiding a different approach.

"then you'll behave, won't you?" he whispers, placing a soft kiss upon your lips. you blink rapidly before nodding again.

"good," he says quietly, softly tapping your cheek before letting go and composing himself. "i'll clean that mess up. go back to bed and take a nap, you must be tired after that little show."

you grit your teeth before shooting him a glare, and he merely blinks at you, amused, before you rush back to the bedroom.

he follows not long after, wearing only a black undershirt and his pants. you stare at him as he gently places a tray on your bedside table. you sit up, looking at it curiously. it's a cup of tea.

"for your throat," he explains softly with a pat to your head. the gesture makes your heart feel warm— and once again you start wishing you had met him under different circumstances where he didn't practically kidnap you. that way, your guilty conscience wouldn't berate you for desiring him so much, for being so comfortable around him.

he stands by his own side of the bed, fiddling with his wristwatch. you sit up properly and blow on the tea before drinking it, humming in appreciation. it's your favourite beverage.

he gets into bed soon enough, sighing to himself. you place the empty cup on the table and look off to the side, not wanting to meet his gaze, no matter how good he looks.

he says your name softly and you melt.

you look at him and he tenderly caresses your face with the back of his hand. you wish you could read his thoughts.

you swallow your pride and say what you've been thinking.

"why did you never apologize to me?"

his gaze hardens slightly and his hand pauses. you swallow hard as you await his answer.

"because i'm not sorry," he says calmly, "I don't regret anything i did."

you clench your jaw, "not even hurting me or my feelings?"

he chuckles a little— amused at your naivety, "I don't regret doing anything that brought you to me."

you blink at him before looking away. he forces you to meet his gaze by grabbing your chin.

"i don't regret anything," he repeats lowly, eyes intense. "as long as i get to have you."

"you hurt me." you whisper, voice cracking.

"i know." he nods, "you'll get over it. you're my brave girl, aren't you?"

you grit your teeth so hard you fear your jaw might snap. you glare at him, while he looks at you indifferently. wordlessly, he opens his arms and welcomes you into the comforting little space he created. you consider running off, defying him, breaking the tea cup and using the glass to threaten him or just killing yourself— anything.

bur you don't. like always, you succumb to him, and give up control. you eagerly crawl into his side and he holds your head against his chest. he pulls the sheets over the two of you and pecks your forehead.

"still don't feel safe?" he asks, almost teasingly. you can't believe he keeps trying to joke with you— he's cruel. you scoff, giving him a weak shove and he grabs your wrist and holds your palm against his chest. you can feel his heart beating. you wonder if yours beats this loud too.

you get comfortable a few moments after, and force yourself not to think about your life before the games. before him. you wonder if your family is happy, if they're wondering where you are. you wonder if your mother thinks you're dead, you wonder if she still prays for you. even if your family thinks you're dead, you hope they find happiness and move on from the thought of you. you hope they live a life of ease.

the thoughts make you sniffle and you hold back the urge to cry, burying your head further into his chest. he hums softly, patting your head almost paternally till you fall asleep, and only when he is completely sure that you're out of it, that he allows himself to close his eyes too.

and the next day, the cycle repeats.

A/N: another song title because i have no creativity... anyway this was meant to be a blurb but i ended up writing a glimpse into their relationship because i love them so much. and well.. the smut is mid but i hope you guys enjoyed it. thank you for reading and thank you for the support!! i love all of you.

tags: @bonelessghoul @cowuies @auspicious-lilana @politicstanner @verouys @gloriousjellyfisharcade @carolinevoight @shadowmoonlight0604 @ancrygurl @sunoon @jessgentleman @colorwastaken @loversroq @clown-around-and-find-out @popcorm @xcinnamonmalfoyx @robertthehoover @iloveoldermen0204 @kpopsmutty69 @iamkali @thebluehair23

[daisymooonart]

May my Emperor live ten thousand years!

An (un)official painting of the Emperor and Empress of Huaxia. I would absolutely bow for Wu Zetian. Maybe not Qin Zheng, but he is hot and communist so I am tempted.

This took me around 15-20 hours to make and it was so worth it <3

Details under the cut!

First off: the faces.

Because of how obscured it was going to be, I wanted to get a good sense of what Zetian would look like before the makeup and the mask. I tried to give her a kind of average appearance, because I wanted to try and make her look like a normal person under all of that Empress garb (she's only 18... she should have been at the clurbbb). Her face is purposefully a little asymmetrical.

For makeup, I went for the blush-that-makes-you-look-drunk look that was apparently fashionable among Tang ladies. Her lips and yedian are pretty standard. I saved the xiehong on the wrong layer like a clown 😭 but it's still visible under the mask. Not entirely sure if her huadian would be accurate, but it's the one on the painting of Empress Wu that I see most often.

Would Qin Zheng have a stroke if he saw Zetian hang out with men wearing this mask? Absolutely. Am I Qin Zheng? Nope I'm an artist who spent wayyyyy too long drawing Zetian's face and didn't want to cover it up fully. Her haircomb is in the shape of an upside-down butterfly. The sharp bit on the collar is inspired by a shirt I saw in the Hunger Games once, it's a style that's supposed to force you into keeping good posture. I hc that Qin Zheng included it to piss her off, and it's definitely working...

Now for Qin Zheng's face. I tried to go for a simple, smooth-wing look. I never really envisioned him as twink-y when I read the book and tried to go for a hot-and-scary-man look whilst keeping it a little bit androgynous. He'd never ever have his hair down for a formal painting but I want to separate his face from the rest of the piece. His eye is weaker on his scarred side. He looks a little feverish and a little bit infuriated: he is probably wondering why the hell he needs to be painted when photographs now exist.

It's a very busy painting and I fully expect people to gloss over this, so here's a little zoom on Qin Zheng gripping Zetian's armour. He's a freak.

Now for the throne. I tried to do a dragon/phoenix piece but it didn't show very well in the actual painting, so here it is. You can really tell how much I love scribble art lol.

And here's the base of the throne, with two dragons to keep our lovely tyrants company

I opted for a double-seated throne because I accidentally drew them too close together and couldn't move them because of the layers because feminism <3

Now for clothing. I noticed that on the HT cover, Zetian has a white gem whilst Qin Zheng has a black gem, but the clothes underneath are the opposite colours. I made the details on Qin Zheng's armour white and Zetian's details black, but Qin Zheng's armour ends up being darker whilst Zetian's armour is a lot paler. Symbolism... or something... Also they both get a heart because its cute, like a friendship bracelet.

I really can't draw scales though so erm. Yeah.

If you notice any er,,,, imagery in their lower robes it was unintentional I swear

Even though Qin Zheng is very much the taller, dominant figure in the piece, I tried to actually put the focus on Zetian, by making her armour a different shade of gold to the throne and by keeping her closer to the centre. I don't know if it worked but my eyes think so. I think out of the entire piece though, Zetian took me the longest because I hadn't settled on what look I was trying to go for her. I redrew her armour about five times, but thankfully by the time it was done I had pretty much solidified where I was going with Qin Zheng's armour and I finished that in no time.

Again I absolutely loved making this painting, it was SO worth it. It might me my most detailed ever. I adore Heavenly Tyrant so so so much it might actually be my favourite book ever lol.

[vunblr]

Toy Soldier (part 1)

Bit by bit, torn apart. We never win, but the battle wages on for toy soldiers.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings:Warnings: 18+ only. Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Eventual Smut. Dark Content: Sexual Assault Wounds (Bucky). Depictions of Physical Wounds. Psychological Trauma. Canon-Typical Violence. Mentions and depictions of Non-Con (both characters as victims).

Summary: She had been the tool Hydra used to keep him operational; he, the weapon manipulated by their tendrils to execute their ambitions. Years after breaking free, fate Sam Wilson brings them together once more. Now, they must navigate the challenges of forging a connection beyond the twisted dynamic that once bound them in the past.

Word Count: 5.6.k.

notes: Even though this fic will include the tone I usually maintain in my stories, there will be flashbacks to unpleasant events that might be triggering. Please read the warnings carefully, and if I’ve missed any, feel free to let me know. More tags will be added in the future.

The cell reeked of bleach and iron, a suffocating blend of sterility and blood. She sat huddled in a corner with her knees drawn to her chest, shaking from the lingering aftershocks of what they had made her do mere hours ago. A steel table in the center of the room bore the evidence: blood-soaked rags, reinforced restraints, and instruments that glinted menacingly under the harsh light.

The door creaked open, and she flinched instinctively. Her pulse quickened as they rolled him in on a gurney, his body was impossibly broken again, but somehow, still alive. The Winter Soldier. His mask was cracked, exposing a bruised cheekbone, his metallic arm hung at an unnatural angle, wires sparking like dying fireflies. His tactic suit was shredded, revealing deep gashes that glistened with dark blood.

"Fix him," the handler barked, void of empathy. He tossed a clipboard onto the table, detailing every injury, every broken bone, every expectation to her work. "We need him ready by morning."

She didn’t move at first. She never did. But the familiar press of a gun muzzle against her temple jolted her into action. They didn’t tolerate hesitation.

Her bare feet slapped against the cold tiles as she approached the table. Soldat’s chest rose and fell unevenly, his blue eyes were half-lidded and glassy, staring past her into the abyss. She wondered, briefly, if he even felt the pain anymore, or if the agony had simply become a part of him, stitched into his body like the scars of the wounds she was forced to erase.

She laid her trembling hands over his chest, cutting the remnants of the suit and rushing her power forward like a tide, knitting sinew, mending fractures, restoring what should have been allowed to rest. His body convulsed as the healing process awakened raw nerve endings. He groaned low in his throat, a sound of both relief and torment and her eyes burned with unshed tears.

"Good pet," the handler sneered, patting her head, "Keep going."

As the minutes dragged into hours, her hands moved mechanically, weaving muscle and bone back into place. Every touch drew more from her, siphoning her strength to pour life into a body that shouldn’t be able to withstand such brutality. The process left her light-headed, and her vision started blurring at the edges, but she didn’t dare falter. They would notice. They always noticed.

As her hands pressed over a jagged wound on his side, a faint tremor ran through his body. His breath hitched, shallow and uneven, and his eyes fluttered open. Glassy and unfocused at first, they slowly, impossibly, found her. A vacant gaze, yet somehow piercing, locked onto her face as if trying to understand who she was and what she was doing.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, the words spilling out before she could stop them. She kept her voice low, trembling, her fingers brushing the edge of the wound as she worked. “I don’t want to do this. I’m sorry.”

His gaze didn’t falter, even as she murmured the apology again, with a cracking voice. He didn’t speak -he probably couldn’t- but the weight of his stare felt like an answer. He knew. Somehow, he knew.

More time passed, and the room emptied. The guards left her alone with him, trusting her to finish her work under the ever-present cameras. The sterile silence closed in around them. She wiped the sweat from her brow and whispered again, “I’m sorry,” her voice breaking completely now. “I’m sorry for all of it.”

Soldat blinked slowly, almost as if acknowledging her words, but his body remained still. Her fingers lingered over his shoulder where fresh skin covered what had been a deep gash, and couldn’t stop herself from caressing his bloodied temple before going back to mend him.

By the time she finished, her legs felt like water, barely holding her upright. The Soldat’s breathing had evened, the jagged cuts on his skin replaced by fresh, pale scars. His metal arm still hung limp, but it wasn’t her area of expertise. He looked human again, or as close to human as Hydra would ever allow him to be. She allowed herself to caress him again as if that gentle touch could make up for what her actions on his body entailed, his endless torment.

When the door creaked open, the spell was broken. The handler barked a question she didn’t hear over the roaring in her ears. Then he stepped forward, inspecting her work with a critical eye. He tugged at Soldat’s extremities and poked his body, then he turned to her with a smile that chilled her blood.

“Well done,” he said, sickeningly sweet. “See? You’re still useful. You’ve earned yourself another day.”

The words felt like a slap, a grim reminder of her reality. She wasn’t a person to them. She was a tool, an extension of their will, just as much a prisoner as the man she had just saved. Her power was her curse, chaining her to a life of servitude. And for what? To keep the Winter Soldier standing. To ensure he could carry out their dirty work, kill their enemies, and endure whatever horrors they deemed necessary for him to endure.

The handler gestured to the guards. “Take her back. She’ll need her strength for tomorrow.”

They grabbed her arms, dragging her toward the door. Soldat's eyes shifted for a moment, trailing her as they walked her out, his gaze still glazing but faintly flickering with awareness. Then the door slammed behind her, sealing them both back into their respective hells.

----

The cryopreservation always left her disoriented, the passage of time reduced to a murky void of nothingness. Days, months, years, they blurred together into a haze she couldn’t untangle. Based on the count of the meager breakfasts slid through the cell door, it had been two days since they’d pulled her from the tube. Her body still ached from the cold, and the numbness clung stubbornly to her limbs.

When the metallic clank of the cell door jolted her from her thoughts, she instinctively tensed. Two guards stood there, gesturing sharply for her to follow. 

The halls they guided her through were unfamiliar. These weren’t the sterile corridors leading to the medical bay. These walls were darker and the air was heavier, and the faint hum of machinery was replaced by an unsettling silence. Confused, she knit her brows but swallowed the urge to ask.

When they descended a narrow staircase, her stomach sank. The flickering lights cast long shadows against concrete walls. They passed rows of heavy metal doors, each marked with faint rust and grime. No cells with bars, no windows, just solid slabs of steel.

Her breath hitched when they stopped in front of a door near the end of the corridor. One guard yanked it open with a screech that set her teeth on edge. The other shoved her forward, barking a single command: “Fix it.”

The door slammed shut behind her, and the sound echoed in the cramped room. She stood frozen, since the stench hit her like a physical blow: blood, sweat, semen, and something else she couldn’t place.

Her gaze darted around the sparse room. A cot pushed against one wall. A table cluttered with ominous instruments. And in the corner, barely illuminated by the flickering overhead bulb, the Soldat.

Her breath left her in a shaky exhale as she took him in. He was curled into himself, naked, trembling despite the heat radiating from his abused flesh. Blood and cum stained his thighs, while bruises painted his skin in grotesque patterns. His wrists and ankles bore the raw marks of restraints, and burns and welts layered over old scars, turning his body into a tapestry of pain.

But it was his face that shattered her. A blank mask with hollow and distant wet eyes, haunted by whatever horrors had left him in this state.

She forced herself to move. When her shadow fell over him, his head snapped up and his vacant blue eyes locked onto hers. The movement was sharp and instinctive, but he didn’t lash out, didn’t flinch. He simply stared, as though he were looking through her rather than at her.

She paused for a moment, crouching to his level, resting her hands lightly on her knees. “It’s okay,” she murmured, her voice steady. “I’m here to help you.”

He didn’t respond. The haunted emptiness in his expression pierced her chest. He didn’t deserve this. “I know,” she said softly, inching closer. “I know it hurts. I’ll do what I can.”

She reached for him carefully, brushing his arm. His muscles tensed under her touch, but he didn’t pull away. Gently, she guided his arm away from where he’d been clutching his side, revealing the bruises and burns scattered across his flesh. Her stomach churned, but her hands remained steady. She had no room for hesitation, no time to falter.

As she worked, she whispered to him, not apologies this time, but reassurances. “I’m with you now, I’ll make this right, even if it’s only for now.”

As expected, he didn’t speak, didn’t move beyond the involuntary twitches of his battered body. But his eyes stayed on her, betraying a silent acknowledgment, a fragile thread of trust.

She tried to focus on the burns on his chest, the raw welts along his ribs, anything but the bruises and blood marking his inner thighs. But eventually, she had no choice. The damage there couldn’t be ignored. Swallowing the bile rising in her throat, she shifted closer, and her hands trembled for the first time that day.

She couldn’t comprehend it. Couldn’t understand how anyone could twist a man into this, into something pliable, stripped of will, used like a puppet for their every vile whim. The red book and the chair had shattered his mind, and then they’d wielded that power not only to carry out their heinous crimes but also to satiate their carnal perversions. 

“Soldat,” she said softly as she crouched closer. “I need to see the rest.”

His chest started to rise and fall in shallow breaths. His lip was caught between his teeth, bitten hard enough to draw blood. The distant, vacant expression he’d worn before had given way to something else now, resignation, or shame.

“I know,” she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. “I know it's private -should it be-, and it hurts a lot… but I promise I’ll make it better, yes?”

Her tone was as soft as she could make it, the kind someone might use with a frightened child. For a moment, there was nothing. Then he exhaled and shifted ever so slightly, granting her access. The movement wasn’t much, but it spoke volumes. He didn’t fight her. He didn’t resist. Even now, after everything, he complied.

“Thank you,” she whispered. Her hands moved carefully, brushing his battered flesh with as much gentleness as she could muster. She swallowed hard, trying to keep her focus on the healing, not on the tears threatening to spill over. Every touch she had to make felt like another betrayal of his dignity, but she couldn’t leave him like this, they wouldn’t leave him like this.

“It’s not fair,” she said under her breath “Fuck, it’s not fair.”

Every so often, her gaze flicked to his face, but he didn’t look at her this time. His eyes were closed, and his body was eerily still except for the faint shudder of his breathing.

—-

Some days, she wondered if he resented her. If he was even capable of that. She wasn’t the one inflicting the pain, wasn’t the one abusing him, but she was the one who ensured he survived it. She pieced him together, over and over, a cruel kind of mercy that prolonged his torment. Without her, they wouldn’t have been able to keep breaking him the way they did.

It haunted her.

Sometimes, it seemed like he remembered her. On the rare occasions when his body was whole and he wasn’t immediately dragged back out for another mission or another “session,” his vacant gaze would linger on her. Just a flicker of recognition in those haunted blue eyes, something that made her wonder if, somewhere beneath the chaos they’d inflicted on his mind, a part of him knew who she was.

Other times, he didn’t seem to know her at all. He would stare past her like she wasn’t even there. She didn’t know which was worse: the possibility that he hated her or the possibility that he didn’t think of her at all.

-----

Nine years had passed since her escape from their clutches. Nine years since Captain America and his team put down Pierce and dismantled Hydra’s plans,  the Soldat went missing and she got away in the chaos of the fight.

In the early days, survival had been a constant struggle. She’d wandered aimlessly at first, her coarse, prison-like clothes drawing stares from strangers who gave her a wide berth. The world was unrecognizable: a kaleidoscope of flashing screens, roaring cars, and people glued to strange, glowing devices. Everything felt faster, louder, and infinitely more confusing than the world she remembered.

For a couple of days, she kept to the shadows, but the hunger and desperation eventually pushed her to the edge. One night, trembling and exhausted, she walked into a police station. The officer at the front desk glanced at her with a mixture of suspicion and concern, likely wondering if she had escaped from a mental institution. And maybe, in a way, she had. She tried to explain, spilling out her words in a garbled mess of decades-old trauma. She told them about being taken, about Hydra, about the years spent in cryo. The officer raised a skeptical eyebrow and asked her to sit while he "sorted things out."

She knew they didn’t believe her. Not until one of the younger officers, fresh off patrol, walked in with a nasty road burn on his arm. She didn’t think, just acted. In seconds, the wound knitted itself back together under her glowing hands. The room fell silent, every set of eyes fixed on her in a mix of fear and awe.

From there, things moved quickly. The police dug into her story, and to everyone’s shock, her name and photo flagged a cold case from October 1962, a missing person report filed by her family. A woman who had disappeared without a trace, and presumed dead after two years of fruitless searching.

But what the police uncovered was too big for them to handle alone. They passed her case to federal authorities, and soon, she found herself in the hands of people who promised her a fresh start, though she quickly learned that nothing came without strings attached.

The feds helped her establish a new identity, gave her a place to live, and taught her how to navigate the modern world. In exchange, she worked for them using her mutant powers to heal injuries, aid covert operations, and clean up the messes no one else could. 

Still, the past lingered in her mind, haunting her in the quiet moments. She often wondered what had become of the Winter Soldier, since freedom, she realized, was not the same as peace.

In the years that followed, she began piecing the fragments of her past into the puzzle of the present. The world had changed in ways she struggled to comprehend, yet she adapted, carving out a relatively ‘normal’ existence.

Then, one day, she heard his name.

James Buchanan Barnes.

She learned about him in bits and pieces from news reports and whispered conversations among the people she worked with. Steve Rogers' best friend. The Winter Soldier.

The details unfolded like a tragic epic: framed in a terrorist attack, slipping under the radar, fighting in Wakanda, only to vanish in the Blip. And then, five years later, he returned. His face, no longer the blank mask of the Soldat, appeared on screens everywhere as the government pardoned him under strict conditions: mandatory therapy and restricted accommodations, a leash that kept him just shy of true freedom.

She watched every news segment, every interview. He wasn’t the weapon she remembered. There was something different in his eyes. Half-masked pain, certainly, but also humanity. He was trying, struggling to reclaim himself, to exist in a world that only knew him as a ghost or a monster.

It wasn’t an obsession. At least, that’s what she told herself. It was curiosity, concern, a connection she couldn’t sever no matter how hard she tried. Because no one else could understand what they’d been through. No one else had seen the depths of his torment, or felt the same chains biting into their skin.

She hadn’t planned to ever contact him. The idea terrified her. For all she knew, his fractured mind might not even remember her. Worse, maybe he did and resented her for the role she’d played, for the way she’d prolonged his torment under Hydra’s commands. Those thoughts were enough to keep her at a distance, safely watching from the shadows of her new life.

But life and destiny had their ways of unraveling carefully laid plans.

-----

Her work with Sam Wilson had started as another government assignment, one of many designed to keep her powers useful and her secrets buried. Yet, somewhere along the way, it had turned into something more. A friendship. He didn’t know about her past -no one did, actually-. He only knew the version of her life the government had scripted, a fabricated identity polished to perfection.

Leaving that aside, she liked him. He had a way of making her feel less like a displaced ghost and more like a person. Sometimes, they hung out after missions, sharing laughs over beers or stories about the ridiculous situations they found themselves in. And when he came back from a mission bruised or limping, she always tried to help.

That friendship had led her here, to a bustling backyard party, with warm laughter and music filling the air. Sam’s birthday celebration. She had accepted his invitation without thinking much of it, expecting a relaxed evening with a few familiar faces. What she hadn’t expected was to see him.

Standing at the drinks table, not the Winter Soldier, not the cold, empty Soldat she remembered, but James. His shoulders were relaxed, his hair shorter, and his blue eyes clearer than she’d ever seen them. He looked... alive in a way that left her breathless. For a moment, she froze, and her stomach twisted into knots. But there was no turning back now.

Not when he lifted his face after grabbing a glass of soda, only to find her mere inches away, rooted in place and staring at him like a rabbit in the middle of the road.

Her breath caught, and the world around them seemed to fade into a blur of laughter and music as his piercing blue eyes locked onto hers. 

He didn’t move, didn’t speak. The faintest flicker of something -recognition? confusion?- crossed his face. The glass in her hand suddenly felt heavy, and she tightened her grip around it as her heart raced.

“H-hi,” she managed to mutter, almost lost beneath the hum of the party.

He tilted his head slightly, deliberately, as if weighing her. For a long, agonizing moment, he simply looked at her with an unreadable expression. Then his lips parted, and a single word escaped from them, low and hoarse.

“You.”

Her stomach dropped while her mind scrambled for a response. Did he remember her? Or was it just the way her face stirred a distant and fractured memory?

“I-” she started, but the words tangled in her throat.

His gaze darted over her, taking her in: the way she clutched the glass like a lifeline, the way her shoulders tensed, the way she made one step back as though retreating was an option.

Sam’s voice cut through the moment, cheerful and oblivious. “Hey, Buck! Flirting already with one of my girls?”

Bucky flinched, the spell breaking as he snapped his gaze toward Sam, stiffening his posture. “I’m not f-”

“Don’t be a dick with her,” Sam interrupted, grinning as if he were the greatest matchmaker alive. “She’s good people. Y/n, this is Bucky, a pain in the ass but a good friend. Bucky, this is Y/n.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, his expression still unreadable as his eyes flicked back to her. He didn’t speak, didn’t offer a hand or a smile, just narrowed his eyes slightly, like he was trying to solve a riddle only he could see.

Her pulse thundered in her ears, and her instincts screamed at her to move, to flee, to escape his scrutiny before his fractured memories pieced her together.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she squared her shoulders and forced her lips into what she hoped was a polite and not-too-awkward smile. “Nice to meet you,” she said, her voice much steadier than she felt.

Bucky studied her for a moment longer. Finally, he gave a slight nod, stepping back as though he’d decided she wasn’t worth the effort of figuring out. “Yeah. Same,” he muttered before turning to leave.

As he moved away, she exhaled, a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her grip on the glass trembled, the adrenaline coursing through her leaving her both relieved and strangely disappointed.

“Don’t take it personally,” Sam intervened, leaning in with a knowing smirk. “He specializes in a heterogeneous game of staring, brooding, and groaning. Dry comments here and there, too.”

She let out a soft, nervous laugh, grateful for the break in tension. “Good to know,” she murmured, still gripping the glass tightly.

Sam patted her shoulder with the easy camaraderie of someone who had no idea the weight of the moment that had just passed. “He’s not so bad once you get past all the walls. Might take a while to crack that nut, but hey, who knows?”

-----

Two months later, Sam called her for a job.

“It’s a simple mission,” he’d explained. “Poland. The higher-ups want you to stay at the safehouse most of the time in case something goes wrong, but if we need someone to move unnoticed -play tourist, fetch intel- they figured you’re our best bet.”

She hesitated for a beat, her instincts screaming at her to say no this time. But she had never ditched a mission before and Sam will be there, so she agreed.

When she climbed aboard the military plane early the next morning, with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder, she almost turned around and fled.

Bucky was already sitting there, strapped into his seat, with his arms crossed over his chest. His expression was as closed off as ever, and his gaze was fixed somewhere on the cabin wall. Her stomach dropped, and before her brain could process what she was doing, she turned sharply on her heel and headed straight for the cockpit.

The pilots greeted her with raised brows, clearly surprised to see her there before takeoff. She forced a nervous smile, chatting with them about flight logistics, weather conditions, anything to stretch the time and delay the inevitable.

“Shouldn’t you be back in the cabin?” one of them asked eventually, glancing at her curiously.

“Just thought I’d keep you company,” she replied, slightly strained.

The hum of the plane’s engines growing louder reminded her she couldn’t hide forever. She exhaled deeply, gripping the doorframe. Maybe, she could slip into some corner, unnoticed once the plane was in the air.

But life wasn’t so kind.

“Sam’s voice came loud and clear, calling her. “C’mon, you’re holding us up!”

Bucky’s head turned, locking his sharp gaze onto her the moment she entered. His expression didn’t shift -no frown, no surprise- but what she saw in those blue eyes made her knees threaten to buckle.

She forced herself to take a steadying breath. “Hi,” she greeted the two men quickly, her voice barely above a murmur, before moving to the furthest seat she could find.

Her hands fumbled as she pulled a book from her bag, flipping it open without even checking the page. She pretended to read, scanning the same line over and over as if the words might somehow shield her from the weight of Bucky’s stare.

Sam furrowed his brows, glancing between them with a mix of confusion and curiosity. He’d been prepared for the usual brooding and disagreements from Bucky -his default settings on most missions- but he’d expected her to be more engaged. She’d always been sharp and chatty, quick to offer solutions or crack a joke, but now she seemed... distant.

He leaned toward Bucky, “Did you scare her off already before I got here?”

Bucky shot him an unimpressed sidelong glance. “I didn’t say a word.”

Sam, determined to break the awkward silence, leaned back in his seat and raised his voice. “Alright, we’re stuck in this tin can for the next few hours. Someone better start talking, or I’m gonna make us all play twenty questions.”

She forced a small smile, though her eyes remained glued to the book. “You win. I’m reading.”

He huffed dramatically, shaking his head. “Tough crowd.” Then he turned back to Bucky. “Guess it’s just you and me, Buck.”

Bucky didn’t respond, his gaze flicking toward her briefly before settling on the wall ahead. His expression remained impassive, but his metal fingers tapped against his thigh, the only sign of some internal debate.

-----

After a while, Sam, ever persistent, leaned forward, and turned to her “So,” he started, casually but probing, “you ever been to Poland in other mission before? Got any recommendations for pierogi spots or are we flying blind here?”

She hesitated, tightening slightly her fingers on the edge of her book. Avoiding interaction had been her plan, but the pointed look Sam sent her way made it clear he wasn’t going to let her off the hook.

Finally, she closed the book with a soft sigh, forcing herself to meet his expectant gaze. “No, never been,” she replied, cautious. “Though I think I read somewhere Kraków’s old town is nice.”

Sam grinned, seizing the opportunity. “Kraków, huh? I’ll take that as a vote to play tourist if we get the chance. “Maybe you can even guide us, seeing as you’re good at blending in.”

“I doubt we’ll have time, Sammy,” she said quickly, trying to deflect.

“Oh, come on,” Sam teased, leaning back in his seat with an exaggerated grin. “You’re one of the friendliest people I know. You’ll probably charm us into some exclusive spots. Earn your keep!”

She let out a soft, nervous laugh, shaking her head. “I think you’ve mistaken ‘friendly’ for ‘quiet enough not to get in trouble.’”

Sam smirked, undeterred. “Nah, you’ve got that vibe. People trust you, and open up to you. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how often you walk away with more intel than anyone else.”

Her fingers tensed slightly on the edge of her book, but she forced herself to smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment... I think.”

“It is,” Sam replied, his tone warm and easy. “And I’m just saying, if we do get downtime, we’re counting on you to find the good spots.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she managed to say, though her stomach churned under Bucky’s relentless stare.

He hadn’t said a word, but the weight of his gaze made every exchange feel heavier like he was dissecting her responses, searching for cracks in her calm facade. She refused to look at him, focusing instead on Sam’s cheerful grin.

Sam clapped his hands together. “That’s the spirit. See, Buck? She’s already proving more useful than you.”

Bucky huffed, the barest flicker of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before disappearing. “Yeah, well, let’s see if she’s still useful when things go south.”

Her stomach tightened at his words, though she kept her face carefully neutral. It wasn’t outright hostility, but the skepticism in his tone felt like a challenge, a warning wrapped in a dry comment.

Sam rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “Man, you’ve gotta work on your people skills. Not everyone you meet is gonna double-cross you, you know.”

Bucky didn’t respond and bit his lower lip as he looked away, clearly done with the conversation.

She forced a small smile, trying to defuse the tension. “I think he’s just saying I should prove myself first.”

Sam shot her an encouraging look. “You don’t need to prove anything to him. Trust me, you’re good-”

“Sam,” Bucky intervened almost dryly. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking. This isn’t sightseeing. It’s a mission. If she’s not-”

“I can handle myself,” she interrupted, managing to keep her voice steady despite the sudden rush of heat to her face.

The fact that she addressed directly to him got Bucky’s attention. He turned, locking his gaze onto hers, and for a moment, the silence between them felt heavier than the thrum of the plane’s engines.

“Guess we’ll find out,” he murmured, leaning back slightly in his seat. He kept staring at her sharply and unyielding. After a beat of silence, he added, “And, actually, what exactly do you do?”

Fuck.

The question wasn’t casual, she could see it in the way his eyes stayed fixed on her, a glint of something just beneath the surface. He knew. He was waiting for her to say it, to confirm what he already remembered but was pretending not to.

Sam raised an eyebrow, looking between them. “Bucky, come on. She’s solid, alright? I wouldn’t bring her along if she wasn’t.”

Bucky didn’t even glance at him. His attention stayed locked on her. “I didn’t say she wasn’t solid. Just curious what her... specialty is.”

She forced herself to take a steadying breath. If he wanted to play coy, fine. Two could play that game.

“I’m good at staying unnoticed,” she said, feigning a casual tone “Recon, blending in, getting intel…” She shrugged lightly, as though explaining her skill set was just a routine part of the job.

Bucky tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing in faint amusement. “That it?”

She gave him a polite smile, curling her fingers around the edge of the book on her lap. “Well, I’ve been told I’m handy in a pinch. Let’s just say I’ve got a knack for fixing things.”

His lips quirked, but the expression didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Fixing things, huh?”

“Yeah,” she replied smoothly, ignoring the way her heart raced under his scrutiny. “Little cuts, scrapes, that kind of thing. Nothing too fancy.”

Sam, oblivious to the subtle tension between them, chuckled. “Don’t let her undersell it. She devours. Saved my ass more than once, you wouldn’t believe the absolute carnage I've seen her mend.”

“Good to know,” Bucky commented, with his gaze still locked on her. There was something in his eyes -something sharp-, almost daring her to break first, but she didn’t flinch.

“Just doing my job.” She added, her eyes still glued to the unreadable baby blues.

Bucky leaned back, the corner of his mouth twitched as if he wanted to say more but decided against it.

Sam glanced between them. “It's pretty early for a staring contest.”

She didn’t answer; she just smiled at him and returned her focus to the book. He remembered, she was sure of it.

Still, if he wanted her to confirm it outright, he’d have to try harder. For now, she’d play his game, and she was determined to win.

-----

The safehouse was a two-bedroom apartment in an old building that groaned with every step. It was cramped but functional, the kind of place that wouldn’t draw attention. As they settled in, Sam tossed his bag onto one of the worn couches and stretched like a cat.

“Alright,” he said, grinning at her. “Do us all a favor and work your magic in the kitchen. I haven’t had a proper meal in weeks, and I can’t survive on takeout and those protein bars Bucky packs.”

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. Cooking would give her something to focus on, and it was the perfect excuse to isolate for a couple of hours.

“Fine, let’s see what I can do,” she muttered, scurrying inside the kitchen.

“You’re the best!” Sam called, grabbing his jacket. “I’ll be back soon, gotta meet a contact nearby. You two... play nice.”

The sound of the door closing made her grimace. She exhaled slowly, tying an old apron on her waist as she dug through the sparse pantry and fridge. Within minutes, she was chopping some potatoes, humming Animals while she was at it, because fuck it all.

She felt the weight of his gaze pressed against her back like a physical thing before she heard him. He stood in the kitchen doorway, quiet and unmoving, a presence impossible to ignore.

Her grip on the knife tightened, but she didn’t turn around. “Need something?”

“No.” The simple word carried so much weight that it made her pause mid-cut.

She exhaled slowly and resumed her task. “Then why are you standing there?”

He didn’t answer immediately, and the silence stretched until it became almost unbearable.

“You’re good at it.”

Her hand froze. “At what?”

“Pretending.”

She forced herself to keep chopping, while her pulse hammered in her ears. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.” His tone didn’t carry malice, but the words felt heavier than any accusation. He leaned against the doorway, crossing his arms. “I remember you.”

Her chest tightened, and the room suddenly felt smaller. “You’re mistaken,” she said flatly.

“I’m not.” He took another step forward. His tone was soft, but the words were unrelenting. “You were there. Hydra.”

Next Chapter ->

[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.

[s-4pphics]

candy crush. (e.w.)

SYNOPSIS: you’re too sweet, and ellie hates it. 

WORD COUNT: 4.3K

WARNINGS: recordshopmanager!ellie, crumblcookiebaker!oc, hurt/comfort, ellie’s a cunt, ocs too sweet, FLUFF?? FROM ME??? HUHHH, crushing, slight suggestive thoughts

A/N: idk where this came from lol

Ellie’s reorganizing the vinyl selection when a delicate hand lands on her shoulder. “I know your miserable ass doesn’t enjoy company,” Dina hisses in her ear, purposefully hushed, “But you got company.” 

Ellie’s eyebrow quirks with confusion, leaving the earplug that blasts Head like a Hole to dangle over her shoulder. Her eyes glaze over the semi-filled shop, narrowing in on every face until she locks eyes with you from behind the guitar displays. The eye contact only lasts about 1.5 seconds before Dina smacks her leg. 

“Don’t look. You’re gonna make it weird.” Dina quietly snaps from beside her, occupying her hands with some misplaced records. 

“You know her?” 

“I see her around sometimes. I think she works nearby,” Ellie catches her smirking from the corner of her eye, “… I think she likes you.” 

“Fuck off.” 

“I’m dead serious. She’s been staring for the past 10.” 

“At who.” 

“At you, dipshit.” 

Ellie can’t help herself. She takes one experimental glance in your direction; discovers you typing away at your device with a black mask pulled down under your chin, bottom lip trapped between your teeth with worry. Your apron and tiny name tag indicates you probably work somewhere close by, but she can’t pinpoint where. You’re too far and her vision is failing.

“Get her numbe—“

Ellie’s head whips to face Dina, “If you don’t shut up, you’re fired.” 

“Abuse of power,” She snarks in return, “C’mon! She seems so—“

“D-Do you guys have any acoustics for sale?” 

You’re a ninja, for sure. Both girls' heads snap around to face you — who stands a bit too close for Ellie’s liking — phone desperately clutched to your chest and eyes wide as a doe. Mainly locked with Ellie’s before they drop to your name tag.

Crumbl. 2 shops down. 

Fuck. 

“Why, yes!” Dina says excitedly when Ellie doesn’t reply, “Most of ours have been used, but they’re still in great condition. Are you interested in renting or purchasing?” 

“Purchasing… I think.” 

“No problem. I can show you some that we have on display, and if you don’t like those, we have some stocked in the back!” 

Ellie’s forehead creases. Dina has never been this active in making a sale, let alone interacting with any customers. Ellie is always the one who’s forced to pick up her and Riley’s slack in the shop. She catches the light traces of disappointment that overtakes your expression at Dina’s interjection, but eventually, you’re led over to the guitar displays.

Ellie sighs in relief. 

That brief exchange gave Ellie everything she needed to know. She doesn’t find gratification in denying proposals at work, but after months of being hit on by a multitude of customers — the men particularly piss her off— she’ll be as stern as she needs to be to get the point of denial across. Sure, it makes her look like a cunt to the general public, but she’ll take that over being chased after on the clock. No questions asked. 

Ellie assumes that you’ve found what you needed because on your way out, persistent stares are thrown in her direction up until your departure. She dodges them with mastery. 

She would hate to have to embarrass a strip neighbor. 

Three days later, you stumble upon the record shop once more. Dina isn’t here to save Ellie this time, and Riley’s passing time in the break room. Your uniform is lightly dusted with white, presumably flour, and your mask is down, phone clutched to your chest like it holds all your secrets.

Your mouth drops open around a small smile when you approach the service counter, but Ellie interrupts before you can greet her. 

“What can I help you with?” 

She assumed her annoyance would be guarded by professionalism, but your smile drops at its corners at her tone. A light flinch that Ellie prays is enough to deter you from spending your breaks here. 

It doesn’t. Your eyes still shine like the star that you aren’t. 

“I, um… I actually wanted to talk to you. If that’s okay—“

“Is it regarding the purchase you made a few days ago?” 

Dina slid Ellie a notice on the down payment you made for your used dreadnought since you weren’t able to pay in full. The scolding she received about “taking care of you” whenever you returned made her teeth grind together. 

“N-No. I just—“

“I’d appreciate it if we kept the conversation about that,” Ellie uses the scribbles on her notepad as a distraction, “Did you have any questions regarding the instrument? Or if you’re interested in taking part in the lessons we offer, I could redirect you to Riley. She’s in charge of—“

“I just wanted to see if you were… interested in sampling out some cookie flavors I came up with? I’m a baking and pastry student and—“

“Look,” The tip of Ellie’s tongue sharpens into her cheek, irritation evident when you two are eye-to-eye. “I’m not sure where this proposal is coming from, but frankly, I’m not interested.”

The drop in your expression doesn’t stop Ellie’s relentlessness. 

“I don’t know you, and I don’t know why you thought I’d be a good candidate for… taste-testing, but I’ll politely decline. No thanks.” 

Her declination doesn’t sound polite in the slightest; quite snippy and condescending from your perspective, and it forces your windpipe shut. Only for a second before a strangled gasp leaves your lips. You’re not sure if it’s out of shock or lack of breath, but it aches in your lungs all the same. 

Ellie’s glare sends holes through your back as you rush towards the exit, the small bell singing through the store and alarming your leave. 

All Ellie can hope is that you got the message. 

It’s a new week, and therefore, a new Crumbl cookie line-up. Dina won’t stop raving about the carrot-cake cookie which doesn’t resemble a cookie at all. It's tiered and way too soft and stacked with icing that’s sweet enough to rot teeth from the gum. 

It reminds Ellie of you, for some reason; Somehow still managing to be a nuisance without trying. 

Even more so now since Dina’s been using her 45 to walk down and see you. To talk to you. Dina has yet to cough up what about — not that Ellie cares. It’s just weird that you two suddenly have so much in common after knowing each other for all of two days maximum. Whenever Dina clocks back in, she tortures Ellie with dramatic retellings of your stories. 

It’s Thursday; a quiet day for the shop that Ellie uses to her advantage when the sun is at its peak. Searching through cheap magazines and playing Candy Crush on her phone. 

What a time for you to come barreling in. The formerly enjoyable shriek of guitar suddenly sounds like nails on a chalkboard at your appearance. No longer are you in all black. You’re in a sundress. An orange one. You look like a popsicle. 

And you bear gifts. Ellie’s mood turns even more sour when she sees two bright yellow gift bags with smiley faces on them and a tray filled with coffee stuffed in your hands. 

“Good morning!” 

You’re smiling, gleaming, and Ellie’s nose turns up. She plucks one of her earplugs out and closes her graphic novel. 

“How can I help you?” 

You set your bag down on the display case of her prized arch top, and she sighs in exasperation. Annoyance sparks when she notices one of the bags has her name on it, flowers and hearts and sparkles surrounding the tag. 

“Can you not put your belongings on the displays, please? I’d have to clean up after you since none of my employees will.” 

You’ve already moved your bags and exclaimed apologies before Ellie could finish her sentence. She’s seconds away from shoving her earplug back in to tune you out, but you’re fast. Persistent. She hates it.

“I’m really sorry about that,” You say gently, and Ellie shrugs you off, “I, um. I-I came to, uh…”

Ellie blinks rapidly, “If you’re here to apologize for last week, don’t bother. It’s not needed.” 

“Not at all! Well, I’m just… I wanted to drop by and—“

“You’ve gotten quite comfortable with just… dropping by. Have you realized that?” 

Ellie’s squint is harsh and scrutinizing, and sorrow overshadows the light in your pupils. 

“Since it’s obvious that you’re not understanding me, I’ll put it like this,” She leans a bit over the counter, front fully pressed against the glass and palms resting on the stainless steel, “I’m not interested in anything you have going on. Stop using your breaks as an excuse to come see me. I don’t wanna go out with you. And I don’t want to do a taste test. Drop it already.” 

Ellie watches your lip quiver with a harshness exclusive only for people like you, tears welting in your eyes and your fingers pinching at the hem of your sundress. Insecurity is practically seeping from your pores, and your gaze drops shamefully to the floor. 

Ellie’s just about to tell you to kick rocks when the STAFF ONLY door swings open and exposes Riley. Her break ended 20 minutes ago. 

“Hey! You’re early!” 

Ellie scoffs, “No, you’re late—“

“Not you. Be quiet,” She waves her off and smiles at you, who’s smiling back at her with guised genuity. A complete 180 from the you seconds ago. Since when were you and Riley on speaking terms? Friends?

She jogs from behind the stand, “Dina told me you weren’t coming til 3!” Riley throws her arms around your shoulders, and your hands tremble where they rest on her forearms. “Are those the goods?” 

“Yeah!” Your voice sounds heavy. Like you’re guarding a breakdown, “I-I had some time so I stopped by a little early.” 

“I got some to spare til Dee gets here. Hang out with m—“

“Actually!” You intervene shakily, “I have some other drop-offs to make. I really appreciate you guys doing this for me.” 

“Are you sure you can’t stay? Watch me get my Food Network judge on?” Riley suddenly points in Ellie’s direction, “Who knows. Sourpuss might even pop a grin once she tries one.” Ellie’s cheeks run red-hot.

“Sorry, Riley. Maybe next time,” You’re already wobbling towards the exit, “But, please call and tell me what you think! Dina, too! Any feedback is appreciated!” 

“I’m sure they’re delicious, Monster!” Riley compliments playfully, “Text me when you’re home!” 

When the door shuts, Ellie sees Riley’s back stiffen at the sight of you frantically wiping your face through the glass. 

“What the fuck did you do.” 

“I didn’t do shit. She’s loitering.” 

“Lo— Oh my fucking god, you’re an embarrassmen—“

“No, she is. Taking up space for no fucking reason to come and see me. She’s loitering—“

“You’re blowing a fuse over fucking cookie samples?” Riley stares at her like she’s nuts, “And not to burst your self-centered bubble, but I told her to come. She’s been asking all the stores on the block if they’d like to taste ‘em.”

Ellie pauses, expression softening only slightly when Riley continues, 

“I told her you don’t like chocolate, so she made a peanut butter version for you.” Riley shakes Ellie's special, slightly smaller bag as a means to taunt her, and the freckled girl’s face burns red. Glows even harsher when her friend throws in, “You cunt. She’s a sweetheart. Not everyone is fucking obsessed with you.” 

Riley leaves Ellie to simmer in her discomfort, slamming the break door shut. The day seems to drag on longer than usual. 

-

-

-

Ellie’s organizing the break room when she comes across her small baggie that Riley left behind. She would’ve expected her friend to take them home after Ellie’s dramatic blow up, but there it sat on the counter, untouched and jeering. 

Tempting enough for her to rest the broom against the counter and inspect its contents. Wafts of cinnamon and peanut butter hit her through the small opening of the bag, and her heart gives a squeeze. The cookie is iced to perfection — an entire scenery on the light brown canvas. So many flowers and trees and the blue hues of the sky; almost too much detail. It looks printed on. 

You’re artistically talented and the cookie smells divine. 

One nibble wouldn’t hurt. She’s sure the damage she caused is already irreversible. 

But when she cradles the carefully swaddled cookie, a small note falls from beneath the bunched cling wrap. She knows she shouldn’t. She should really, really leave the neatly folded piece of paper where it lays. Down the cookie. Trash the bag. 

She takes the cookie and the note back to her seat at the table. The cookie isn’t what she unravels first. 

“thought I’d make you a separate batch. Riley gave me the heads up about your chocolate disdain. I’m too paranoid to ask for your number in person, so I thought I’d use bait instead. I hope it’s convincing enough. Please let me know if it’s decent. Thank you for tasting.”

Signed with your name and a smiling heart with wings. Ellie’s heart shatters, remaining shards dangling from the rim of her ribcage. She can already see her friends glaring through her chest when they visit the apartment to berate her tomorrow morning. She already knows what they’re going to demand from her, but she’s three steps ahead. 

She ate the entire cookie in two bites right where she sat. It was delicious. Almondy, not too sweet, gently spiced. Probably the best she’s ever had.

Ellie has never been to Crumbl before. 

The viral spot is always bustling — too crowded and filled with loud teenagers with a sugar rush for her taste. Plus, she’s already on the clock when they first open. But the record shop is closed on Fridays. 

She put an extra bit of care into her appearance. She doesn’t recall the last time she did her hair. Half of it is pinned up and her button-up is neatly pressed. Jitters rustle in the pit of her stomach and her forehead is a bit damp, mainly because she can see you through the goddamn window. 

In uniform, you stand at the register with the same beaming smile from last week, talking and giggling with your coworkers, and Ellie instantly feels guilty. Your day seems off to a great start, and here she is… About to ruin it. She almost turned around at the thought. 

But the small bell above the door blares loud, and your bright smile drops once you recognize her, and with that, her stomach. Ellie mentally notes the bags forming under your eyes and the tension in your shoulders. It looks like you haven’t rested for days. Her heart squeezes. 

Your movements turn robotic; stiffly perched on the sides of the iPad stand as your thumb works on the screen. You haven’t looked Ellie’s way since. She approaches the counter with her tail between her legs, fidgeting with her middle finger. 

“Um… hey.” Ellie’s quiet. Out of place. Afraid. 

“What can I get for you?” 

Even with the stiffness, you somehow still manage to sound as soft as a cotton ball, but Ellie’s body locks. The scenario hits her like a brick wall; she’s doing exactly what she accused you of doing to her last week. Bothering her at fucking work. She should’ve never come to your place of business to coddle her ego. She feels like a hypocrite. You certainly see her as one. 

“Um… A cookie?”

“… What flavor.” 

“Uh… peanut butter?” 

You swallow thickly, voice hollow, “That’s not on the menu for this week,” You point towards the display of cookies that were big enough to feed a family, “These are the six we’re serving until Sunday. You can also look at the menu on the screen.” 

Ellie follows your pointing finger. How the fuck does this place work? Weekly flavors? What the fuck does that mean? She quickly examines the names of cookies that flash across the screen: raspberry cheesecake, pink velvet… Mom’s recipe? Odd name for a dessert but she lets it slide. 

“W-What’s your favorite?” 

You’re a baker, for fucks sake. You’d have better taste than anyone, better than her, she’d painfully admit. 

She watches your fingers clench around the screen, tapping mindlessly. 

“Um… raspberry cheesecake.” 

“I’ll get a dozen.” 

“O-Of the same flavor?” 

She shrugs like it’s obvious, “… Yup.” 

You give her one skeptic look before tapping at the screen. “It might be a little wait. About 15 minutes. Do you mind?” 

“No.” 

“Cash or card?” 

“Card, please.” 

More tapping, “That’ll be $41.65. Swipe or tap whenever you're ready.” 

A financial dent over a box of cookies was not on her bucket list. You hand her the receipt, and before you can rush to the kitchen, Ellie exclaims, “When’s your break?” 

“Excuse me?” 

“W— um, when’s your break?” 

Your coworkers are suddenly very interested in Ellie, all four of them eyeing her like venomous hawks. Her cheeks burst into flames. 

“Um… I don’t think that’s any of your concern.” 

And you’re right. Anything involving you is short on Ellie; it was never her business, but a burning in the pit of her stomach desires to learn. Needs to catch you at the right time to give you a proper apology even though she doesn’t deserve the time of day. She doesn’t know what to say. 

You use her floundering as a scapegoat and hustle behind the slamming doors. Just as Ellie rushes to leave empty-handed, one of your employees — Abigail reads across her name-tag, keeps professional, but Ellie’s skin burns with the fire in her eyes. 

“We’ll have those right out for you,” monotone, but gruff. It makes Ellie wonder if you told any of them about her — she doesn’t doubt it. 

“You can wait outside.” 

One stiff nod, and Ellie’s booking it until her feet plant on the packed sidewalk, nearly bumping into a couple with interlocked hands. It takes 25 minutes for the box of cookies to be rigidly placed on the lounge table by another employee. Ellie scurries into her truck with a boiling face and pulls out into the road. 

When she makes it to her apartment, she eats three mini cheesecakes in one sitting.

She sees why they’re your favorite. 

The following week was filled with glares and curses from Dina and Riley — your newfound friends, evidently. They have a way of making Ellie feel like a worthless dunce. They both have rubbed in the tales of you being a thrill to be around; the life of the party whenever they hang out. 

It makes her nauseous. And sad. 

But her sadness swiftly shifts to bewilderment when she catches you smoking near a lamppost after closing. Still in your uniform with a bag over your shoulder, pants dusted in white, proof of your labor. It’s dark out, the only illumination coming from the light stood tall above you and the orange gleam of your cigarette. The sight shocks her. You didn’t seem like the type. 

Maybe that’s where Ellie went wrong with you: constantly assuming… who you are. Your desires, your intentions with her, her friends. She’ll admit her wrongs, of course. 

But it has to be to you. 

Ellie scares you when she approaches, inhaling the nicotine a bit too roughly because you start heaving. Shoulders hunched and jumping with every cough. 

“Uh — fuck, I’m sorry! I-I thought you could see me coming! I didn’t mean — fuck —“

You’re still choking, but you hiss in between, “What the fuck do you want!” 

“I’m just — I’m sorry about —“

“You’re not — cough — you’re not sorry! You made your point clear. I don’t why you keep — cough cough — following me. I left you alone like you wanted!” 

“I DON’T WANT THAT!” Ellie shrieks in panic. 

It’s a heavy-handed admission. A weighted confession that was said too aggressively given your flinching away from her. She takes an instinctive step forward. 

“Your cookies… tasted fucking incredible. I’m also an asshole.” 

The drag you take from your cig while she rambles is almost comedic. Brows cinched at the middle of your forehead, gauging her. You’re not convinced, but you’re not fleeing like the first time. She takes a leap, and a large step towards you. 

“I feel really… really bad,” Ellie’s much quieter, eyes unwavering and the softest she’s ever shown you, “I shouldn’t have… said all that. To you. I’m just so used to being harassed at work. I’m sorry.” 

Maybe nicotine calms you. Your body language isn’t as taut compared to when Ellie first initiated conversation, and your eyes soften at her reasoning. 

The rasp from your timbre melts her skin like butter. “I didn’t know you went through that. That sucks.”

Ellie shrugs, “I didn’t know you were… nice.” 

She made the mistake of attempting playfulness, “Maybe ‘cuz you wouldn’t let me talk.” You snark while ashing. 

“I’m sorry.” Ellie implores. 

You take one last drag before stomping out the flame. “Me too. For bothering you.” 

Ellie cringes at your choice of words, but nods in acceptance. “Are we, uh… okay, now?”

A small smile grows on your face. It’s cute. Makes your cheeks puff out like a hungry squirrel. 

“We’re good.” You extend a fist out to her, and she connects her own at the knuckles. 

When they drop, Ellie nervously stares at her shoes, “Do you want a ride home?” 

“I’m alright, thanks.” 

“C’mon, I don’t want you waiting out here by yourself.”

You pause before asking, “What’s the catch?” Your brow arches mischievously.

Ellie doesn’t hesitate, “More of those cookies.” 

A giggle escapes you. Soft and airy like a feather. Ellie feels a tight clench in her chest. A thumping from her ribcage. Has your smile always been this vibrant? She mentally kicks herself for not noticing before. 

Ellie escorts you to the passenger's side of her passed down pick-up: opens the door for you and makes sure you’re buckled in before starting it up. She learns you’re a metalhead when she cranks the radio to the highest volume. 

… How quickly can crushes develop? 

Two months. Ellie’s spent two months finding every excuse to spend time with you. She welcomes your visits to the record shop and silently thanks the heavens above when you call after her shift to talk about your day. Listening to your rambles about customers and their weekly cookies has become the highlight of hers. 

She’s also found comfort in watching you fail at playing guitar. You’re adorable whenever you strike an incorrect chord or break a string. She’s more than willing to guide you through your trials: late-night invites to her apartment to practice. One of your goals was to learn how to play the entire Vanara soundtrack. 

Ellie assumed she simply enjoyed being in your space. She does, but something shifted between you during one specific session. It was past midnight, and Ellie could tell you were getting tired. She innocently suggested for you to spend the night so you wouldn’t have to Uber at such a late hour, and you graciously accepted her offer. When you started to get comfortable on the couch, she tuts in disapproval and invited you to share her bed because it was more comfortable. 

What a mistake. 

After showering and changing into comfortable clothes, you both crawled into bed and swiftly drifted off. When Ellie’s eyes opened the following morning, her heart immediately traveled up to sit in her throat. If anyone told her she’d wake up with you completely sprawled out on top of her with your warm breath hitting her neck and her arms wrapped around you, she wouldn’t have believed them. She was completely frozen beneath you, but not for the reason she’d assumed. 

Ellie was scared to wake you up. Ellie was scared you would move away from her. 

She was pulled between waking you up and pulling you even closer. You were soft and warm and you smelled like her cinnamon body wash. A literal human cookie. She caressed your back as delicately as she could, and you nuzzled into her shoulder with every swipe. She hoped the harsh thrashes from her heart wouldn’t disturb you. 

They didn’t. 

You took a piece of Ellie when you left her apartment that morning. She’s not sure which part you stole, but she hasn’t felt the same since then. A pull towards you that’s electric, sparks her to life, keeps her up at night. Whenever you’re away, at work, not next to her, she’s desperate to pull you close. To breathe in the natural scent of you. 

Evidently, crushes develop rather quickly. 

“I thought baking was supposed to be fun.” Ellie huffs from where she lays on her bed. 

“It is fun! My favorite past-time, actually,” She watches you pace around her bedroom, guitar still strapped securely around your shoulder, “It’s just stressful when you have chefs constantly breathing down your neck. It’s so hard to be creative because they nitpick everything.” 

Creating a menu is much harder than Ellie assumed. She’s become the person you’ve come to whenever you’re fired up from classes, ranting and raving about the apparent dickheads that judge your creations. After testing your recipes for as long as she has, how could anyone turn down a dessert from you? 

You’re such a hard-worker. Focused, determined… pretty when you’re brainstorming. Pretty when you’re talking… Pretty when you’re smiling. Standing. Staring off into the distance. 

“Hm.” 

It’s all Ellie can say. She’s been trying to mask her rampant stares at your bare thighs for the past… however the fuck long. They look so soft. So pliable. So easy to stretch and pry and yank at— 

Her guilty pleasure went from collecting Pokémon cards to gawking at your legs whenever you wear shorts. 

Ellie’s definitely crushing. 

Crushing very, very hard. 

[rafesangelita]

♡ when bitchy!kook!reader’s best friend begs her to go buy something off of rafe for her, she’s forced to face their complicated past once again.. but this time on her knees..

warnings: dealer!rafe, rafe is kinda icky in this ngl, groping, teasing, name-calling, reader makes rafe go absolutely dumb, flirty banter (?), rough kissing, lots of dirty talk, slight jealousy, slight praise, oral (m. receiving), face fucking, hair pulling, orgasm denial

wc: 1.8k

“just go get it!” chanel whined, tugging on your arm as you rolled your eyes at her. she’s been begging you to score from rafe for about fifteen minutes now, a hundred dollar bill tucked between her fingers as she shook you by your shoulders. “no, chanel! i’m not really feeling a bump right now, alright?” you looked away from her in hopes she’d give it up already. you knew she was still mortified from the last time she tried to buy off of rafe, her form of payment being a complete miss when rafe gave her a disgusted look as she not-so-subtly got on her knees for him.

after she had to mask her embarrassment and play it off as if she just ‘dropped’ something and had to pick it up, she vowed to never face rafe cameron again. “i’m literally offering free blow, come on!” she exclaimed. you looked around the room, noticing a few stares in your direction, a sigh leaving your lips as you ripped the money from her hands. “fine! oh my god, will you stop that already!?” you whispered, reapplying your lipgloss before making your way over to rafe. he was surrounded by all of his friends, their boisterous laughter coming to a stop as you approached their table.

sliding the bill over to him, you felt the burn of their surrounding gazes on your ass. “i’ll have whatever that can get me.” you slowly stood back up, your dress riding up your thighs as rafe so shamelessly ogled your cleavage. “not even a ‘hi, how are you?’ i thought we were closer than that, babe.” rafe chuckled, shooing his friends off with the wave of his hand. without another word, they left, leaving you and rafe all alone as he patted the spot next to him. “i’m not sitting down. i just need my shit and i’ll be gone.” rafe’s smile dropped at your words, a scoff leaving his lips as he rounded the table.

“this is what you want, huh?” he waved a small baggie in your face, “take a walk with me and it’s all yours.. no money necessary.” he slipped the bill in your bra, his fingers skimming the flesh there as he threw an arm around your shoulders. oh, chanel owed you big time for this. “we should be together baby, we’d be the hottest couple in this bitch.” you hummed in disagreement, flashing him a glare. “i’m already the hottest one here, i don’t need you to be the ‘hottest’ anything.” rafe smiled down at you. your bitchy attitude only made him grow hard for you in his pants.

“you’re a bitch, you know that?” he started walking you two upstairs, his arm dropping from your shoulders before grabbing a handful of your ass through your dress. “aww, you think so?” you cooed, feigning innocence as you swatted his hand away. rafe settled for keeping a palm on the small of your back, your eybrows knitting in confusion when you two walked into a bathroom. “what are we doing in here?” you watched as rafe clicked the lock shut, his biceps bulging through his t-shirt as he crossed his arms over his chest. you couldn’t help but stare at his muscles.

rafe is a pretty attractive guy, there was no doubt about that. sharp facial features, blue eyes that made it easy to get lost in, and his muscles.. god, those chiseled muscles were a weakness of yours. “you can stop the act, you know?” he stepped closer, his face mere centimeters from yours. you put some space between you two, taking the hundred dollar bill out of your bra and offering it to him once again. “i’m just here to get something for my friend. you can take it or leave it, i don’t care which one you choose.” you leaned against the sink, the dim lighting making your lipgloss sparkle.

rafe nodded, tonguing his cheek as he caged you between his arms. he just had to smell so good. “your friend?” he repeated, “you’re not talking about chanel, right? the one who wanted to give me head instead of actually paying me?” you laughed, attempting to push him away but he didn’t budge. “oh, that just strokes your ego, doesn’t it?” you glanced at him through your lashes, feeling your resolve crumble the longer he stayed this close to you. “nah, not like you do.” he leaned down, pressing a wet kiss to the underside of your jaw. rafe was starting to get you where he wanted you.

“come on, you tellin’ me that you don’t think about that night we snuck away from that charity gala and had marathon sex on the druthers?” and there it was.. the one and only thing rafe cameron had dirt on you for. you sucked in a breath, a shiver running down your spine when he nipped the sensitive skin of your neck. “that was months ago, rafe.” you sighed, your hands trailing up his arms. “i still think about it,” he started, “still’ got your panties from that night in my room..” you moaned at the revelation, your fingers threading through his hair as he lifted you onto the sink to step between your thighs.

“why did you bring me here?” you pulled away, eyes glazed over as he rested a hand on your thigh. “because i still wanna supply you, just at the cost of something else..” you rolled your eyes, knowing exactly what that ‘something’ was. “goodbye, rafe.” you were about to move around him when he spoke. “that’s fine, really. i bet that girlfriend of yours downstairs wouldn’t mind getting on her knees for me one more time.. y’know, since you can’t do it.” you froze, your jaw clenching as you turned around and glared at him. “‘i ‘can’t’ do it’. is that what you said?” you arched a brow.

“yeah. you can’t do it right, and that’s okay. desperate times call for desperate measures, and no one sucks cock better than a desperate cokewhore looking for her next bump. ‘matter of fact.. send her up to me when you get back down there.” he winked. you were utterly speechless. who the fuck did he think he was talking to? you were hands down the best suck and fuck of his life, and you both knew it. “that’s funny..” you pouted, “cause if i remember correctly, you came three times in the span of ten minutes,” your laugh echoed off of the walls of the bathroom, “it felt so good, you were crying. did you forget that?” you whispered.

rafe cursed under his breath, lifting his head to meet your heated gaze. he could never forget that. he literally had to pull you off of him, pathetic whimpers leaving his lips as he laid there dazed and overstimulated. “but you’re right, i’m sure chanel would love to come up here.” you kissed his cheek, not even making it to the door before he pulled you back by your hair, his lips clashing with your own. the kiss was anything but soft. teeth, tongue, you name it, you two kissed like you’ve been waiting to do it for months. “you fuckin’ bitch, you were just waiting to throw that in my face, huh?”

you giggled, pushing him back against the counter before kneeling down and unbuckling his belt. rafe couldn’t believe that this was happening again. slipping his shirt off so it wasn’t in the way, he shuddered when he felt your fingers loop through the waistband of his briefs, his pants falling down in one swoop. “ah, fuck!” he hissed, the tip of his cock already leaking precum for you as you wrapped a hand around his base. “wanna keep saying that i don’t know what i’m doing?” you looked up at him with those eyes of yours, making him melt into a puddle of nothing as you stroked him languidly.

“no— no! you make me feel so good, baby..” rafe’s lips parted when you gave him a lick, swirling your tongue around the glistening head before taking him in your mouth, your throat closing around him tightly. rafe stood there frozen, his heart beating in his ears when you swallowed around his length. taking that as permission to gather your hair in a makeshift ponytail, rafe pulled you off of his cock, groaning at the sight of a string of spit connecting you two before slamming back into your throat, both of you moaning at the sensation. he looked so pretty when he was fighting the urge not to cum too soon.

eyebrows pinched together in pure bliss, rafe took his bottom lip between his teeth, his head rolling back as the sounds of his cock hitting the back of your throat reverberated off the walls of the bathroom. your mascara was starting to smudge, but with the black pencil in your waterline it was hard to tell you were messing up your makeup in the first place. “oh my god, baby, this is— shit, i can’t. i can’t fuckin’—” rafe was babbling nonsense, his knees buckling when he felt you take his balls in your other hand. “wait, wait, i’m so close. y/n—”

you ignored his pleas for you to slow down, only pulling away from him when he was right on the edge of painting your tongue with his cum. the look on his face was priceless when you started fixing your hair in the mirror, tearing off a piece of tissue to dab at the stray tears that managed to roll down your cheeks. “w-what are you doing? what’s wrong?” rafe stammered, his cock standing up against his stomach as you didn’t spare him another glance.

“i’m going home!” you chirped, the man next to you shaking his head at your words. “no, no, no, what are you talking about?” he grabbed your arm, pulling you closer to where he stood, “come on, you know i can make you scream. let me fuck you..” he whispered the last part in your ear, making a wicked grin form on your lips. “fuck me? gross, no way.” pecking the tip of his nose, you pushed him away before opening the door. “wait, what about your blow?” he shouted after you as if to say ‘gotcha!’. turning around at the top of the stairs, you took the little baggie out of your bra and waved it at him.

“you should be careful, ray. ‘get too horny and can’t even feel when a cokewhore slips her fingers in your pocket. you made it too easy for me, baby!” rafe was in disbelief when he watched you blow a kiss at him, your hips swaying as you walked down the stairs. you were so clever he couldn’t even be mad. pathetically shouting a ‘so you’ll call me?!’ you ignored him, scoffing. “as if, loser.”

[kngrose]

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒

includes sevika violet jinx

WARNINGS: 18+, stalking, manipulation, implied violence, implied abuse, toxic relationships, NONCON touching, forced proximity, blackmail, mentions of punishments

sevika loneliness induction type

Sevika is fiercely loyal to those she associates herself with, and that’s not just anybody. There must be a substance that directly ties her to the cause. And though she’ll never come clean about what the substance is, if she becomes romantically obsessed with you, that loyalty will turn obsessive. She’s a master of control and patience; she’s very practical. Because she’s so calculated, most of her obsessive tendencies will manifest in quiet, almost unnoticed ways.

Her yandere tendencies wouldn’t involve loud outbursts or tantrums. Instead, she would be silently obsessed, methodically planning her moves and slowly, subtly creating a reality where you feel like you can only depend on her. She wouldn’t express her feelings loudly—rather, her obsession would be reflected in small, quiet gestures that make it clear no one else could ever take her place.

Before you two even "met" she was always around. Keeping track of your every move, watching you from a distance, ensuring no one else got too close. She'd follow you, lurking in the shadows, just to make sure no harm came your way—or to make sure you didn’t get too attached to someone else; romantically or platonically. Every time you’d explained the feeling of being watched to your peers, they’d brush it off. “There is nothing unusual about that,” they would say, “look where we live.” You’d suppose they were right. It would feel more strange if you didn’t feel like you were being followed.

Once Sevika finally makes her presence known, anyone who tries to get close to you, even in a friendly manner, will be met with cold, calculating hostility. She will even go as far as to subtly manipulate situations to isolate you from others, all while maintaining the facade of being the perfect ally. She would pay close attention to who you befriended and considered close before deciding who to pluck from your life. And pluck she would. You’ll start to notice slowly but surely that all of your peers have… disappeared. Which is strange; you guys never got into any trouble– you didn’t have any enemies, there’s literally no one who would be singling you all out. “It's dangerous out here,” she’ll say, “It's dangerous and vile and sick. And they couldn't protect themselves.” And she’ll gaze at you, a strange glint in her eyes, “But don't worry. I’ll never let anything happen to you.”

She will use her intelligence and strength not just to protect you, but to shape your perception of her. Sevika is good at reading people, so she will slowly play with your emotions—gently pushing your boundaries little by little. To the point where you feel; like you can’t deny her. Her touches would start to linger too long, in places that friends don't touch. Her gazes were too intense. She’s embracing you, kissing you– calling you names friends don't call each other. Every interaction would feel charged as if she’s marking you as hers in ways that go beyond friendship.

Constantly grabbing at the fat of your thighs, dangerously close to your ass. She’s pulling you into her lap, fondling– much to your displeasure. You’ll tell her, “No, that’s not normal…” You’ll make it known that you don’t see her that way. Do you? But she’ll just shush you, tell you to “Relax.”And as the line between “friend” and “lover” would start to blur, Sevika would be pulling the last seam tightly. She’s got you exactly where she wants you.

She would be able to mask her jealousy with a calm and controlled demeanor, but beneath the surface, she would be seething. If you paid attention to anyone else, she’d nod along with the conversation, but her eyes would be cold, flicking between you and the others with disdain, watching for an opportunity to intervene or manipulate the situation. She’d never directly show how much it bothers her, but when you’re gone, she’d ensure that others get the message; your affection is not to be shared.

Aside from someone trying to deter your attention, if anyone ever tried to harm you, Sevika would always retaliate. She's not afraid to get her hands dirty, and her methods of dealing with threats would be brutal. For her, a threat is a threat, and she would see nothing wrong with taking extreme measures to handle it as soon as the opportunity presents itself. She’s not stupid, she won't just jump the gun. She values patience, which would call for a slow, painful death.

She would be adept at playing on your emotions, making you feel guilty if you ever question her or try to pull away. She might say things like, “I’ve always been there for you, haven’t I? So why would you doubt me now?” using her history of loyalty and support to bind you closer to her, turning any moment of doubt into something you feel you must make up for.

If Sevika truly believes you are the one for her, she would convince herself—and eventually, you—that you were meant to be together. Again, she is fiercely loyal and expects nothing less from you in return. In her eyes, she is the only person who truly understands and appreciates you, so anything else would be a betrayal. Please do not test her patience with this. If Sevika makes it clear to you that she doesn’t want you around anyone else, for any reason, do not be caught around anyone else.

When you make a mistake, which you will know when you've made a mistake, she will just give you this look. The look. The one where you know she's pissed off by just a glance. You’re in luck if you're in public; she won't act on it just yet. And she won't act as soon as you get home, either. I feel like Sevika would wait it out on purpose. By this I mean; If you ever did something that upset her, she would be deathly silent; quietly brooding around you, imposing her size on you in an intimidating way. And I'm not talking about a few hours or a day. I'm talking weeks. And it drives you mad. You’ll be walking on eggshells around her, terrified by the deafening silence. What is she thinking? What is she going to do? And this is all according to her plan. She wants you to think she forgot about it so that when she does exact punishment, it will take you by complete surprise. It’s a mind game. And that’s the first thing she’ll break.

violet self sabotaging type

Vi is fiercely protective, passionate, and can be concerningly impulsive, so pairing this all with yandere tendencies would bring forth a compelling mix of aggression, loyalty, and possessiveness. Let’s start where the root of the issue is; she is incredibly jealous. Unhealthily so. Vi's jealousy wouldn’t just be passive; it would be aggressive and reactive. If anyone even looked at you in a way she didn’t like, she’d be quick to intervene, usually with a punch or a threatening glare. Her jealousy would make her irrationally angry—if you decided to pay attention to someone else, she might lash out in frustration, even if she tries to keep a calm exterior.

Vi’s flirtation might be laced with possessiveness—playful jabs or teasing that has an undercurrent of "don’t you dare look at anyone else" embedded in it. If someone else tries to show affection toward you, she would be quick to remind them, through a sharp glare or a fist to the face, that you’re already taken—and that she’s not afraid to be a little violent to keep it that way.

She’s naturally protective over those she loves, but with you that protectiveness would take a much darker turn. She wouldn’t just defend you from external threats—she would also isolate you from anyone she perceives as a potential rival or distraction. Acquaintances, or even strangers would be seen as obstacles in her path, and she might resort to physical intimidation or threats to keep them at bay. She’s not shy about this either; In fact, more often than not you’ll find out this information firsthand as a witness.

She’s so nosy, omg. She has to know everything. Who you went out with the other night? Was that everyone who was there? Why were you out so long? Where did you all even go? Are you keeping something from her?

She’ll try to shrug this off as her being protective, but her protective nature would cross into obsession. Again, she’s not shy about this. She’s always standing close enough to overhear your conversations, idly breathing down your shoulder and making you and the other person uncomfortable. She’s always be nearby, ready to step in if she feels something is wrong. If you try to go out alone, she'd insist on accompanying you, always finding excuses to be in your personal space.

To most people, She would still appear to be the strong, caring, and honestly reckless person they know, but beneath the surface, she would have an all-consuming obsession with you. Anyone who saw her with you might think you both have a maybe somewhat overbearing, but affectionate relationship. But in truth, Vi would always be calculating, and slowly taking control of your life to ensure that you could never escape her.

She’ll always find a reason to touch you—putting a hand on your shoulder or wrapping an arm around your waist, all while making it clear that no one else is allowed this kind of closeness. The more possessive she gets, the tighter and more lingering her embraces would be, and she wouldn’t tolerate anyone else getting too close.

Vi would use her knowledge of your emotions to manipulate you into doing what she wants. You’re trying to distance yourself? No worries, she’ll be sure to draw you back in with sweet words and kisses you can taste– that always worked in the past. But if not? She’s angry, she’s confused. Why would you want to leave someone who’s so selfless and always ready to fight for you?

She’s guilt-tripping you, reminding you of all the things she’s done for you, how much she’s fought for you, and how no one else cares about you the way she does. And if that doesn’t work? Have fun pulling her out of whatever hole she’s about to dig herself into out of pure spite. Drinking herself into oblivion? Picking fights with any and everyone? Threatening to off herself, for fucks sake.

And if somehow her threatening to end her life doesn't work? That’s fine; just be prepared to clear up the most malicious rumors about yourself. The ones that make people alienate you. They’re spreading like wildfire, there’s no way you’ll be able to have it under control. At that point, who else can you turn to? You’ll have no choice but to worm your way back into the relationship you so desperately wanted to leave. The one person who didn’t turn on you in your time of despair. She’s stubborn and she’s childish and she knows this. But it won't deter her one bit. It’s only when you’re back under her arm that the rumors dissipate like smoke, leaving as quickly as they came. It’ll dawn on you then, where they originated.

jinx delusional type

Jinx is not afraid to harm you. Whether it be mentally, emotionally, or physically. Please understand that she is not above that. She has real psychological issues, so in this relationship being very careful is very vital. It might cost you your life. She is constantly putting you to the test, she wants to see what decisions you’ll make, and how you’ll react under pressure. She might create situations to see if you’ll abandon her or stand by her. If she perceives any kind of betrayal, even a small one, her obsession will deepen, and she will lash out to remind you of her hold on you.

She’ll do little things like leaving doors unlocked or leaving a key nearby, all the while watching silently from the shadows, anticipating your next moves. She enjoys creating confusion, making you doubt yourself, and feeding your insecurities, all while maintaining a façade of sweetness and care. More than likely you may start feeling like you’re losing your grip on reality, unsure whether her actions are out of love or something darker.

If you still have your freedom, you might catch her following you if you have a sharp enough eye. Whether it's sneaking into your room, watching you from afar, or listening in on your conversations, she’ll make sure she knows everything about your life. And if you seem distant or don't include her in your world, it sends her into a spiral of insecurity and she tries even harder to make you need her.

Her paranoia is a defining trait of her yandere tendencies. If you show any kind of affection or attention toward anyone else, she snaps, jealousy swallowing her whole. This can lead her to lash out, either through harsh words, tantrums, or more drastic actions. In her mind, only she should have your attention and affection.

You always have to watch what you say, constantly trying to pacify the thoughts in her in the hope that you’re not feeding into them. Sometimes you’ll catch her muttering things to herself as she stares off at nothing, intervening when her muttering starts sounding homicidal. You’ve learned not to let her talk to herself too long, or she’ll start getting confused. Once, she grabbed your face with an iron grip, jerking your face to hers. “You don't need anyone else, right Baby?” She smiled softly, scanning your face, though the smile didn’t meet her eyes. You were dumbfounded– you didn't know how to respond. You didn’t know how she would react– she was so unpredictable– “SAY IT!” You violently flinched, sputtering the words back to you. It seemed to pacify her then, as her soft smile returned and she pecked your lips. “Right..” She’d muttered, petting your hair idly.

Her emotions fluctuate rapidly. One moment, she’ll be sweet and charismatic, trying to be the perfect companion. You’ll almost let your guard down. But in the next, she could snap, lashing out in a fit of rage at any given thing. It could be something as little as you glancing away while she’s speaking; her eyes quickly darting to see what or who’s stolen your attention from her. She’ll feel betrayed.

Because she’s so unpredictable, you’ll never be able to create a mental routine of the “punishments” she gives you. You’ll drive yourself mad just thinking about it; how the hell can she possibly be coming up with so many ways of torment? Sensory deprivation, shock collars, pinning little bombs to your clothes– they won't explode but you’ll think they will. It’s all a game to her, once she feels wronged. She’ll do anything to make you feel the way she does inside, even if that means breaking the moral code.

Jinx loves having control over situations, especially where you are concerned. She’ll "accidentally" sabotage plans or relationships that threaten her sense of control. Or at least she’ll call it an accident when you bring it up. She also collects items that remind her of you—photos, scraps of clothing, anything that holds sentimental value. She’ll hide these items in hidden places as Jinx sees them as proof of her connection to you, and she’ll be upset if they go missing.

Part of me thinks Jinx doesn’t have an end goal, or she has too many. Too many different voices, too many different ideas, too many possibilities. What does she want from you exactly? Well, she doesn’t know. Does she love you? She does! Well, at least she thinks she does. Why else could she feel so passionately about you? But in the same instance– why does she want to break you so badly? Why does she have the urge to hurt you? You’ll catch her staring, shooting her a weary glance; she’s muttering to herself again. You wonder what it’s about this time.

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[postmortemnivis]

nobody knew simon’s name, his cold glances penetrating souls whenever someone on the force even dared to call him by his first name. he preferred it this way. he wasn’t the kind to blend personal life and work, he didn’t want to look at himself in the mirror without his mask and still see a murderer. his hands were clean, protected by the gloves ghost slipped on each time he reached base. it was soon that the other soldiers almost forgot his name, agreeing that their lieutenant was indeed a ghost.

that was until your worried voice called for him.

you didn’t know of the ghost identity, it had never even crossed your mind that your simon, your sweet and caring boyfriend’s personality would switch into a cold blooded killer as soon as he set foot at base or in the field. of course he never mentioned it with you, he sporadically talked about his job and his missions. you knew he was a strict lieutenant, but you had been kept away from more by the person with the skull mask and balaclava.

“simon?” you asked for the third time the receptionist. she apologetically looked up at you and shrugged. “oh cmon, simon riley. i know for a fact that he’s here. please, i need to see him.”

“i’m very sorry miss but…” the woman shook her head again, “let me call the captain.”

you sighed and sat down by the waiting area until a man walked in and talked to the woman.

“who’re you looking for?”

you stood up. “simon. simon riley.”

“ghost?”

you shook your head, almost clueless. “no, simon riley.”

“yeah, that’s him…” he said, “he’s training the recruits now. shall i deliver a message?”

“no, i need to see him personally. i wouldn’t have come all the way here if it wasn’t important, captain.”

you'd seen price a few times, simon's loyalty to the man was almost like a dog's one, always following orders and rarely complaining. he often talked about him when he was at home, all he shared with you about his threatening job was the friends he made along the way: johnny, kyle, price, gary, nikolai. he'd often go out for a pint—or two—with johnny and kyle, who also occasionally would come to your shared apartment for dinner with their temporary girlfriends.

"follow me." price sighed. you eagerly followed him, as close as his shadow, and the courtyard came into sight. dozens and dozens of soldiers in scarlet training uniforms were running laps of the immense open space under the pale sun, and that's when you spotted a tall and muscular man in black tactical gear. hell, he was hard to miss.

"another lap, smith!" his mancunian accent was stronger than his will to neutralise it. "if my gran was alive she'd be faster than ya."

you'd recognised the voice, of course, even if it was much harsher than usual, but you couldn't recognise him.

you realised, that was ghost. his cold eyes were studying each of the recruit's tired and red faces, his arms behind his back as he barked for five more laps for the ones who didn't look sweaty enough. even his voice was different, but what shocked you was the black balaclava with the white skull drawn on top.

you'd seen the mask once or twice over the years, shoved on the bottom of his duffle bag or drying on a windowsill, but you've never given it much thought, why would you?

"si?" you asked, standing directly behind him as price stood a few feet from you.

his head snapped in your direction at a worryingly fast speed, his eyes immediately becoming soft, then confused.

"what're you doin' here?" his voice spoke, much sweeter.

you kept staring at him, not recognising the man you loved.

he immediately grabbed the crown of the balaclava and yanked it off without a second though. holding the black piece of clothing in his hand, both of them came to cup your elbows, drawing you closer to him.

"love?" he called you.

still at loss of words, you reached to the balaclava and twirled it between your fingers.

"love, talk to me." his voice sounded worried.

"ghost?"

he shook his head. "simon, love."

"we'll talk about that at home." you raised your eyebrows, attempting a smile.

he looked at you impatiently, his fingers brushing up and down your forearms.

you fished in your bag a small plastic bag and gave it to him.

this wasn't like one of the times when he'd forget his lunch at home so you'd drop by and give it to johnny so he'd give it to an always so busy simon ghost; he could see it in your eyes that this was something more.

he unwrapped the plastic bag that you had rolled up on itself. his eyes looked brighter than ever when he took with shaky fingers the finally positive pregnancy test.