#and really enjoy this chapter and the next

[madamechrissy]

Baby You're a Star

Art in the banner by Kerravi on x!

Summary- You meet Satoru Gojo at a wild Hollywood party, insanely out of place, waiting for your friend to show up. The two of you hit it off, spending time together, and share a kiss, but you're a good girl, and you just don't do this, but he is the top pornstar there is, and the top .01 % on OnlyFans. Once you find out, you know there's probably no match, as Satoru doesn't date, and you don't sleep around, but after meeting, you keep in touch- and soon Satoru can't get hard without thinking of you, and you get over curious, and join a livestream of the boy you like. Just how will that go for you both!?

Warnings- this time, lots of fluff, sweet confessions, emotional, mentions of Satoru's past and how he got in the industry, former Nerdjo mentioned. Also explicit sex, oral (f receiving) Gojo worshipping you, breedkink, creampie, fingering, squirting, dirty talk WC this chap- 9.6k

A/N- omg one more chapter, we are at the end! Taglist closed- please comment/rb if you enjoy <3

<<<Chapter Six - Masterlist- Playlist- Chapter Eight >>> (Final! - coming soon)

Chapter Seven

Satoru is nervous.

 He’s never really been on a ‘date’ before, he’s been on many meetings with girls from work, get togethers and hang outs, but he’s never been on something so official, even back when he was with the woman who got him into the industry. They of course fucked constantly, they went out together to hit parties, but it wasn’t that official term, not like this with you.

A real date.

Something he’s been playing over and over in his head for all these months, imagining if things could have gone differently, that night when the girl came up to him, and Nanami came up to you. Could he have said - yes, she’s my date - and not been so fucking terrified of the change? When you looked at him that way, as if you were waiting for his answer, could he have given it?

He shoves all of that back now, it’s all in the past, and the two of you have been in constant contact this week in anticipation, down to you sending him dresses you’re thinking of wearing. Suguru keeps mentioning the dopey fucking grin on his face every time you text him, and every time he calls you, the two of you end up falling asleep on the phone together.

You’re his girlfriend.

He’s actually gotten you a corsage, you maybe thought he was kidding, but he absolutely was not. He’s standing in front of your door, when he finally knocks on it, rapping his knuckles across it, and soon you’ve opened it, standing there so beautiful you make him ache. In so many fucking ways, too.

For every bit of Satoru that wants to rip this pretty little blue dress off you, another part wants to simply kiss your forehead.

The affection is as intense as the longing, the desire to have you with him always, not schedule times and days and work arounds. He knows that is what both of you have to do, but there’s a little part of him that would die to just have you with him, constantly. In his bed, waking up next to him, something he never knew he would want or crave so badly.

Your eyes light up, brilliant without your glasses on, he can’t decide what he likes better - how fucking pretty you are with them, or getting to look into them clearer without them on. You have cherry red lipstick across your lips, and a little blush on your cheekbones, your hair done up in a way that makes him crave yanking it out, letting it tumble and fall over your shoulders as he kisses you.

“Satoru, oh I’m so excited!” You’re grinning, melting his heart then, he swallows a little nervously again, leaning down and tilting your chin up with two fingers.

“You look beautiful, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pressing a sweet kiss on your lips, you tremble at it, your hands slipping up his chest, over the pretty light blue dress shirt he’s wearing. “We match.”

“We do,” you kiss him again, tugging at his collar, sighing into his mouth at how good it feels. “You look handsome, Satoru.”

“Of course I do.” You snort now, shaking your head and stepping back and tugging at his hands.

“Come in real quick, I need to throw my heels on and get a jacket,” he steps inside, noticing the couch is still very much spotless, no more tangled blankets, he smiles as you sit on the couch then and slip on a pair of black heels. “I’m very, very excited you know.”

“So am I,” he comes over then, kneeling and halting you before you slip the other shoe on, taking it from your hand. He presses a kiss on your bare knee, watching you react, your hands trembling, your breath quickening. “Let me.”

“You’re making me feel like Cinderella or something,” you tease, he laughs a bit softly, eyeing the flustered mess he’s made you. “I could get used to this treatment.”

“I could get used to treating you this way,” he murmurs, securing the little buckle now, hand slipping up your thigh slowly, he leans close, your fingers card through the snowy locks of his hair. “Like a little princess.”

“Satoru,” you lean down and kiss him again, deeper this time, he tugs you close as he sits between your thighs, feeling your heat. You pull back, breath ghosting his lips, he notices he’s kissed just a bit of your tint off, a fainter red now. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you.” You both kiss once more, it takes every ounce of self control not to devour you, that soaking wet little cunt so ready for him to drink up, but he knows you both have to take time, even when your bodies completely disagree. He pulls back and sighs, caressing your cheek carefully. “Don’t make it so hard for me to be a gentleman, do you know what it’s like right now?”

“You’re the one over here making me think insane thoughts,” you pout, and he grins, easing back just a bit. “This is not a good position for you to be in with where my mind is going.”

“And what is your innocent mind thinking of, hmm?” He raises a brow, so charming, still on his knees over your plush carpet. “Blushing, cute.”

“Shh! You know what I’m thinking, it’s not innocent…” you shift a bit closer, his hand slips up the inside of your thigh now. 

“No? Are you being a bad girl?” He grins, still slowly inching up, watching you shift on the couch.

“Don’t make me say it.”

“Maybe I wanna hear it,” he kisses your thigh now, watching goosebumps rise where his lips press, hearing your soft whine along with the little pop of his lips. “I can make it happen after the date, if you want it to.”

You bite your lower lip, while he looks up at you under his snowy lashes, just a little red on his own lips now. “I was thinking of places that really miss being kissed by you.”

“Oh, here?” He kisses your knee, and you giggle. “Or… here?” He kisses higher, teasing you with a nip of his sharp teeth.

“No,” he’s chuckling now, fuck he doesn’t remember the last time he felt like this, even with you. It was sexual so quickly and so intense there wasn’t much room for teasing. Your fluttering pulse and quick heart rate are matched by his own, when you run your thumb over his plump lip. “You know where I miss it most.”

“It’s here, isn’t it?” He grabs your wrist now, pressing a kiss along the delicate inside of it, over the little veins raised ever so slightly.

“You found it,” his teeth nip your wrist now, shooting desire hot and heavy, while his fingers slip dangerously close to your core. “Mnh…”

“I know, I can’t wait to taste your sweet little cunt again,” his words are husky, deep toned, that voice that feels like he’s touching you, pulling back now to tug out a pretty bunch of blue flowers from his black jacket. “But I’m going to do this right this time.”

“Satoru, did you really get a corsage!?” You’re giggling, the sound making him melt as he takes your hand now. “I didn’t think you actually would!”

“I told you I would,” he kisses the back of your hand after slipping it over your wrist, little delicate blue flowers adorning it now. “I think now you’re ready for this date, yeah?”

You blink back emotions, kissing him again, he’s still on his knees, arms wrapping your waist, kissing your lips over and over, sighing into them. “Did I tell you, I never went to prom?”

“Never?” He pulls back curiously, and you nod. “Tell me why, I want to know so much, who you were. Were you a little nerd?”

“Of course I was, I just played DnD that night.” He grins then, so handsome he breaks your heart into pieces.

“Guess what?”

“Hmm?”

“I didn’t go to mine either. I was also playing DnD.”

“No way!”

“Mmhmm,” he’s chuckling along with you, you kiss him again, a sweet little peck, shaking your head. “I was a nerd.”

“No way, I can’t even picture it!” He shrugs a shoulder and stands now, holding your hands and tugging you up, your head falls back to look at him. “There’s so much I don’t know about the man I fell in love with.”

It’s quiet then, he rests his head on yours, cupping your face, too quiet, your mind races. This will be the third time you’ve confessed, and the prior two were not met with answers, you curse internally, wishing you could keep it under wraps, wondering if you’re pushing it too far. But he pulls back, lips parted, exhaling and studying you carefully.

“You do not have to say it back-”

“I fell in love with you when I fucking saw you,” you pause, a little gasp the only noise aside from your pounding heart, beating so loudly, you can feel it thudding. “It scared the fuck out of me. I tried to explain it away in every different way, it must be your looks, it must be the chemistry, it must be a connection. Anything to avoid knowing what it was.”

“Satoru…” You’re blinking tears, little trails of mascara falling which he swipes up with his fingers.

“I was just really scared. I’ll get more into my past tonight, but I didn’t think this sort of thing was possible. These six months have been fucking torture,” you’re a mess now, while he tugs you closer, hands slipping down your bare shoulders. “I should have said it back.”

“It’s okay, it really is, you weren’t ready just yet.” He exhales, leaning low and kissing you once more, tasting the salty tears that fall.

“I wanted to do this after the date, I had a plan you brat.” You giggle now, as he keeps swiping at your tears. “All this work on your makeup too, want me to fix it for you?”

“You can do makeup?” You ask softly, he nods.

“I did a lot on set. You just need a touch up, though you’d be a pretty racoon, too. Where’s the makeup?”

“Scattered all over the sink,” he sees that clearly when you’re in your bathroom now, there are exactly seven lipsticks set out. “I couldn’t decide!”

“Always red, it’s my favorite on you,” he carefully takes your concealer and wets your makeup sponge like a pro as you watch. “Yes, I know how to do it pretty well.”

“Putting on my makeup and my shoes? I’ll never let you go,” you tease, while he dabs under your eye, touching up the little black spots as you look up. It’s quiet then, but he finishes that, tilting your chin up again. “Do I need more lipstick?”

“Wanna kiss you again first,” he murmurs, pressing his lips on yours, your arms wrapped around his neck, eyelashes fluttering shut. “One more.”

You’re smiling as you pull back, hands slipping down his chest. “I love you, Satoru.”

“I love you, and I wanna fucking bend you over this sink,” you moan softly when he turns you, facing the mirror, his hands on either side, you feel his length pressing against the small of your back, making you heat up. “The last time I looked at you like this…”

“I know,” you look at his eyes, as he leans down, bent at the waist, a big hand splaying the expanse of your tummy under your breasts, palm warm, you lean back against him, feeling every bit of it. “That was an… intense night.”

“It was, there’s this mix of regretting acting that way, and wishing I got to drink all that up,” you barely hold back your desperate whine, he kisses down the side of your neck now, moaning softly in your ear. “Is that terrible?”

“No, it’s not, I feel the same - ah - we won’t make the date if you keep kissing me like this.” He chuckles, pulling back a bit, you’re dizzy from his presence from every sensation.

“Can’t control yourself?”

“Oh!” You turn and shove him playfully, all lit up so pretty for him, he can’t help but feel that tug of affection. “You’re smirking!”

“You’re just so adorable like this.” He kisses you again, before pulling back, eyeing your lipstick, picking the shade you have on. “Here, I’ll fix it.”

Satoru glides the lipstick over your mouth carefully, smiling down at his work, when you wipe the tint of it off his own lips, blushing when he nips at your thumb. “All better?”

“All better, but tonight…” he leans over you again, a wicked little smirk on his handsome face now. “I think I’d like to ruin your makeup. And not fix it.”

“Toru…” He tugs you against him, thigh pressing right where you’re already pulsing around nothing, you arch them, dying for more, it’s been so fucking long since you felt him.

“The tears will be from cumming too hard, too much, not from you being sad,” he whispers, pressing hungry kisses along your jaw line now, until his lips brush the shell of your ear. “Lipstick smeared from where you’ll suck my cock down that tight little throat, from your drool.”

“Fuck…” You’re damn near done for, yanking him down and rolling your hips, his big hands stop you. “Please…”

“After the date, what do you take me for!?”

“You’re ridiculous!” He snorts and you barely manage a cute little glare. “Teasing me, ugh!”

“You’re too cute, I can’t help it.” He fixes the little bobby pins in your hair that have fallen, you watch his adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows.

“Then you better take me out now, before we don’t get to the door.”

“You’re so slutty right now,” he’s grinning against your neck as you push at him, his arm wraps you tightly, lifting you up for a moment with one arm like it’s nothing. “Be a good girl for me.”

“I’m trying, mnh,” it’s impossible not to want him, when he’s literally just fucking carrying you with that one arm to the front door now. “I could get used to this too.”

“You’re going to be a very spoiled girlfriend, hmm?” You bury your face at that, as he chuckles, setting you down in front of your door. “You like that?”

“Yes, I do.” He grabs your jacket from the stand, slipping it over your shoulders now and holding out his hand.

“Then let’s go on a date.”

“Let’s go.”

*****

“If it isn’t Satoru Gojo!” A girl runs up as you and Satoru are seated at the rooftop restaurant he’s brought you to later, overlooking the beautiful skyline below, high up as the sun gently sets.

Everything is perfect about tonight, sitting across from him, the soft candlelight flickering with the wind just a bit, your hands joined as your knees gently brush. He looks at her then, raising a brow, and you tense across from him, remembering the last time you two had gone out to eat. The girl who was his former costar, and you can’t get mad about it, he’s probably just rather popular with his career.

“I haven’t seen you in so long, what a shame,” she says then, slinking on up, her fingers trail his shoulder, when he takes her hand, yanking it off him, narrowing his eyes. 

“I’m clearly on a date with my girlfriend,” his words make your heart race, while you’re nervously fiddling with your hands in your lap. She looks at you in surprise, as if she’d not acknowledged it to even be some possibility. “What did you need?”

“I just remembered having a really good time on set, and was curious if you were into it anymore, I do have my contact info if you-”

“You’re clearly not reading the room,” he cuts her off, and you’ve never seen this side of him. Usually shmoozing and grinning, putting on a bit of a show, this Satoru is far, far different from the last time this happened. He puts a hand on yours and smiles at you, saying your name softly.

“Oh… I didn’t see you there,” she says, nose in the air, you blink and Satoru glares now, his icy eyes fucking insane. “I’m Amber, was a friend of his.”

Her insinuation is clear, clear as Satoru’s jaw tensing.

“Nice to meet you, Amber.” You say, too friendly for Satoru’s liking, he raises a brow and you give him a look - you can’t be rude!?

“To answer you, no I don’t want your info, I’m not doing that now.”

“Ah, I did hear you were modeling, how’d you get into it?”

“Here,” he hands her a business card. “That’s my agent, but if you don’t mind I have a date to focus on.” Resigned, she walks off, and he tilts his head.

“What?”

“Why are you so nice? Should have scowled at her with me.”

“She just likes you, who wouldn’t,” he leans forward now, hand entwining with yours over the table. “You want me territorial?”

“It’d be hot.” You roll your eyes as he smirks.

“You’re crazy, but thank you for telling her um… I’m your girlfriend.” He kisses up your inner wrist, where the corsage sits now.

“Of course,” it doesn’t feel strong enough of a word really, for everything he feels for you, watching you across from him. “All right, so what character did you main?”

“You really were a nerd,” he chuckles, the sound so perfect to your ears then, while you both nibble on your appetizers. “I was a bard of course, and a fire genasi, you?”

“I can see it, I was absolutely a paladin.”

“What kind!”

“Dragonborne.”

“Oh, that fits.”

“What’s that mean, nerdy brat?” He teases, when you lean your chin on your hand, so fucking heartbreakingly pretty across from him it almost steals his breath away, it takes everything to remain calm.

You make him feel every bit the younger boy he was then, stuttering on his words, fumbling nervously on the inside, even though on the exterior he was so calm, so sure. That grin he gives you though? It’s not the practiced one, the sleazy Hollywood one, it’s genuine - it’s him.

Maybe that’s what always scared him.

“So, are we going to play together? I have a group you know,” you tease, poking at him when he just stares for a moment. “Planning a new character?”

“No, thinking how beautiful you are,” you blink a bit in surprise, leaning back with a little intake of breath, those earrings dangling and swaying, casting shadows along the delicate curve of your neck. His fingers trail along it, reaching up to toy with them now. “Too much?”

“No, not at all,” your hand touches his, holding it there as you study him across from you, his pretty pink lips parted, lashes lowering. “I think you’re beautiful too.”

“Of course-”

“Inside too, not just your face, or your body, or even just your eyes,” you stop him in his tracks, eyes burning with the emotions that you bring from your words. “Everything about you.”

“Shit,” he tugs you to him over the table, kissing you in front of everyone, you taste the sweetness of that moscato on his plush lips, sinking into the kiss. “You’re too sweet, I need to drink you.”

“Don’t say that here,mmm…” you pull back, covering your face, hearing his little chuckle. “You’re mean, never mind.”

“Hey, sorry, come back here,” you shake your head, then he stands up, walking over in front of you, making you look up at him. “So we both missed prom to roleplay then?”

“Mmhmm, a destined match.” He hums a bit, as you look around, seeing that some people are watching you both with curious smiles.

“Then let's dance like it is prom, a nerdy little dnd prom with just you and me.” He says softly, playful gleam in those pretty azure depths of his eyes, and your pulse races, nerves making you heat up.

“Dance, here?” You ask nervously, there is music playing, there’s a singer with a guitar, and there’s room to dance on this rooftop, but no one is.

“Yes, since we both were too busy in the dungeon for prom,” he teases, white grin flashing as the soft wind tousles his white locks. “We should dance here and now, together.”

“You’re so insane, but…” He’s standing now, holding out his hand, and you take it, a pretty smile on your face melting him ever further.

He leans low, murmuring in your ear when he tugs you up. “Good girl.”

“Oh, you know what that does.” You’re burying your face against his chest as he chuckles, hand on the small of your back.

“Too cute I can’t help it, c’mon sweetheart,” he tugs you now by your hands, and pulls you in his embrace while the music softly echoes, mixing with the pounding of your heart in your ears. He’s spinning you in a little pirouette, as the people around you smile and murmur your direction. “Look, they think you’re cute too.”

You stumble nervously, he catches you so swift, like it’s a second nature, and you can’t stop the big grin on your face - a lovesick one. One only for Satoru Gojo, one that’s been gone from your face for a long time now. He has one hand in yours, as he sways you along, the waitresses pass by and giggle, whispering how cute of a couple you are.

“You don’t mind if they know I’m your girlfriend?” You ask then, he frowns, shaking his head.

“I want everyone to know you’re my girlfriend.” You light up, and he realizes when he didn’t acknowledge it to be more before, it must have created more of an insecurity. “I wish I told everyone, especially that Nanami guy.”

“Oh goodness,” his glare shows he’s still very much not a fan, you rest your head on his chest, swaying now. “You know he’s doing OF with Jenna now?”

“What!?” You pull back a bit, nodding. “Do you just attract sex workers like a lamp for moths!?”

“Shh!” You look around at his loud ass voice, and he sighs, rolling his eyes. “I thought you’d be happy he’s occupied.”

“Mmm, whatever, I didn't like his ass.”

“I can tell!”

“Didn’t like how he looked at you,” he tilts your chin up, still swaying side to side now. “Only I can look at you like that.”

“Possessive Satoru, I kinda like that,” he rolls his eyes at your teasing little smile, spinning you again, the wine hits your bloodstream, making you deliciously dizzy. “Maybe I feel possessive too, a little.”

“I knew it, you were holding back.” He eyes the girl who’d interrupted your meal, smirking as he sees your cute little scowl. “No one can catch my eye, okay? It’s just you.”

You falter, almost tripping again in your heels that are just a bit too high, head falling back to look up at him. “Oh…”

“Don’t cry again, not yet,” he presses a kiss on your forehead, warm to the touch of his lips, while the breeze gently blows cool waves of air, making your dress fly up just a bit. “Of course you’re all I see.”

“I will cry again,” you warn, eyes glassy already, as the song ends, and he spins you once more, until your back is against his chest, and his arms are wrapped around you. “Thank you, Satoru.”

“Of course.” People clap around you quietly at your little dance, when he guides you back to the table, but this time he sits the chair right next to him, a hand on your thigh under the tablecloth. His eyes lock with yours when you bite at your lip, he tugs it from the grip of your teeth. “Only I should get to bite it.”

“Only you, hmm?” He nods, leaning close, when a waitress comes with your orders, and he gives you a quick kiss, starting to cut up your food without thinking about it. “Satoru, you're very thoughtful, you know.”

“It’s nothing, I hope you like this,” he slips a bite into your mouth, juicy and tender, your eyes flutter shut as it fills your taste buds. “What do you think?”

“It’s so good!” He smiles at that, feeding you another bite now, ever so carefully, dabbing at your lips with a napkin. “You’re spoiling me.”

“I haven’t spoiled you yet, not even close,” you sip your wine, scooching even closer, your legs crossed, his hand firm on one. “I think I’ll like having a girlfriend to spoil, take you shopping, make you dress up for me.”

“You don’t have to do all that, you know.” He frowns a bit at that.

“What if I want to, will you let me?” He brushes a tendril of hair back that the wind keeps sweeping forward, the sky is darkening, the purples and oranges fading, the sun set over the horizon now. The lighting just makes the angles of his face sharper, the glow of his skin prettier.

“I’ll let you do anything,” you clear your throat then, blushing. “Well that sounded freaky.”

“I know you’d let me do anything, sweetheart I haven’t even gotten started showing you things. That blush is so pretty.”

“Oh!” You cut up some of his food then, putting it in his mouth, he eagerly takes a bite off the fork. “Yes I’ll let you take me shopping.”

“Good girl.”

“Satoru!” His hand slips up higher, surrounded by lively people and music. You get so nervous, but more excited, when his thumb brushes a little circle along the inner part of one thigh.

“You really like that, hmm?” His words are practically a purr, you narrow your eyes, but he already sees them dilate. “Are you wet already?”

“Shh,” you panic, but he’s just chuckling, pulling his hand back just a bit so it’s at your knee. Still tense, your entire body is reacting to his every movement as he sits next to you. “So you had said you wanted to tell me a few things?”

“Yeah I did,” he sighs, taking a sip of his blush wine now. “For courage.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not ready for.” He loves that about you, the way you’ve never pushed him - even if you should have truly. He picks up your hand and presses a gentle kiss on the back of it.

“So I was indeed a nerd, so nerdy in fact I may have been a virgin in college still.” You nod just a bit.

“Nothing wrong with that, not at all.”

“Right, but I thought there was something wrong with that, wrong with me I guess,” you frown now, heart aching for him. “I didn’t embrace it like you.”

“That’s okay, I’ll bring nerdy Satoru back.” He scoffs playfully at that, still holding your hand, you sip your drink, studying him carefully.

“So I met this woman, she was older. Like thirty, and she was someone who I guess started really noticing me, like as a man and not a nerdy little boy. I became really enamored with her, obsessive I guess…” You nod, listening, but he pauses. “Will this be weird to hear? Another woman?”

“It’s your past, absolutely not. I want to know more.” You set down your glass, still holding his hand now. “Go ahead.”

Fuck he loves you.

He blinks snowy lashes, they cast little shadows against his eyelids when he stares back at the hand he’s holding. “She was a very famous pornstar, I assumed out of my league, but she wanted me. And I guess I got a high off of it, it’s probably where I started associating sex with affection? Fuck I feel like you’re my therapist.”

“We probably both need one after what we did to each other.” He grimaces, nodding now. “But go ahead, I want to know.”

“I lost my virginity on set,” his voice is very quiet, just a murmur, and your heart aches then. “Don’t feel sorry for me.”

“But that seems kind of insane? Especially really young?”

“I loved that shit, I was all about it.”

“Did you love it, or just love her?” He looks at you then, shaking his head.

“Whatever I thought I had, nothing has come close to what I feel for you,” your breath catches, when he brings your hand to his lips, kissing it again. “I know it wasn’t love.”

“But you may have thought so, like I did with my ex,” he nods then. “I know now that it wasn't anything like this.”

“It wasn’t, but I suppose I was infatuated. We did this scene and I became some fucking sensation overnight, all my plans to do physics were changed when I realized that I could make millions fucking my girlfriend.”

“You wanted to do physics?”

He smiles then. “That’s what you heard?”

“Yes, that’s insanely difficult. And very interesting.”

“My parents pushed me into it, and I was good at it, I was top of my class at UCLA and all that shit. I don’t know, something about doing porn instead really made me feel rebellious or something.”

“It’s understandable.”

“You have not a single rebellious bone in your pretty body,” he leans low, fingers entwining now. “It’d be hot if you were bratty for me though.”

“Would it be?” You lean closer, necklace tantalizing him against your collar bone as it gently moves.

“Fuck yes it would be.”

“You’re distracting from the topic,” he pouts, even as you press him. “You lost it on set, and you enjoyed it?”

He leans back now, long lanky legs spread, brushing against your own. “Yeah, I did enjoy it, I guess. We got heavy into the industry, but of course she was with other people. It was her job.”

“But that hurt you.”

“Yeah, the shit hurt me. I was jealous a lot," he eyes you then. “I guess how you felt when you saw me doing that video.”

“It did make me unreasonably jealous,” you admit softly. “But I knew it was your career.”

“Yeah, I did too. I started doing my own shoots, I eclipsed her in fame, and she wanted to retire. But, I didn’t. She mentioned how much I changed, but she didn’t realize she changed me.” You blink back emotions, thinking of how a younger Satoru must have been, a sweet physics major, shy and nervous. The thoughts melt you and hurt you simultaneously.

“Deep down, you’re still just you.” He looks down at his glass, as a waitress comes and refills each of your wine glasses up. His fingers brush up the stem of it carefully.

“I almost did that to you, what she did to me.”

“You did not-”

“Yes, yes I did.” He cuts you off now, and you shake your head. “I didn’t accomplish it, or mean to do it, but just how I got into the industry for her, you were willing to for me. You just had enough sense to catch yourself. I got too into the lifestyle.”

“It was ultimately my choice, and I’m not in college and completely innocent here.”

“Damn near were, and not much older than I was. You can disagree, but I saw myself doing it, and couldn’t stop. I was so selfish for you.”

“And I was for you,” you lean closer, impossibly closer, the two of you damn near snuggled on that rooftop, a hand resting on his forearm over the soft material of his suit jacket. “Maybe being in love makes you dumb and selfish, and both of us really were.”

“You weren’t -”

“I was,” your turn to cut him off, he disagrees and opens his lips for you to put a finger against them. “Don’t take all the blame here, when we both were really bad at admitting things, expressing ourselves.”

“You stop taking so much blame then,” his words are quiet, meant for only your ears when he cups your face, thumb brushing your overheated cheek. “You are still a good girl, what you did doesn’t change that, okay?”

“I know that, and I got a bit of a rush from it, like you mentioned, not from them seeing me, but for when you called me your star.” He kisses you then, hungry and desperate, a kiss that should be in privacy, but he can’t stop it.

“You are,” he whispers, you whine into his lips when he barely has the ability to pull back. “Check?”

“Check.”

*****

The drive back is a blur, when Satoru damn near carries you out of the car, a stumbling mess of kisses until you’re in the elevator, heading up to his penthouse. He’s got you lifted like it’s nothing, pinning you against the wall, after the drive was nothing but torturous touches, caresses, kisses. The need in both of you is so intense it’s impossible to breathe.

The moment you walk into Satoru’s penthouse, he turns and presses you against the door, cupping your chin and slamming his lips on yours. You meet his kisses with desperate, needy ones of your own, your purse falling to the floor right along with the jacket he slips off your shoulders. You’re trembling when he presses hungry kisses along your now bare shoulders.

“Satoru,” you’re whispering his name, just like a needy little plea, when he unzips your dress ever so carefully, the cool metal against your overheated skin. “Mnh!”

“If you want me to stop, tell me now sweetheart,” he whispers, exposing the expanse of your back when the dress spills, breasts gripped in each of his hands, your head falls back as he squishes them in his grip. “If you don’t want this yet…”

“I want it, I want all of you.” He moans and kisses you again, one hand staying on your breast, the other tugging that dress down your hips.

“I need you sure, I can wait,” he whispers, you step out of the dress that’s around your ankles now, still in your heels, making you just a little taller, enough where he can easily touch your cunt bending down just a bit, you whine out at the contact. “I’ll wait forever for you.”

You blink back tears at that, looking up at him with lidded eyes, one of his hands now entwines with yours over the cool, slick white paint of the door, the other touching your cunt over your panties. You bite back a moan, a mix of love and desire, emotions and need, looking up into his brilliant blue eyes, dark and dilated in the dim lights of his living room.

“I’ve waited so long, for you to be back in my life,” you say then, sniffling back just a bit of tears, he pauses his touches, for you to put his hand back, looking at him under your lashes. “I want you in me, on me, with me. Please.”

“I’ll give you anything,” he kisses you again, you move his finger under your panties, earning the slick spilling down both your fingers. “Fuck you’re so wet f’me, so ready aren’t you? For me to cum inside you?”

“Y-yes, please, please - ah!” Satoru’s fingers slip inside, now your own slick ones grip his wrist as they pump. Your eyes roll back, mouth open in a desperate cry when he curls them just so in your spot, the one only he knows, exhaling as he feels your gummy walls tighten.

“There it is, did you miss me sweetheart?” He asks softly, cocky and arrogant, but you fucking love it, you nod eagerly, earning a turn of his plump lips. “Show me how much you missed it, let me feel her cum f’me.”

He’s working them faster, in that maddening fucking rythm he knows you can’t handle, you tighten up then. “T-too much!”

“No honey, don’t tighten up, already too fucking tight, let go,” his whispers urge you on, spreading your thighs and exhaling. “That’s it, that’s my good girl.”

“F-fuck!” You’re arching for more, bare ass pressed against his thighs, his cock leaks precum through his boxers, against his slacks, as he feels your muscles contract, your walls quiver. “M’gonna - ngh, Satoru…”

“That’s it, give me it, please baby,” he’s whiny and desperate even as he controls you, with those long fingers shoved so deep, and you shatter for him. You’re gushing as the orgasm hits you, rocking your entire body, you’re trembling and whimpering when the pleasure shoots everywhere, and he slips his fingers out with a pop. “Fuck, you did so good.”

He turns you now, you’re wobbling, he has to hold you firm, slipping his fingertips coated in your arousal across your lips. “Mnh… can’t stand…”

“I’ve got you, god just look at you,” he worships your body while your tongue laps that slick off, hands gently grazing your breasts, you eagerly shove off his jacket, he loosens that black tie, kissing you again, holding you steady while you threaten to fall on your own damn heels. “Need to drink you up.”

He’s slipped your panties down then, a soaked fucking mess, before slipping a thigh over his shoulders, looking up at you under snowy lashes, running a thumb down your slit. You’re shaking, head falling back and smacking the door. “Ow!”

He chuckles, and you giggle, his breath ghosting your inner thigh then. “You better not get a concussion on the night I get to taste you again, clumsy little thing.”

“I can’t hold steady - ah! Oh my god,” he kisses your hood now, lips right above your hood, your fingers slip through his silky strands, hips arching. “I missed that so much.”

“I will eat you out all you want tonight,” he smirks then, tongue flicking up your slit, you clench around nothing while he collects the pooled arousal around your little hole, making you gasp in pleasure. “I’ll eat my cum out of you too, over and over.”

“Please,” you’re tugging his teasing mouth closer, his tongue going in the slowest circles, all while you can hardly see, still blinking fuzz from your orgasm. “Oh!”

“Go ahead, don’t be shy, use me baby,” his words end you, that desperate look his pretty face has on it, the way he tugs you closer, a hand firm on your ass. “Use me all you want, fuck out all those frustrations on m’face, huh?”

“Ngh…” You tug him against you firmly then, cunt spasming around his long pink tongue, his nose bumps your twitchy clit, already sensitive from his fingers, and you do just that.

Your hips arch and roll, riding his pretty face as much as you want, as much as you’ve craved and missed, six months without him worshipping you on his knees. And it’s what he’s doing, in between filthy words and sweet ones, praising and teasing, torturing and giving. His mouth whispers how much he wants this, even as you suffocate him with your cunt.

“That’s it, keep fucking my face,” he whispers, and you’re lost to him, he’s pinned your hips firmly, as you barely hold yourself up on one leg, tongue lavishing inside your hole, between your folds, when you tense, tightening again. “No, let go, now. Let me drink it all, baby.”

You’re done again with one practiced flick of Satoru Gojo’s tongue, this time more intense, the way he sucks your clit into his mouth pushes you over that edge again, watching from on his knees as you cum for him. You’re hoarsely crying out his name as he palms his erection, straining and aching to be inside you. “Satoru, please.”

“Need more?” He teases, letting you go with a pop of his lips, while you’re still gasping for air, and he’s just smiling up at you the way he does, licking his glossy lips. “Mm, so sweet.”

“Need you inside me, now…” You tug at his silky hair now, he eases a thigh down, pressing more kisses on it. You’re flushed as he stands up, your legs giving out damn near, but he’s got you, wrapping an arm around your hips as your fingers flit to his belt.

“That needy, that eager baby?” He teases, a flash of a grin, but when his cock springs free he whimpers, clear as day, that sound you fucking miss so badly. “Fuck…” He trails off as you free him, stroking his pretty length, you run your thumb over the tip of him as he unbuttons his shirt, lapping up his precum, making his cock thicken. “You have to be this fucking sexy?”

“I missed your taste,” you tease softly, earning his moan when he quickly gets naked, filling your gaze with the perfect body, your fingers trail over his abdomen before he stops them, pressing your wrists against the wall. “Let me touch you.

“No, I can’t handle it,” he’s hoarse against your ear as he leans down, lips brushing the shell of it. “I’ll cum in your pretty little hand, and embarrass myself.”

“No, I’d just make you cum again, in my mouth,” you whisper back in his ear, so bold like he’s never heard you, your fingers pressing against his strong back now. “Then inside me.”

“Fuck me,” he grumbles,  you’re giggling but it’s halted when he lifts you like you’re nothing, and you cling to him, gasping. He chuckles, the sound warm against your skin, and he’s kissing your neck, his cock nudging against you, hard and demanding at your soppy entrance. “You’re talking a lot for a girl who just drooled.”

“What now,” he grins as he pulls back, and you feel the stretch, but he just holds it there. “Toru, please, stop teasing.”

“You’re too pretty not to tease,” he leans low, kissing your lips, eyes locking with yours, your thighs pressing on his narrow hips, your heat just burning against his sensitive tip. He swallows, emotions present he never acknowledged before, but he can’t hold back anymore, as he whispers your name. “God I’ve missed your taste, your scent, your sweet little cries, all of it. All of you.”

“I missed all of you, Satoru - mnh!” He presses in then, head resting on yours, you taste yourself on the breath that ghosts your swollen lips, when he starts stretching you out. “Oh f-fuck, m-missed everything.”

“I missed being gripped like this,” he whispers, pulling back and slipping further, she’s stretching to accommodate him, your whines filling his ears, his mind, as your heels press against his back, the sight so fucking filthy - him fucking you on his door - everything he’d dreamed of for so long. “I missed your pretty face.”

“Oh my god I… you…” You’re a mess, tears falling in pleasure and love, while you feel Satoru giving himself to you, the vulnerability, the sweet pressure deeper and deeper inside you. “M-missed yours, missed your voice, missed you.”

“I missed you, every fucking day,” he takes a shaky breath, shoving his thick cock deeper now, blue eyes so dark and glittery with his tears, while he fills you so deep you feel him fucking everywhere. “I never, ever want you to leave again. Say it,” he shoves his cock fully then, you gasp at it. “Say it, please.”

“Never again,” your answer ends him, he’s desperate now, no longer gentle once he knows you can take him, he’s pushing your back against that door, his mouth claiming yours again, his tongue dripping saliva and the lingering taste of your cunt along his mouth, mixed with him. “Mnh!”

“Fuck,” he’s lost in you now, and everything gets fucking heady, you’re dizzy, his thrusts and kisses are just like a drug, intoxicating and fucking addictive. You’re lost in his kiss, his scent, his touch, just Satoru Gojo. While his huge hands slip down to your ass, he is lifting you up and dragging you down fully on him. “Got you so fucking full, don’t I?”

You’re nodding, helpless, as he bottoms out as much as he can, and your cunt is dripping down his length, down his balls and your ass, which smack with filthy noises, heavy and ready to bust inside your eager little hole. His teeth sink into your neck as he lifts you, uses you, shoving you harder and harder until your lower back bruises, until your head smacks the door again.

You wrap your legs around his waist tighter, while his cock is thrusting inside your ready, slick heat, making you bite your lip so hard it almost bleeds. He pulls back and brushes his thumb on it, sighing as it smears red like your lipstick. “Don’t hold back, lemme fucking hear every cry, every moan, every scream.”

“Ah!” You do just that, screaming when he’s got his tip grinding on your cervix, you’re desperately struggling to take him all, the pressure so intense in your core. “So big, fuck you’re so big.”

“You can take me, cunt is made f’me, only me,” he’s lost now, in all of you invading every sense he has, as he works you. “Say it.”

“Made for you,” you whisper, ruining him, your fingers feeling the heat and muscle of his strong body as he pumps inside you, his hands roaming your body with a familiarity that no one could ever have. The way he touches you, the way he knows you, like he’s meant for you.

“Only me.”

“Only you, m-meant for you.”

Your words make him pause, even as he’s losing control, pulling back from the process of leaving a trail of kisses down your neck, a growing bruise making his instincts to keep you forever flare. His lips are parted, fucked out as you are, as he pauses with his cock buried as fully as he can get it. He swallows and brushes back your hair then, falling pins still clattering to the floor.

“Meant for me,” he repeats softly, then picks you up further, firmly inside of you, slamming you down like some doll in the air. You scream out, clinging tighter as he turns with you, effortlessly. “You are meant for me.”

“For you.” He moans and kisses you again, carrying you until you’re laid on just a section of his very fancy suede couch, soft under your skin as he lays you down, tugging the rest of your hair out.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, watching it fall across one of the little gold decorative pillows, splayed underneath you so pretty. Even with his cock inside you, still getting gripped by your walls, he can’t help but be lost in your beauty. “Perfect.”

“No…” he grips your chin, shaking his head then, and you feel it, you’re perfect for Satoru.

“You are perfect,” he murmurs, slowly entering you this time, lifting your thigh until it’s high over the back of the couch, kissing up your calf now, sinking deeper and watching your head fall back, your tits jiggle as your back arches. “Perfect for me, aren’t you?”

You nod eagerly, earning his pleased moan as he lets you adjust again only to press your leg over his shoulder, leaning forward, you’re stuffed so full he can see it, the sight almost ending him. You’re gasping and wriggling at just how full he has you, his tip leaking precum right against that cervix, a hand splaying your stomach, feeling how his cock moves in your body.

“Look at that, too big for you, hmm?” He’s taunting now, that feral energy tinged with an aching sweetness, you barely manage to gasp when he slams hard inside you now. “Can’t talk, baby?”

You can only helplessly whine out his name, as he fucks you again, harder this time, hips slamming into you, you feel him stretching you wide open, pushing you further than you can think, while your cunt clenches around him. He moans when your  juices gush out, making a mess of him, the little silvery white trail under his flat belly button already coated in you.

“You’re so fucking wet for me, so tight, god,” he groans out as he watches you, the way your tits jiggle more and more with every mean stroke, the way your face contorts in pleasure, that mouth in that perfect O, your brows furrowing. All while with fuzzy vision you study him, his jaw clenched, his muscles straining, sweat dripping from his skin onto yours.

“You’re s-so deep,” you whine out, he groans and leans forward, pressing into you so hard you cry out. “Toru!”

“I can’t hold back, can you take me baby?”

You want to demand how this is holding back, then remember filthy fucking nights. You blush, nodding then, and he exhales, slamming your cunt so hard you’re both a mess. You want it all, his desperate needy strokes, the way he grips you so tight you bruise - you want it, his marks, his thrusts, all while he’s pushing you over the edge, another orgasm about to end you, make you fucking delirious.

Need built for months and months, both of you drowning in it, as it consumes you, and he’s whispering your name over and over. “You need to cum, don’t you sweetheart?” You just nod, helpless, your throat so tight when he leans back, rolling his hips just so. “Then cum, lemme feel her.

Your nails are digging into his shoulders, leaving crescents in his pale skin, and he hisses at the pain, wanting more of it, fucking you harder, faster, skin smacking and squelching wetness loud and filthy. “Close, m’so close I - ah!” You’re damn near sobbing the words, this time your tears are from how much you want him, so they just make him harder, pulsing inside you.

“Cum for me then, let me feel how much you’ve missed me sweetheart, let go, you can do it,” he’s urging you when he rolls them again, dragging your spot just right, and you shatter around him. “That’s it, f-fuck, that’s it baby…”

Your pussy is clamping down like a vise on his cock, milking him for all that cum you so desperately want poured into you then, he whimpers at it, at how close you have him as your pleasure hits you. He holds back, just watching, swallowing nervously as he sees your drool spill down your smeared lipstick, sees your eyes fluttering shut and trying to focus on him.

“That’s my good girl,” he whispers, just for you to tremble, thighs shaking as you feel him. “Do you want all this cum inside you?”

“Please,” he moans now, leaking more and more from his pink tip stuffed in your hole. “W-want it.”

“Want me to breed your perfect little cunt?” Satoru loses it then, seeing your eyes light up, confusion and curiosity mixing together, biting your lower lip. “Don't know what that is, sweet girl?”

You shake your head, he leans low now, lifting your thigh higher, stretching you out. Your head falls back when he grips your face between his hands, exhaling. “What is it?”

“Fuck babies into you, hmm?” You gasp, heating up then, blushing furiously, he chuckles softly. “You're so precious.”

“Y-you wanna put… babies in me?” You're a mess then, the thoughts wrecking you, he groans, breath against your lips.

“So many, so much cum inside you, keep you forever,” his words fuck everything up more and more. “Have you round with me, tits so full.”

“Satoru!” You're close again, he smirks, leaning up, jerking his hips to slam inside you again, you cling to him, whining. 

“You like that idea, don't you baby?” You nod, the images overwhelming as his lips hover. “Should I breed your pretty cunt?”

“Yes, I want it, I want you -mnh!” He slams his lips against yours, groaning deep into them, his cock pulsing as he fills you up with his hot cum, so much it's flooding you with warmth.

“Fuck, sweetheart, taking it all aren't you?” He whispers, whining out as you cup his face with your hands, kissing him over and over, while he pumps more and more. “Perfect, slutty little hole, only wants to be filled by me.”

“Only you.” You gasp as he pumps more, and for a moment, you just look at each other, breathing heavily, hearts racing. His thrumming under your palm, his chest slick with sweat. He kisses your palm, rocking inside you again, watching your eyes roll back as his cum slips down between you two.

“I fucking love you,” You blink back tears, as he cups your face, brow resting on yours while he takes a breath. “I have loved you since I met you. I just wish I said it sooner, baby.”

“I love you, so much Satoru, since I saw you across that party,” tears slip out of the corner of your eye, his own fall, as he takes in how precious you are. “I want this forever.”

“So do I.” He's kissing you over and over, he's finally taken your heels off, starting a hot shower and carrying you like a little princess in his arms. You can't help but fall further, every second in his arms.

“I never thought I'd have this again,” you trail off, under the hot spray of water  while Satoru washes your hair gently. “It's even better than before, when I held back.”

“Me too,” he rinses your hair out, exhaling as he kisses across your neck. “You’re always my little star.”

His words destroy you, body relaxed under the shower now tensing with need, as you look up at him, water droplets trailing along his hard body, his pretty face. “Satoru did you um… keep a copy? For you?”

He chuckles then, kissing your neck and shaking his head. “I felt so terrible, no. I regret not being able to see it but it didn't feel right.”

You turn in his arms, cupping his face gently. Leaning up, you kiss his lips, water dripping across your bodies. “I could have handled that better.”

“You didn't handle that in any way but how you needed to, it's okay. Why do you ask?” You blush even under the hot water and he smiles a bit. “Do you want to make a private video?”

“Yes, but only us, just for us,” he moans at that, exhaling as you press a kiss on his throat. “I liked being your star, I just only want your eyes on me.”

“And I want to be the only one that ever sees you, just me,” he whispers, the hot rushing waterfall above being blocked by his broad shoulders as he holds you. “When you’re ready, we’ll get a whole plot for it. And costumes.”

“Costumes!” He grins now.

“Yes, costumes. Fuck I’d love to dress you up, too,” you heat up at the suggestion. “Little nurse costume, a sexy teacher.”

“Would you be my student?”

“Mmm, I’d be the worst one,” you’re kissing again, so happy it’s terrifying, after months and months of heartache. You’re quiet in his arms later, as he holds you against him, the soft satin of his pillow against your cheek. “What are you thinking, hmm?”

“I’m scared,” you admit softly, he sighs and leans over, cupping your face delicately and studying you in the night. “That this will all just end, and I’ll go back to being so sad and alone.”

“I know what you mean,” he admits. You blink back tears now, studying the man you love. “I was afraid you wouldn’t even go out with me today, then more afraid I’d some how fuck it all up.”

“No, everything was just perfect, and you couldn’t. I just want to be around you, Satoru, only you,” he exhales and kisses you again, the fear of losing him once more slowly subsiding with each press of his lips, each gentle touch that builds to more and more. “I love you.”

“I love you, sweetheart. Pretty little star,” he kisses you heavier now, as you’re turned in his arms, tugging you closer against him as you straddle him, heat pressed against his cock. “My star.”

“All yours, ah, I’m sore,” you admit softly, when he’s grinding his cock on you, he smiles a bit, watching your face flush while you arch your back. “It’s been too long.”

“Didn't you touch yourself to me?” He taunts, but you shake your head.

“Not because I didn’t want you, I did, I was um… just so sad.” He exhales, hands slipping down your waist, rustling the silky blankets.

“I won’t let you go without me again.” You fall into him once more, his gentle guiding of you as you ride his cock, shoved so deep, it’s intimate, the way your hands rest on his chest, the slow strokes. So intimate you feel ever closer, ever more in love with every look, touch, kiss and sigh.

His cock is stretching you again, but his thrusts are easy, letting you have the control, letting you take what you want, what you need. You cum again and again, almost passing out from the pleasure, from your sore cunt contracting around his thick cock. When he fills you again - with impossibly more of his cum - you’re crying from how good it feels, how close you feel to him.

When you’re exhausted, and he’s already taken care to clean you up again, and make sure you have water, he’s brushing your hair back, watching you fall asleep. And one thing keeps resounding in his mind - that he doesn’t want you to go home, that he just wants you in his arms forever.

“I wonder if we could get a place together, just you and me,” he whispers, but you’re already snoring. Satoru smiles against your soft hair. “I’ll keep practicing for when you’re awake.”

I'm a little emotional ending this one, these two stressed me out but I love them very much. Hope you all enjoyeddd!

Kofi link if you wanna buy me a glass of wine 🍷

Taglist 1 - @juicu @kalulakunundrum @gojoswaterbottle @aldebrana @simp-plague @wedojustbevibin @lucciferr0 @officialholyagua @privthemis @coffee-and-geto @homesickes @msniks @emi311 @mai-505 @ren-ren23 @yihona-san06 @emochosoluvr @sylvermoon @bunheadusa @karvokr @starmapz @queenexplosonmurderr @musiclover2119 @saitamaswifey @reagan707 @midorissi @ghostskilledmyaddiction21 @itsinherited @maisiefrancesca @gyarubunny @theonlyhonoredone @chosslut @simperisksksk @xlilycoco @howlsdarling @femaholicc @maymaymarch @miseryyouth-99 @swoozleee @zeunys @cryingdevil @leafynightmares @princess-bblgm @gojosconsort @insomnicshello @joonunivrs @myahfig4 @silviscosplay @iluvjjkmennn @nutellajade

[yumiblaze]

Cursed - Saja Boys X Fem!Reader Part 5

I'm really sorry for any of you that thought the last chapter was a cliffhanger.... ¬w¬

Enjoy some sisterly Rumi ~~

PROLOGUE / PART 1 / PART 2 / PART 3 / PART 4

NEXT PART

CHAPTER FIVE

In front of you were five familiar figures. You knew them, but they were different. Their skin a light violet while darker purple patterns were painted across it. Their eyes were a bright amber colour, glowing in the darkness. Behind them was a flame, burning red and pink. Blue lights flew through the air towards the ominous flame, each one feeding it, making it grow in size. Each one made you feel a pang of sadness.

“Good job Saja Boys.” A voice from the flames spoke. “Continue feeding me the human’s souls and soon I will fulfil your wish.”

A shiver ran up your spine as you looked at the five men, no, the five demons standing over you. They were demons, just because they weren’t feeding on your soul didn’t mean they weren’t taking other souls.

Jinu looked down at you with sad eyes before he reached his hand out towards you grabbed hold of your chin.

“At least we get to keep you.”

You woke up with a jolt. You were in your room, under the soft blanket on your bed. Your breathing was heavy and you instinctively wrapped the blanket tighter around you for safety.

“Did you have a bad dream sweetheart?” A soft voice asked.

You rolled over to see Romance sitting on your desk chair, his worried brown eyes locked on you.

“Yeah.” You admitted.

The man moved off of the chair and sat on the bed next to you, one of his hands gently stroking your hair.

“It’s okay, your safe now, nothing can hurt you while I’m here.” He told you his gentle strokes soothing you.

“How long has it been since I passed out?” You asked.

“It’s been a few hours. Jinu and the others wanted to wait until you woke up too but there was somewhere they had to be.” Romance explained to you.

“This time of night?”

“Yeah.” He chuckled slightly at your reaction. “Tomorrow we’re not going to be able to watch over you, so when Huntr/x go to their meet and greet you need to go too. If you stay here on your own you’ll be a pretty little sitting duck and we don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“I didn’t even know they had a meet and greet.”

You let out a tired sigh, your body once again growing sleepy. Romance smiled at you as you felt your eyelids trying to close.

“Good night love.” You heard him whisper gently kissing your forehead.

You didn’t even realise you had fallen asleep until you woke up to a knock on the door, sunlight peaking in through the balcony windows. You replied to the knock on the door with a sound somewhere between a yeah and a yawn.

The door open and your adopted sister peaked round the doorframe.

“Good morning sleepyhead.” She said to you with a smile. Rumi walked over to you sitting on the bed, while you sat up trying to rub the sleep from your eyes.

“Morning Rumi.” You replied.

“I want to speak to you about something but first, these were outside the front door addressed to you.” She told you placing a bag of your favourite candy on your lap. “I don’t know who left them there but it seems you might have a secret admirer.”

You smiled and blushed slightly trying to figure out which one of the boys left it for you. You didn’t even know how they knew what your favourite candy was.

“What did you want to speak to me about?” You asked changing the subject.

The girl let out a sigh and looked at you with a serious expression.

“Well you know we can see you scent Right?” You nodded. “Well I noticed that lately it’s been getting worse. I didn’t really notice it at first but last night on the way home I could see it leaking out of the apartment over the whole city. I realise you probably want your own space but until this subsides or something we’re going to have to keep you with us wherever we go or keep someone home to look after you.”

Your expression soured. You knew that your scent was getting worse as the boys had already told you, but if you were going to be with Huntr/x all the time you wouldn’t get to see them anymore.

“I just don’t want you getting hurt.” Rumi told you taking your own hand in hers. “You’re the closest thing I have to family and I don’t want to lose you.”

You looked into her eyes, they were glassy and threatening to spill over. You didn’t say anything at first you just pulled her into a tight hug which she eagerly returned.

“I know, I’ll stick with you guys until it subsides.” You replied.

“Until the honmoon is gold and you can finally be safe.” Rumi pulled away with a smile.

A pang of pain hit you when she mentioned the golden honmoon; that would mean that all the demons would be gone. You would be safe sure, but the boys would be gone too and you’d really started to like them.

You forced a smile and nodded back, not wanting to show any doubts about the honmoon. She gave your hands one last squeeze.

“Anyway you need to get dressed. We’re going to a fan signing in a little while and you’re going to be coming with us to be our assistant for the day.” Rumi told you before happily walking out of your room.

You shrugged in response, you had been asked by Romance to go with them anyway so now you didn’t even have to ask.

It didn’t take long until all four of you arrived at the signing venue, a whole line of fans outside excited to see their favourite k-pop group. The venue was fairly big and they was a big table set up with posters for each individual girl to sign.

“Hey girls!” Bobby greeted rushing over.

“Hey Bobby.” Zoey, Mira and Rumi all replied in unison. 

“Hey (y/n) didn’t expect to see you here today.” He said to you with his ever present smile.

“Yeah (y/n) was saying that she’d never actually seen what a signing was like so we thought she could come a long and see what it’s like.” Rumi told him.

“Nice, now go sit down girls we have a lot of fans here to see you some even slept outside all night.”

You went behind the table and stood back a fair bit just content to watch the girls sign for their fans for a while. You pulled out your phone planning to just doom scroll until the event was over, it wasn’t like there was much else for you to do.

Crowds rushed into the room, fronted by five people in sleeping bags.

“And who should I make this out to?” Rumi asked politely.

“To our biggest fans.” A familiar voice replied.

That’s when the five sleeping bags dropped at the same time, your jaw dropped immediately afterwards.

“It’s the Saja Boys!” The crowd squealed. You put your hand in front of your mouth, hiding your smile as it dawned on you they weren’t with you last night just so they could sabotage Huntr/x’s fan signing event. You locked eyes with the lead singer, his smile widened slightly when he saw you smirking behind your hands.

Bobby immediately called for another table to be brought out for the Saja boys and the fans in the room split apart. You could tell by just seeing Rumi’s back that this stressed her out and she quickly stood gaining everyone’s attention.

“The Saja Boys will sit with us!” She announced loudly, the two lines quickly morphing back into one.

You could hear Mira and Zoey quietly object, but it was too late the new table was placed next to theirs and the boys were deciding where they were going to sit. Romance sat at one end next to Mira, Abby sitting beside her. In the middle was Mystery, a very smitten Zoey and Baby. Then finally the other end was Jinu and Rumi.

As soon as the signing started you could hear Jinu and Rumi whispering to one another, you never thought you’d see your Hunter sister so close to a demon like this. Your stomach seemed to twist uncomfortably as you watched them whisper to one another, realising how close they were getting to each other.

You tried to ignore it but the feeling got worse when you saw Zoey playfully telling Mystery off for braking at a fan. You trembled slightly as a feeling rose from within you. You felt like you were going to be sick, you needed some air. You walked toward a nearby door, letting Bobby know on the way past that you needed some air really quick.

As soon as you opened the door and felt the cold air hit your skin you felt better. You slid to one slightly and leaned up against the wall of the building. You let yourself breath. You let yourself calm down. You told yourself that this was just part of those dizzy episodes that you had been getting, maybe you should see a doctor or something about these.

You looked around yourself more, you were in a quiet little alley. Out of the way unable to be judged by members of the public for your little moment. You slapped your cheeks gently a couple times trying to focus your mind before you went back inside, to stop taking every little thing too seriously.

A plastic bag rustled further down the alley and you immediately spun to face the door to get back inside. The door slammed in front of you though, a humanoid looking demon holding it closed with one of his clawed hands.

“Shit.” You hissed instinctively. You spun away from the demon intending to run but came face to face with one big eye staring at you gleefully. You mouth was covered by a cold violet hand and you were slammed up against the wall. Each demon pinned one of your arms to the wall behind you, the hand on your mouth stopping you from screaming out.

“Don’t worry beautiful, I’m not going to kill you.” The humanoid demon told you, his amber eyes containing nothing but sick glee. “At least not yet.”

@ffcfffr @whimsiecat @gremlinartstudio @chugjugg @aerissblog @kitkatpattywack2808 @airwolf92 @fries11 @doggyteam2028 @downbadgirlypoo @kashasenpai @seung185 @faefanatic @izzieg3987 @lansy-4 @weponxwrites @bunniotomia @chaoticfivesworld @clmstorm @sra7riddle-malfoy @vi1326 @justanotherkpopstanlol @jaeyuuns @tikitsune @zzsloth @yumi-does-stuff @ghost-reine @yuurisfavblog @dragongirl642 @just-a-blue-nerd @snowy-violet @justanindiangirl12 @sexually-attracted-to-pans @minthoneynbasil @tatsuri-zomushiki @ellie-x0xo @olxh @satansdaughter123

[yogirl-willow]

The Crimson Pact | Part 10

Characterizations | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9

SoulBond!AU

Pairings: Yandere!Saja Boys x F!Reader

Synopsis: You were never supposed to remember them.

Four hundred years ago, a pact was made—a blood-soaked bond tying five demons to one human soul: yours.

They’ve waited lifetimes for your reincarnation, cursed with obsession, tethered by fate.

And now that you’ve returned?

They’ll burn the world before they let you go again.

Warnings: Explicit Smut / NSFW. Minors DNI (Do Not Interact), Fingering, Touching, Penetrative Sex (P in V), Breeding Kink / Creampie, Size Kink, Praise Kink, Soul bond with the Saja Boys, Yandere themes!, obsessive behavior / possessiveness, romantic psychological tension, intense emotional fixation, yearning, dark romance.

A/N: Here's part 10! Thank you to everyone who sent over messages and comments. I'm so glad so many of you are enjoying my series. Plot rolls in the first half of this, and there is smut at the end. :) Next chapter will also have smut just because I didn't want to rush any of the moments once again. But the plot and conflicts will really get rolling from here. I hope you all enjoy this one!

───────── ༺🜃༻ ─────────

The Saja boys are all demons.

They are wrath and ruin. Jealousy and death.

And yet, before her, they kneel.

Because she is the Heart. Because her soul is what keeps them from unraveling into true monsters. Because they were bound by her love and her curse.

They don’t just crave her—they depend on her. Without her presence, their minds deteriorate. Their bodies decay. Their hunger becomes unbearable.

Only Y/N’s touch tames the demon inside.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

Names (For those who get confused): Haneul (Abby), Seoha (Romance), Hwimori/Hwi (Mystery), Seungho (Baby)

────────── ⚘ ──────────

Part 10:

Every Version of You

The bass thumped through the Huntrix penthouse, shaking the mirrored walls as Mira struck the next beat of the routine. Her cropped hoodie flew with each sharp turn, every kick hitting with fierce precision.

"One, two, spin, down—Rumi, Zoey, hit the arm combo together, please!" Mira barked.

Zoey huffed, brushing sweaty bangs from her forehead. "You're acting like we're going to war."

“We are,” Mira snapped. “This is Takedown, remember? Demon-dissing choreo has to be sharp. Idol Awards are in a few days. We’re not just performing—we’re making a statement.”

Rumi held her pose, chest heaving. Sweat dripped down her temple. “It’s just... hard to focus with everything going on.” She flopped onto the couch dramatically. “Speaking of which... has she replied yet?”

Mira paused, lowering her arms slowly. “Did she see your message?”

“She read it,” Zoey murmured, checking her phone. “No reply though.”

Mira exhaled sharply, arms crossed. “So she’s alive, at least.”

“Or...” Zoey’s voice trembled. “What if they just have her phone? What if she’s being controlled? Or trapped? What if she’s being held hostage?!”

Mira’s fists clenched. “If they’re keeping a human hostage—”

Zoey added, horrified, “What if they’re doing horrible things to her—”

“Oh, I think she might enjoy that...” Rumi muttered under her breath.

Both heads snapped toward her. “What was that?” Mira asked sharply.

“Nothing!” Rumi said quickly, brushing hair behind her ear. “Just... we don’t know the whole story.”

Zoey frowned, concern dark in her eyes. “Do you really think she’s okay?”

Rumi looked away. “Look... based on what we saw—they were protective. Obsessively, even.”

“That could be an act,” Mira snapped. “Demons don’t feel. They mimic. That’s how they manipulate humans.”

“You don’t know that.”

Mira narrowed her eyes. “Why are you defending them?”

“I’m not—” Rumi said, too quickly. “I just think... maybe we shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”

The silence that followed was thick and tense. Zoey looked between her two friends, biting her lip in apprehension. “Okay, okay, let’s chill,” she said, forcing a weak smile. “How about we call it a day? Tomorrow we can try tracking her—maybe check traffic cams near her café?”

“She hasn’t been to her café,” Mira said coldly. “It’s closed. And her apartment? Empty for weeks. What else do you need? She’s with those demons.”

Then, quieter, sharper: “What if she knows?”

Rumi’s stomach twisted.

“What if she knows what they are—and still stays with them?”

Rumi didn’t answer. Maybe… she does know. Really know what they are, and yet… chooses to stay?

The girls filtered off to their rooms, tension unresolved. Mira’s footsteps were sharp and angry, Zoey’s slow and tired. But Rumi stayed.

She remained seated on the floor of the practice studio, knees curled to her chest, the city glowing behind her through the glass. Her muscles ached from hours of choreography, but her mind refused to quiet.

She could still hear Jinu’s voice. "We’re soulbonded."

There was something in the way he said it. Not just conviction, but reverence. Like the word meant more than the world itself. Like the bond wasn’t just real—it was sacred. And the others? The way they looked at you, hovered near you, protected you like something precious? It wasn’t just possession.

It was devotion. And maybe it was all a lie. Maybe Mira was right…

But Rumi couldn’t stop wondering: What if it wasn’t? What if demons could feel something that deep? That powerful?

What if… her father had felt it too?

The thought hit her harder than expected. It had been something she tried to brush off for days now, ever since Jinu had told her about the soulbond. She’d never known her parents. Just flashes in half-dreams and a handful of secondhand memories from Celine. But now, watching the way you looked at the boys—and how they looked at you—it stirred something in her chest.

Something unshaped. Undefined. Longing, maybe. Or just the ache of not knowing. Could her mother have loved like that? Could she have fought for something that impossible?

Rumi exhaled shakily and rubbed her arms, feeling the faint, cursed heat of her demon marks just beneath her skin. They had always marked her as different. Not enough of one thing. Too much of another. A walking half-truth Celine refused to explain.

She had tried asking before. Dozens of times. What was my mother like? Why did she fall in love with a demon? Who was he? Each time was met with silence. Each time: “You don’t need to know.”

But now Rumi did. She needed to know. Not just for herself. But for what was coming.

If you were really soulbonded to demons… If a bond that powerful could change the rules, rewrite the laws they’d lived under their entire lives— Maybe her parents had tried too. Maybe there was something they left behind.

And what if… that soulbond was somehow tied to their demise. She had to know- is that the same fate that awaited Jinu? The same fate that awaited you?

She stood slowly and walked to her bedroom closet, where a weathered duffel bag lay tucked behind rows of performance shoes. From its inner lining, she retrieved a small brass key—one she had stolen years ago from Celine’s drawer, hidden away on instinct. The key to a locked chest in her old childhood home. The one Celine had told her never to open.

Rumi stared at the key for a long moment. Then, she curled her fingers around it and whispered to the empty room:

“I’m sorry, Celine. But I need the truth.”

────────── ⚘ ──────────

The scent of sesame oil and gochugaru fills the air, warm and rich, as you perch on the edge of the kitchen island in Haneul’s oversized shirt, your bare legs swinging gently. Haneul hums quietly as he moves through the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, muscles still slick from earlier, now focused as he stirs a steaming pot.

“Kimchi jjigae tonight,” he says proudly, ladling a bit into a spoon and holding it up to your lips. “Taste this for me?”

You lean forward, letting him feed you. It’s spicy and savory, exactly how you like it. “Mmm. That’s perfect.”

“Perfect’s what you are,” he says, wiping the corner of your mouth with his thumb. His voice lowers, brushing with something more carnal. “I still haven’t recovered from earlier, y’know.”

You flush. “You’re not supposed to say that while cooking.”

“I can multitask,” he smirks.

Just then, a pair of warm hands glide around your bare thighs. You jump slightly as Seungho presses a kiss to your cheek from the side. He was shirtless, leaving his lean muscles out for you to admire. For someone who’s nicknamed “Baby”, he sure didn’t look it when he was dressed like this without the sweaters.

He slides between your knees, gaze half-lidded, teasing. “God, you look good like this,” he murmurs. “One of our shirts, no shame… You trying to kill me, baby?”

Your hand goes to push him away, but your smirk betrays you. “Just sitting here.”

“Yeah, and I’m just breathing,” he deadpans, “but apparently that’s a sin too.” His hand squeezes your thigh. “Keep testing me and see what happens.”

You giggle, clearly not sorry. Before he can get carried away, the front door bursts open.

“We’re home!” Seoha’s voice sings.

You hop off the counter just in time for Jinu’s arms to catch you mid-run. He pulls you into him like he hasn’t seen you in weeks, burying his face into your neck. “Missed you, baby,” he murmurs, kissing your shoulder.

Seoha’s next, sweeping you up and spinning you dramatically before peppering your face with kisses—forehead, nose, cheeks. “I nearly died from missing you,” he sighs, as if wounded. “I considered throwing myself into traffic.”

“Dramatic as always,” you roll your eyes, laughing.

“And yet you keep coming back to me,” he says smugly, carrying you bridal-style back to the kitchen. Seungho is already setting the table, now with a shirt on. Seoha plops down and keeps you seated firmly on his lap.

“So,” you ask, “what were you guys out doing?”

“Logistics,” Jinu replies. “Stage cues, wardrobe adjustments, dealing with sponsors. Idol Awards are in a few days.”

You blink. “It’s that soon?”

Haneul sets down a plate in front of you—steaming rice, kimchi jjigae, marinated beef, banchan laid out lovingly. You try to shift to your own seat, but Seoha tightens his arms around you.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he whispers into your ear, voice low and territorial. “Not after being away from me all day.”

Your face heats as you squirm in his hold. “Where’s Hwimori?” you ask, trying to redirect the attention.

“Studio,” Seungho says, grabbing another pair of chopsticks. “Hasn’t left it since noon.”

“He’s still working?” You frown. “He hasn’t eaten?”

“He never eats when he’s focused,” Jinu sighs. “Like a damn wolf on a hunt.”

Moments later, Hwimori finally comes down. His hair’s tousled, shirt inside-out. He pads over silently, bending to kiss the top of your head. You soften at the gesture. “You haven’t eaten anything, have you?”

He looks at you, startled. Then grins. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” you scold lightly. “Sit. Eat.”

His gaze dips to your hands as he picks them up to press soft kisses across your knuckles. “Your care for me is more filling than any meal, Y/N,” he murmurs, almost bashful—except for the glint of heat in his eyes.

You blush, looking away. "You say the creepiest sweet things..."

Dinner begins. Laughter, gentle clinks of chopsticks. They argue over which brand of soju is superior. Seoha tries to spoon-feed you until Jinu takes over with more finesse. Seungho complains, “You’re all obsessed,” to which they all agree.

“You are too,” Haneul deadpans.

You ask casually, “So what song are you performing for the Idol Awards?”

Hwimori looks up from his bowl. “It’s a new one. I’m halfway done with the mix.”

“Ooh, can I hear it?”

A pause. Their reactions don’t match your enthusiasm. “It’s not finished yet,” Seoha says quickly.

“You’ll hear it soon,” Jinu adds with a reassuring smile.

Your brow furrows—but you brush it off. Hwimori leans over to you. “Come to the studio after dinner,” he says. “I’ll show you.”

You nod, heart skipping a little.

The kitchen is filled with the comforting clatter of chopsticks and soft laughter, the scent of kimchi jjigae still thick in the air. You’re tucked on Seoha’s lap all throughout, your legs curled beneath you, a half-eaten spoonful paused in your hand as you watch the boys move through their dinner routine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Jinu reaches across Haneul’s plate to steal a piece of beef. Haneul slaps his hand away without looking up.

Seoha rests his chin on your shoulder and softly nuzzles into your skin, murmuring, “You’re my favorite side dish.”

Seungho groans. “You’re disgusting.”

They argue. They tease. Hwimori eats quietly at the edge of the table, chopsticks in one hand, notebook beside him, already jotting lyrics and notes between bites. No one tells him to stop. No one complains that he’s multitasking again. You chew slowly, eyes drifting between them. And then you stop eating.

Something about this moment… it feels too good. Too quiet. Too normal. You set your spoon down and lean back slightly into Seoha’s chest, gaze flicking toward the warm kitchen light above the table. It bathes the boys in gold—catching on the edge of Hwi’s silver earring, the subtle curl of Jinu’s ink-black hair, the sweat still lingering on Haneul’s collarbone.

And you think— “This doesn’t look like a house full of demons.”

It looks like a home.

You glance at the sink, where Haneul now rinses a pot. Jinu has a towel draped over one shoulder as he air-dries dishes. Seoha’s rubbing a spot on your ankle like it soothes something in him just to touch you. And Seungho is yelling at the rice cooker as if it’s personally offended him.

You close your eyes for a moment and listen to the mundane sounds of it all—water running, footsteps padding on the floor, laughter, the scrape of porcelain. ‘Is this real?’ you think. ‘Or is this… something they’ve created for me? Something they’re maintaining so I don’t run?’

You remember what they said. How they’d waited lifetimes. How they knew you from before. How they love you, need you, worship you. But you also remember how you woke up here. The pain. The fear. The sheer loss of control.

‘They say they love me. But do they love me? Or the version of me they’ve carried for centuries?’

You swallow, suddenly unsure of your own heartbeat. The soulbond pulls tight in your chest like thread wound too firmly around your ribs. You can feel each of them—every glance, every flicker of emotion—and it’s overwhelming how much they feel. For you. But…

‘What if they’re just in love with the memory of me? With someone I don’t even remember being?’

You think of your past lives. The fragments that flicker in your dreams. A hand in yours. A kiss in the dark. Blood. Fire. Death. Always ending in death.

‘Do I even have a choice in all of this? Or is fate choosing for me?’

You open your eyes again and see Jinu watching you. Noticing. As always. His expression softens as your eyes meet. He doesn’t say anything, just sends you a smile that feels like it was forged in a lifetime of waiting. One that says, ‘We see you.’

Your chest tightens. Because you know what you're afraid to admit: ‘They make me feel safe. Even when they shouldn’t. Even when I know what they are.’

And still… Am I just playing a role? Or is this… actually love?

Your fingers brush your thigh, grounding yourself. Seoha murmurs something into your hair, and Haneul walks by and drops a sweet kiss to the crown of your head. Seungho brushes his fingers across your lower back in passing, almost unconsciously. They touch you like they need to make sure you’re still here.

And in that moment, you don’t have an answer. But you want to believe. You want this to be real. And maybe… just maybe…

You already do.

From the corner of your eye, you see Hwimori pause in the hallway. His fingers tap the doorframe, hesitant. His voice is soft, almost shy. “You coming?”

You blink up at him. His golden eyes catch the light. And just like that, the ache eases. “Yes,” you whisper. “I’m coming.”

His fingers find yours before you’ve even stepped into the hallway. Delicately, he laces your fingers together like he’s memorizing the shape of them, then brings your joined hands to his lips and kisses your knuckles as you walk, eyes still fixed ahead. You swear you feel something in your chest flutter and curl at the gesture—quiet, unassuming, and completely devastating.

You don’t say anything. You just follow him.

Hwimori leads you gently through the dim apartment, the distant sound of dishes and laughter fading behind you. The studio door opens with a soft click, and the scent of sound foam and something faintly like cedar greets you. Inside, the room glows with a soft blue light from a large curved monitor, its screen filled with waveforms and sound levels. There’s a single black desk chair facing the setup, and handwritten notes scattered across the desk—some in Korean, some in English, a few in what looks like ancient runes.

He sits first, pulling you without a word into his lap. You settle there, curling comfortably against him, thighs warm over his, his hand never leaving your waist.

“This is where you work?” you murmur.

He nods against your shoulder. “Mhm.”

Your eyes roam across the workspace. “And this is where the magic happens?”

Hwimori hums again, the softest smile pulling at his lips. “Kind of. Jinu writes most of the lyrics. I handle the production, mixing, layering. Sometimes I add vocals.” He reaches to adjust a dial, the screen blinking in response. “This one’s still a work-in-progress.”

You tilt your head, reading the title scrawled in the corner of the page next to the monitor. “Your Idol.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Ominous.”

He gives a sheepish shrug. “Did you want to hear a little of it? I haven’t added in the final vocals yet.”

You grin. “Aren’t you cutting it a little close for the Idol Awards?”

His hand lifts, brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear. The gesture is tender—unconsciously so. “We’ll be singing live,” he murmurs. “This is just the backing track.”

You hum in understanding, but your eyes linger on his face. He’s usually so quiet, almost shadow-like. But in this space, surrounded by his work, his music, his presence feels different. Grounded. Whole.

He reaches behind you and gently lifts a pair of large over-ear headphones. “Here,” he says, placing them carefully over your ears. The size swallows your head a little, and you catch him smiling as he adjusts them.

“What?” you ask, your voice muffled.

He chuckles, leaning in to press a kiss to your nose. “You just look so cute.”

Your cheeks heat instantly, and you shift in his lap—just slightly. He doesn’t let you move far. His hands settle more firmly on your waist as he hits play. The first sound is a whisper.

Dies irae Illa…

A chant. Ethereal. Latin. So far removed from the sparkly, bubblegum tones of Soda Pop that it doesn’t even feel like the same group.

The low rumble of a bass begins to rise beneath the vocals. Haunting. Slow. Then the drop hits—hard, distorted, angry. Layers of eerie harmonies weave in and out, and a new pulse sets the rhythm. It's darker, heavier… yet oddly beautiful.

Your spine straightens instinctively. This doesn’t feel like an idol song. It feels like a warning.

After a minute or two, you carefully lift the headphones off, holding them in your lap as the silence returns to the studio. “It sounds… so different,” you say, your voice small.

Hwimori nods, looking straight ahead, eyes flickering with something unreadable. “Jinu wanted to try something new.”

“Are you guys rebranding?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just hums quietly. “Something like that.”

You look at him then—really look.

Under the low studio light, his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, and his bangs fall over his eyes in a silky curtain. You can’t help but reach up, brushing the corner of his hair. His eyes widen slightly, but he lets you. Your fingers tuck some strands behind his ears, revealing more of the amber in his gaze—molten, unblinking, completely focused on you. “You’re beautiful, Hwimori,” you whisper.

He exhales like you’ve struck something inside him.

Then—without a word—he buries his head against your chest, arms wrapping around your back as if he can’t bear a second more of not being as close as possible. You feel his breath stutter. Feel the silent emotion he doesn’t know how to say.

You stay there, letting the music fade behind you, and hold him like he’s always been yours. Neither of you speak for a long while. Just the soft whir of the monitor, the warm hush of breath between you. There’s a peace in it—a rare kind. But even in the quiet, something lingers. A hum beneath your skin. And he feels it too.

“I felt it,” Hwimori murmurs, voice muffled into the fabric of your shirt. “At dinner.”

You blink, confused.

“The way your heart pulled,” he clarifies, lifting his head slowly to look at you. His eyes are searching, soft. “You felt uneasy.”

You stiffen. There’s no use denying it—not to him. He sees right through you, like he always has. You look away, but his hand finds your cheek, thumb brushing gently over your skin, coaxing you back to him. You turn your gaze slowly, and he’s already watching you like you’re the only thing he’s ever needed to see.

“You were quiet for a little bit,” he says. “But not the kind of quiet you get when you’re sleepy or full. It was the kind that hurts.”

You flinch. Not because he’s wrong, but because he’s so, so right. You don’t answer, and you don’t need to. Hwimori’s fingers gently reach for your cheek, brushing your hair behind your ear. His touch is impossibly tender. His gaze steady and warm.

“You’ve always been like that,” he says softly. “Since before you knew my name.”

You tilt your head.

“There was one night,” he continues. “From a long time ago. You were just a girl in a little village, taking care of too many people with too little help.”

A memory stirs. Familiar but distant. “It was after a long storm,” Hwimori says, voice laced with something warm. “Your roof leaked. The firewood got soaked. You’d spent all day patching it up with your bare hands, and you still went to the river to wash your siblings’ blankets by moonlight.”

You suck in a soft breath. He hadn’t been visible then. But he’d seen.

“I followed you there, like I always did. And you were singing to yourself, – albeit, a little off-key,” he chuckles, and you huff a soft laugh. “You were humming just to stay awake. Kneeling in the freezing water, shivering, hands raw. I could tell you were exhausted. Your voice was shaking.”

He pauses, as if savoring the memory. “And then a rabbit came to you. It was limping. Barely able to move. I thought you’d ignore it—you had enough to worry about. But you just… stopped everything. You dropped the blanket, picked up the rabbit, and tucked it in your coat.”

Your throat tightens. “You stayed like that, holding it. Rocking it. Whispering, ‘You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay,’ like it was your own child.”

His voice drops to a whisper. “That’s when I knew,” he says. “That you had the gentlest heart I’d ever seen. Even after everything life had done to you, your instinct was still to love. To care. Even when you had nothing left.”

You can’t breathe for a moment. He presses his forehead against yours. “You made me want to be something more. Something that could hold you. Protect you. Stay beside you. That was the first night I had ever desired to be more. To be felt. So I could feel you.”

You don’t realize tears have welled in your eyes until he brushes them away with the soft pad of his thumb. Hwi’s words hang in the air like the final note of a love song — quiet, aching. His eyes shimmer, blinking slowly beneath your gentle touch.

You stare at him, overwhelmed. And then… The doubt creeps in again. It’s a quiet voice, but sharp. Your fingers still on his cheeks.

“What if…” your voice cracks slightly. “What if that wasn’t me?”

He blinks.

“What if the girl you saw that night—the one who rocked a dying rabbit to sleep—was someone else? Someone better? I might be her soul, but I’m not her. I don’t remember that life. I don’t sing at the river. I haven’t—haven’t done anything like that. I’m not soft like she was. What if you’re feeling all these things for someone that doesn’t exist anymore?”

Your heart aches at the words. And you hate that you mean them. You try to look away, but he catches your chin—gently, like a thread of silk. He doesn’t force you to meet his gaze. Just holds you still, holds you softly.

And he whispers: “But you are her.” His thumb brushes your cheek. “You’re the same soul who reached for a broken thing instead of turning away. You’re the same heart that gave kindness without needing a reason. You still do. Every single day.”

You tremble slightly, lips parting. But he isn’t finished. “I didn’t fall in love with a girl who sang to the river. I fell in love with the soul that chose to love, even when it hurt. Even now—when you could hate us, when you should be afraid—you still sit here with your arms around a demon and ask if your love is real.”

He leans in slowly, forehead pressed to yours, and his voice drops lower.

“That’s you. That’s always been you. No matter how many lives we live. I’ll always know you. Even if the world forgets. I’ll know your soul, and how it calls for me. And I will always answer.”

Tears blur your vision as you swallow hard. He smiles softly—barely there, but achingly real. “You could cut your hair, pick up new hobbies, forget how to sing, fall in love with different books, dress differently, dream new dreams…”

His voice lowers, “And I would still find ways to love every version of you. Every change. Every chapter. Because it’s still you. Your soul is eternal. And I was made to follow it.”

His thumb brushes away a tear that slips down your cheek. “That’s what love is, isn’t it? Not clinging to who someone was—but choosing them again and again, as they become. I’ve done it for centuries. And I’ll do it for as many more as you’ll let me.”

And then he whispers—almost breathlessly— “My name is Hwimori… because I needed a name to worship you with. It’s the name you gave me. As long as you call me, I will always answer. In every life.”

You break, tears fully running now. Your heart hurts in the most beautiful way — with the kind of love that makes your whole body ache. A sound escapes you- half sob, half chuckle in disbelief. It was almost unreal, the love they had for you. The love Hwimori had for you. The love you were starting to remember you had for him, and the love that was growing rapidly in your chest for all of them.

“You say the most beautiful things…” You say breathily, hands wiping away your tears. You reach for him again. His face. His eyes. You unclip your hairpin and clip his bangs back fully, needing to see all of him, this creature made of devotion.

His eyes are breathtaking. Violet and gold and amber, like the inside of a star. Lashes long, silver, like dust spun from moonlight. And all of it—all of him—was made for you. This soulbeast became a man just to stay by my side.

Your loyal, wild-hearted creature. The one who never asked for anything but to be near you. Your lips brush over his eyelids. He shudders. A soft, needy sound escapes him—barely a breath. 

You kiss the other. He exhales like he’s letting go of centuries of longing. Then his nose. His cheeks. His jaw. And when your lips finally meet his— He melts.

He melts into you like you’re the only thing he’s ever needed. The only warmth he’s ever known. The bond between you hums, low and deep, like a drumbeat just beneath your ribs. And in his kiss, there is nothing but truth. 

It starts slow. Hwimori kisses you like a creature in worship, his lips brushing yours in soft, fleeting touches. Then he deepens it, and it changes. Desperation curls at the edges. His tongue traces your bottom lip before claiming your mouth fully, and you feel it—his need, his hunger, his aching loyalty. 

Like a beast starved, yet patient. Like he’s memorizing the shape of you, the taste, the scent. His hands glide along your hips, pulling you tighter against him. You gasp slightly as you feel the heat of his arousal press up beneath you through his clothes. Your thighs clench instinctively.

You shift in his lap, just enough to grind against him—slowly, deliberately. His breath catches, and a low whimper escapes his throat, sharp and broken.

“Ah… d–don’t do that,” he pleads, his voice ragged. His fingers clench at your hips, claws nearly unsheathing. “You don’t know what you’re waking up in me, my love…”

Your eyes glint with a teasing defiance. So you do it again. 

And he breaks.

With a growl, Hwimori stands in one smooth motion, lifting you effortlessly. You squeal softly in surprise but he doesn’t release your lips—not for a second. He walks you across the studio and lowers onto the velvet couch with you straddling him, breath hot and wild. His hands roam beneath your shirt, sliding up your back as he kisses you harder—possessive, trembling with restraint.

“Is that what you want?” he growls softly. “To see what I become when I stop pretending to be tame?” 

───────── SMUT ─────────

He lifts your shirt in one motion, leaving you bare save for the thin fabric of your panties. His breath hitches as he looks at you—chest rising, flushed, vulnerable. Worshipful silence falls over him for just a second. His gaze travels up—devouring you slowly—and when your eyes meet, it nearly steals the air from your lungs.

There’s nothing human in his expression. Just awe. Hunger. Adoration so intense it borders on unhinged. His hands grip your thighs, fingers trailing up, rough and hot all at once. “You’re mine,” he breathes—low, almost like a growl against your skin. “You’re my soul. My everything. The reason I even have this form.”

You lean forward to kiss his neck, pressing soft kisses against his pulse. You couldn’t help yourself. Not when his face looked like that. Flushed, needy, and oh so beautiful you could combust. He shudders beneath you.

Your hands slide beneath his shirt, fingertips brushing his skin. He moans—a raw, choked sound—and you feel the muscles of his torso tense beneath your touch. You peel the fabric off him slowly, revealing the sculpted lines of his chest and arms, and your breath catches at how perfectly carved he is. Like a statue built to guard you.

You kiss down his chest, lips leaving warm trails as his hands grip yours tightly, long fingers intertwined with your own. He trembles beneath your mouth.

“I love it when you touch me like that,” he murmurs, breath shaky. “It makes my skin sing. Makes my heart believe I’m not dreaming you.”

You feel him twitch beneath you as your hips move again, wetness pooling between your legs. Your mouth curls into a sly smirk. “Lucky for you, I can make those dreams into a reality.”

He groans at your teasing, eyes alight with fire. His mouth finds your neck, biting softly—claiming. You gasp as you feel his fingers trace the line of your damp panties. He groans, “You’re soaking. Just from my voice? My fingers?” His voice dips into a snarl, “This little body is desperate for me, huh? You were made to take me.”

The sound of his voice, so heavy and laced with desire almost makes you cream. You nod obediently, bottom lip captured beneath your teeth. “Uh huh,” you mutter faintly. 

He slides your panties to the side and growls low in his throat as he feels how wet you are for him. His fingers glide through your folds before slowly sinking one inside you. You cry out softly at the sudden stretch, clutching onto his shoulders. 

“So tight,” he pants, pressing his forehead to yours. “Always so tight for me. You let me in so easily… like your body already knows me.”

A second finger joins the first, and he begins a slow, precise rhythm, watching your every expression like he’s memorizing your ruin. His thumb brushes your clit, and your body jolts in response.

“Hwi,” you moan, kissing his temple as your eyebrows furrow in pleasure. “It feels so good. You feel so good-”

He growls in satisfaction, your name leaves his lips like a prayer—hoarse, wild. “I can feel you through the bond,” he gasps. “Every pulse, every squeeze—fuck, it echoes in me—I’m going insane with it—”

Your walls tighten around his fingers, your breath stuttering. You grip his hair and moan into his mouth as he kisses you through it, slow and deep and so loving it aches. And when you come undone, trembling, pulsing around his fingers—he kisses you like he needs it to survive. Like your pleasure is oxygen. Like he feels the intensity of your undoing.

He pulls back only when your body softens against him, watching you pant and tremble in his lap. Then, without a word and without tearing his eyes off yours, you watch as he raises his hand to his mouth and licks his fingers clean—moaning low, possessive heat flashing in his eyes.

“Every drop of you is mine,” he growls, licking the corner of his lips. “You taste like spiritfire. Like everything I’ve ever wanted and could never reach—until you let me.”

His words send a jolt of arousal through you. Endless heat pooling at your core. For him. A sudden idea pops into your head. You barely recover before you lean forward, lips brushing his neck, your hand drifting low with intent. He freezes as your fingers brush his waistband.

“What are you doing?” he asks, voice husky, breathless.

You smile softly, gaze heated. “You’ve tasted me,” you whisper. “Isn’t it only fair I get to taste you?”

His eyes go wide. “My love… you don’t have to—”

You kiss his neck, then down his torso, across his abdomen until you plant a kiss on his hipbone and feel him twitch. “I want to,” you say. “Let me give you a preview of your birthday gift…”

He groans, head falling back as your fingers slide beneath his waistband, breath shuddering with anticipation. Your fingers wrap around him—thick, flushed, twitching with need—and stroke him once, slow. 

Hwimori’s head snaps back. A breathless moan rips from his throat, desperate and shaking.

“Gods—your hands,” he pants. “Soft… warm… like they were made just to touch me…”

You pull the waistband of his shorts and his cock springs free. Hot and huge against your face. Hwi looks down at the sight of you kneeling before him in awe. Watching how you look so pretty next to his aching shaft. He brushes a lock of  hair behind your ear lovingly. 

You stare at his member before you, albeit a little bit intimidated as there’s no way that’s all going to fit in your mouth. As if he could read your mind he says gently, “You don’t have to baby. You can just take what you can, or even-”

His sentence it cut short as you lean in, tongue trailing up his length in one long, slow stroke—and he chokes on a groan so wrecked it echoes in your chest. “F-fuck—” His thighs jerk beneath you. His claws tear faintly into the couch cushions, muscles trembling. “Baby, don’t—don’t tease me like that—”

But you do. Again.

Your tongue trails ever so slowly from the thick base all the way to the tip, swirling around the head of his shaft. Hwi’s head tilts back in pleasure, a helpless groan escapes him as he clutches his hands tight against the couch. 

You look up at him through your lashes prettily, “But it’s so fun seeing you like this, Hwi…” 

Your fingers flutter against the base and corners of him and it has him bucking his hips in desperation. Now you understood why they liked seeing you beg so much… this kind of power was something you could get drunk with. And seeing Hwi’s desperate reactions, how crazy you’re making him right now, was one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen. 

"Fuck baby you're driving me crazy," he groans, “My love, please—”

You take him into your mouth—his tip brushing the back of your tongue—and he gasps. His whole body tenses under your touch. Then he breaks.

A cry, ragged and raw. His hands fly to your hair, trembling fingers carding through the strands, gently cradling the back of your head like you’re something sacred. “Fuck,” he groans at the feel of your hot mouth wrapped around him. He’s never felt this kind of pleasure before in his life, and it was driving him absolutely mad. 

His hips buck just slightly—restrained. Worshipful. Still trying to hold himself back for you. He was quite girthy, so you took what you could in your mouth and used your hands to cover the rest. Your fingers wrapped around him, twisting in opposite directions. 

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he breathes, voice barely coherent. “You’re too much—I can feel everything—every flick of your tongue, every sound you make—gods, your mouth is heaven—”

You suck gently, cheeks hollowed, lips slick around him—and he keens, hands trembling. His body begins to shimmer. Veins glowing faintly beneath his skin. Ethereal demon markings pulse along his torso, crawling upward like wildfire. His beast is showing. His restraint, unraveling.

“You’re not just touching my body,” he gasps. “You’re inside my soul. I can feel it—every moan you make, I feel it in me, like I’m the one falling apart—fuck, baby—please—”

He thrusts gently into your mouth, hips rocking upward with a soft growl. The sounds he makes—raw, primal, completely lost in you—only make you want to worship him more. His hands are tangled in your hair, pushing you down gently to take more of him. You loved the sounds he was making. You loved how good you were making him feel. You look up at him from under your lashes and moan at the sight. 

His face, flushed with heat and eyes hot with desire, looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Like he’s careful not to break you but also holding himself back from thrusting in too deep into your mouth. He looked like you were undoing him from the inside out. You moan at the beautiful sight of him and he tips his head back hotly at the vibrations wrapped around him.  

But then—his grip suddenly tightens, trembling.

“Stop—baby, stop—” he whimpers. “I’m gonna cum—gods—I can’t—”

He pulls you off with a wet gasp, eyes wide, chest heaving, cock glistening in the low light. He’s panting. Shaking. Eyes blown wide with lust and love and awe. You’re confused for a moment, a quick flash of insecurity rushes through you. Did he not like it—

“I need to be inside you,” he says, voice hoarse. “Now. I need it—I need you. Please—please—”

Oh.

He pulls you into his lap again, cradling you like you’re fragile. His face was filled with need and so much yearning. He wanted– no, needed you wrapped around him. Badly. 

You smile slightly. He was so cute like this, and so hot. You shift on top of him. His hands fly to your ass, desperate and needy. You tilt his head up. Eyes molten pools of gold and violet. And without breaking eye contact, you line him up beneath you, and slowly, slowly, you sink down onto him.

And it shatters him.

Hwimori moans—loud and aching—head falling back, mouth open in a soundless cry. His claws dig into your hips like anchors, and his whole body trembles. You look at him, mouth parted slightly at the huge stretch of him sinking deeper into you. You moan and whimper at the feeling.

“You’re so warm—tight—fuck, I can feel your soul—” he gasps, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. His hands guide your hips lower, sinking himself deeper inside you. You feel as if there was no end. Every inch sinks in deliciously with a stretch, reaching places within you so deep it almost has you seeing stars. 

You both grunt as he bottoms out, your head sinking into his shoulder as he stills inside you, allowing you to accommodate the sheer size of him. 

“You feel incredible – fuck.” The last word is broken, shattered. 

You start to move—slow, deliberate—rocking your hips against him with sensual grace. He gasps softly at the friction, hands tightening on your waist like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this world.

Then his eyes meet yours. Wide. Wild. Awestruck. Shining like he’s beholding something holy. “You’re inside me too,” he whispers, voice trembling. “Every part of you… your heart, your voice… it’s echoing in my chest—I can feel you in my soul…”

“Really?” you breathe, stunned by the depth of it and his connection with you. Your body trembles. He nods, mouth parted, lips pink and kiss-swollen. “It’s like the bond has no beginning or end. Just you… burning in me.”

You lift your hips—slow, torturous. His cock drags along your walls and you feel him twitch inside you, thick and hot and pulsing. Then you drop your hips again, taking him deep—and he moans. It vibrates through both your chests, your moan echoing right after, the soulbond creating a perfect feedback loop of heat and pleasure.

You start to ride him—slow at first, letting him feel every wet drag of your walls. His hands explore you like he’s mapping the surface of a dream. They roam up your thighs, over your hips, along the delicate curve of your spine. He cups the back of your head with one palm, the other pressing into the small of your back as if he could hold your soul there forever.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmurs through gasps. “So powerful. So fucking mine.”

You roll your hips harder, drawing circles with your pelvis—and his eyes flutter, his body arching up into yours. Then you lean close, kiss his throat, and moan his name softly into his skin.

And it breaks him.

With a snarl, his hands shoot to your waist. He growls—a deep, primal sound—and in one quick, fluid movement, he flips you.

You barely register the shift before you’re on your hands and knees, breath caught in your throat, his chest behind you, his cock pressed at your entrance from behind—hard, throbbing, wild with need. And then he drives into you.

Hard.

You cry out, hands fisting in the cushions for support as his cock spears deep, reaching places unknown in this new position. The sheer force of his thrust makes you jolt forward—only for his arms to pull you back again, anchoring you against him.

He finds his rhythm. Deep. Powerful. Devastating. Like an beast on a mission to claim.

“Your scent,” he pants, voice guttural, animal. “Your voice—your fucking moans— they make me crazy. I want you messy. I want you needy. I want you like this every day.”

He’s slamming into you now, sweat-slick and burning hot. You cry out as his hips meet yours with obscene sounds, your skin echoing against his like drums to some ancient mating rhythm. His demon patterns were on full display now, no longer able to hold back any longer his primal urge to mark you, to claim you. 

You arch back into him, sobbing out his name again and again—and it shreds what little restraint he had left.

He growls, fangs bared, and pushes your chest down flat into the velvet. Your cheek rests against the cushion, stomach flat against the couch, hips raised high as he looms over you, his weight pressing your back flat with his own.

Now he’s fucking you in earnest. Hard. Fast. Possessed. His lips drag across your spine, fangs grazing the curve of your shoulder. Your cries are muffled against the cushions. His nose presses into the crook of your neck, inhaling you like it’s all he needs to live.

“You were made for this,” he snarls, breath shaking. “To be mine. To take me—all of me. Gods, you fit me so perfectly. So fucking perfectly—”

Your moans crack into gasps, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the sheer intensity. “Yours,” you mumble, almost deleriously against the velvet. “I’m yours, Hwi-”

Every thrust punches a cry from your lungs. Every kiss down your spine lights up your nerves like lightning. Your walls clench tighter and tighter—every stroke inside you driving you closer to a cliff you can’t see the bottom of.

“Let me mark you,” he begs. “Please. Let me leave something of me on you.”

You nod, helplessly. And he bites down on the side of your neck—not enough to break skin, just enough to claim. Your back arches under him, body trembling as he groans against your skin.

“I want you warm and full and mine,” he growls. “Let me fill you. Let me stay inside you.”

You scream his name as your orgasm crashes over you—twitching around him, sobbing, shattering. White hot pleasure sizzles down your spine and in your core as you close your eyes at the sheer intensity of it. The bond explodes in your chest. Your pleasure echoes into his—his hips falter, then slam one final time—

He moans your name as he cums. Buried deep. Hot, thick, endless.

He jerks as he empties himself into you, cock twitching inside your still-clenching walls, his breath catching as his entire body locks above yours. You feel every spurt of him flood you—so full you feel it dripping down your thighs. 

His hands have yours pinned by your head, fingers intertwined and tight against yours as he crashes through his release. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull out. He just collapses over you. Breathing ragged. Arms caging you beneath him possessively.  Nose in your neck.

And you—soaked, trembling, filled and full of him—let yourself melt beneath his weight. Safe. Claimed. His.

──────── SMUT ENDS ────────

“I’ll never let you go,” he breathes against your skin. “Even if all that’s left is instinct… I’ll love you in every form. Every time you’re born, I’ll find you. And I’ll love you again.”

You turn your head to meet his eyes, breath still shaking. “Yours, Hwi. You have me.”

His kiss is searing as he presses it to your cheek, your ear, your temple. And he whispers, broken and beautiful: “Mine.”

The bond pulses one last time. Then it quiets. Wrapped around each other. Hearts tangled. Souls glowing. 

Beast and tether.

His weight is still pressed against your back—hot, heavy, anchoring. But his thrusts are gone now, replaced by slow, trembling breaths against the shell of your ear. The room is quiet, save for the soft hum of the bond and the thunder of two hearts tangled together.

You feel his arms tighten around your waist like he’s scared you might slip through them. “Hwi,” you whisper.

He doesn’t speak at first—just buries his nose into your hair and breathes you in like a prayer. Then, softly, brokenly: “Thank you.”

You blink. “For what?”

“For… this. For you. For letting me—” His voice cracks. “I didn’t think I’d ever get to feel you like this. Not with skin. Not with hands. Not like this…”

You turn in his embrace, and he lets you, gently helping you onto your back. He hovers above you, eyes shining with something too big to hold. “I was never supposed to be this,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I was a spirit. A guardian. A thing without touch, without form. But I would've given it up a thousand times over. I did—for you.”

He lowers his forehead to yours, his silver lashes brushing your skin. “If falling from grace means I get to hold you like this—love you like this—I’d fall every time.”

Your throat tightens, your heart breaking and healing in the same breath. “You’re not fallen,” you say, gently brushing his cheek. “You just… came home.”

He swallows hard, eyes closing at your touch. He kisses your palm, your wrist, then your chest—over your heart. And stays there, listening. “I’ll love every version of you,” he murmurs against your skin. “Even the pieces you haven’t met yet. Even the parts that change.”

You take his face in your hands, and he melts into them, leaning into your touch like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. “Thank you.” You say, “For always reassuring me. For loving me like this. Hearing you say things like that, makes it sound too good to be true.” You sigh, “I can’t believe you want to be mine-”

“I only ever knew how to be yours,” he says, voice trembling. “I don’t know how to be anything else. And now that I’ve had you like this… I can’t go back.”

Your breath hitches.

“I live to worship you,” he whispers. “To care for you. Provide for you. Cherish you. Love you. Every version. Every life. Every shape you take.”

Something in you shatters. You let out a soft sound—half sob, half laugh—and press a thousand kisses to his shoulder, his collarbone, his cheeks, his hands. 

“You don’t know what that does to me,” you whisper. “To be loved like this. After years of solitude. Loneliness…”

He hushes you gently, laying his head against your chest as you softly play with his hair. “I’m here now,” he says. “You won’t ever be without me. Without us.” 

His arms tighten again around your middle. His voice is quieter now, small and honest. “I won’t just stand by this time,” he promises. “I won’t let the world take you from me again. I don’t care what I become. I’ll fight fate, gods, time—everything. I’ll bare my teeth and rip the stars down if they try to take you.”

You smile faintly through the warmth in your chest. “Sounds like my beast.”

He grins, eyes glassy with emotion. “I’d burn the sky just to keep you in my arms.”

Then he shifts, wrapping you in his shirt and lifting you in his arms. Your head rests tiredly on his shoulder as he walks and carries you to your room. 

Opening the door, he walks over to the bed and places you on it gently. He gets in right next to you—pulling the blanket over both of you, wrapping his arms around your waist and tucking you close until your legs tangle and your bodies settle in perfect symmetry.

He presses one last kiss to your forehead and whispers, “Sleep now, my love. I’ll guard your dreams.”

And you do. Wrapped in his warmth. His scent. His soul.

Belonging. At last.

TO BE CONTINUED

───────── ༺🜃༻ ─────────

A/N: I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! Mystery/ Hwimori gets his turn on this one. Wrote this with all my Hwimori girls in mind. I figured his go would be a bit different as he's a soulbeast and always had this type of spiritual connection to the reader. Seeds of doubt slowly creep into her mind in this one as well. Hwi silences them for now, but who knows where they'll go in the next chapters. I think you all know who comes next ;) Let me know what you guys think, and as always, thank you for reading! Much Love, Willa x

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[sere1nnes]

︶︶︶﹕HOW HSR MEN REACT WHEN YOU'RE JEALOUS! PART 1

Pairing: Phainon x Reader Tags: Established relationship, fluff, jealousy (on your side), suggestive dialogue, feminine reader terms used

︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶ ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ A/N: Sooo we are starting a new, shorter series bc I only ever have the energy to make oneshots these days 😞 especially with school + my original book in the works. Anyways, pls enjoy! I’ll be writing for Mydei next heh

︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶ Chapter WC: 1.7k

PHAINON

Ocean blue eyes, witty humor, and a million-dollar smile— who wouldn’t be drawn to a man like Phainon? It’s as if he’s the epitome of a Xianzhou mother’s dream son. One notable thing about him is how charitable he is. Breaking your arms trying to carry a dozen groceries? He’ll offer to hoist them all up on one hand and incredulously (yet lightheartedly) ask you if that was all. Phainon will tell you that, no, he isn’t bragging! Yet he relishes in your shameless stare whenever you unconsciously check him out. 

He just naturally has the penchant for socializing. Whether old or young, everyone unanimously views him positively. Plus points for the aura he has as a Chrysos heir, of course. 

And so, it wasn’t much of a surprise to know that his popularity has extended to the young women of Okhema. I mean— you couldn’t blame them either— it wasn’t just about his looks or title. He was charismatic and outgoing– far from a broody man. But you couldn’t help but feel possessive; they knew him as their Deliverer, but he was your Phainon. You had to mentally slap yourself in the face. Calm down, it wasn’t like he couldn’t talk to anyone else other than you, either. 

You tried not to mind this underlying fact in his reputation, until…

You spotted Phainon in the plaza on your way to pick up a package. He stood by the fountain, basking in the sunlight, letting a small child swing on his arm like a monkey. “Me next! Me next!” A little girl exclaimed. “No, I wanna have a go!” Another huffed, crossing his arms defiantly.

“One at a time, everyone!” Phainon chuckled, lowering his limb for the child to hop off safely. “Don’t you all have to head home soon?” 

“Noooo!” They all whined simultaneously, shaking their heads. It would be time for supper soon enough, yet they were still brimming with hyperactivity. 

“Alright, alright! But just this once, okay?” He huffed. “Afterwards, promise me you’ll go.” 

“We promise.”

“I swear on my pet Chimera!”

You kept a huff of amusement to yourself, shaking your head as you leaned against a stone pillar. While waiting for your order of fresh goods, it didn’t hurt to observe your lover from afar. How he’d act when you weren’t around. Save for his more vulnerable side, there wasn’t much of a difference. Ever the puppy, wasn’t he? No wonder Tribbie called him “Snowy”, he really does act like his old pet.

However, your eyebrows began to furrow as a pair of ladies (gorgeous ones, at that) slid into view, nudging and kicking at each other. What could they need? For now, you decide to assess the moment silently.

“Oh, Timmy!” One of them called out, bending over with outstretched hands. Timmy, presumably her sibling, ran up to her, his tunic drenched from the heat and sweat. 

“He’s the most lively out of the bunch, let me tell you,” said Phainon, looking at the stranger. “A sister of his?”

The girls threw themselves into another fit of pinching and giggling. “Yeah, she is,” replied the other, clearing her throat. “You see, my friend here wants to ask for your—”

“Shhh!” She stepped on her heel in a painfully obvious manner, and a yelp of pain cut through the conversation. He didn’t pick up on the implication yet, however. 

Phainon stood there, unsure of how to respond, yet keeping his confused smile lifted. “Hm? Sorry, I’m afraid I couldn’t quite catch that.” He stared at the girls, trying to gauge their intentions. Did they want to ask him about Mydei? That wouldn’t be the first time it’d happened. 

But to her surprise, the first girl blurted out, “S–Sorry about that. I, erm, just wanted to thank you for taking care of my younger brother this entire time.” She blushed. “You know, you’re good with children.” 

In turn, he shook his head, replying modestly, “Oh no! Don’t know why they stick to me like glue. I honestly just entertain them every once in a while.”

“It’s ‘cause he always has snacks,” chimed in a boy holding a Droma toy. 

“And maybe that,” he chuckled, unfurling his crossed arms. 

The stall keeper blinked at you in concern as you stiffly gripped the parchment-covered carton. “Thank you for your patronage,” he murmured, scratching his nape as you bounded away from the counter. You had an uneasy feeling about this interaction. 

You stopped marching mid-way and came to terms with how borderline silly you must appear right now. They were still muttering in the distance, which came to your ears as chopped phrases. Calm down, maybe they just wanted to–

“Oh, [Name] is just a friend of yours, right?” 

Your heart sprang like a bow, jolting up your chest as Phainon looked taken aback by their query. Just a friend? Their audacity to word it that way! 

“Her?” His eyes widened. You watched closely. What would he say? Was he going to lie to these girls? Or perhaps downplay it in order not to hurt their feelings? Anxiety integrated with a sense of queasy anticipation coursed in your veins. You listened in, your breathing hitching–

“No! That’s Mr. Phainon’s girlfriend!” A little girl with a head bow answered eagerly. 

“You dumb-dum, she’s his wife!” Her playmate cried haughtily.

The duo– and even Phainon himself– were stunned by the sudden outburst. “I– Lord Phainon, you’re married?!”

He flushed into a pretty shade of pink as he answered with a squeak, “No, she’s my girlfriend. I don’t know where these children derive such imagination from–”

“But you told us she was your wife,” said a rather chubby sprout. 

“Are you even telling us the truth?”

The poor Deliverer’s face was gradually deepening beet red. Their saucer-eyed stares made him swallow bashfully. “Yes, yes, I am! But I didn’t mean it literally…!”

Timmy asked, “What does ‘liter ah lee’ mean?” And in turn, the children started repeating the question like a flock of parrots. 

The girls looked a bit embarrassed themselves. “We’re sorry… It’s been a pleasure, but um, well, we– we’ll get going now.” The first fumbled with her words. “Come along now, Timmy! Mother’s going to be furious once she sees your chiton tainted with dirt again!”

Now that the three of them have deserted the area, Phainon’s attention is finally undivided. He turned away with a weighed sigh, only to meet your dumbfounded gaze. 

“[Name]!” It was like all the color on his face re-emerged. He jogged up to you, endearment twinkling in his irises. “What are you doing here?”

“Just running errands,” you replied, heat pooling on the apples of your cheeks. 

“Ah, I see.” Phainon paused before clearing his throat. “You… didn’t happen to hear any of that, did you?” He asked softly. 

The aftermath of your envy still resided within your system, but you couldn’t help but suppress a muffled giggle.

“Hey, what’s so funny?” Your reaction provoked a pout from your boyfriend.

“To be honest, yes. I heard it all.” You replied, composing yourself. “And…” 

He tilted his head as he awaited the continuation of your sentence. “I’ll admit that I felt as if there was something fishy with those two.” 

“I hardly even know them,” said Phainon. “Neither did I understand their intentions initially. But one of the kiddos brought up how I always stored snacks for you in my pockets. It caught those girls’ attention.” 

His explanation lifted some burden off your shoulders, but you still felt a bit shaken from the encounter you had to witness. 

“Apparently.” You huffed. “They were quite confident at the beginning, too. Makes me wonder– they must be living under a rock if they’re that unaware of our relationship.” The slight strain in your tone wasn’t left unnoticed. You knew this, and so did he. You could only gulp as his lips contorted upwards.

“Hmm,” hummed Phainon, before a hint of mischief washed across his visage. “My love, were you, perhaps, a tinsy bit envious?” 

His low whisper sent wild goosebumps down your skin. “What?” You jarred, blinking a few times. 

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“That’s not fair,” you protested. “Who wouldn’t be jealous? I mean, imagine another man trying to hit on me. Wouldn’t you be riled up?”

The image you painted for him sparked a moment of pondering. “Well, yes… that would be most infuriating.” He agreed, but not without cheekily adding, “But I’m pretty sure no one dares offend a Chrysos heir.”

“Yes, but then people like them would be offending me.” 

He slipped his hand into yours, fingers intertwining like an intricate mechanism of gears. “Forget about them, starlight. Even if they were to dress up as you, I’d be sure to give them the cold shoulder each time.”

“It’s just that,” you managed to ease up further, but you couldn’t help but address one more thing. “Maybe I am a little possessive at this point. Especially when she gushed about you being some child whisperer while she ogled you up.”

Phainon let out a hearty laugh. “I didn’t happen to notice at that point yet. Your observation is astute as always.” 

“You are surprisingly popular with the youth, though.” A stray breeze wafted through your hair. Speaking without thinking, you remarked, “I think you’d make an excellent father.”

He sharply flinched and came to an abrupt stop, and you quickly realized the weight of what you had just said. “A what?”

 “O–Or a brother! An older brother, you’d be an amazing one!” It was as if you were taking L after L in terms of your dignity today. Digging a hole and burying yourself in it right now seemed like a fine idea– you grimaced as he opened his mouth to reply. 

“You’re already thinking about it, huh?” Phainon puckered his lips in astonishment. “I didn’t know those neighborhood rascals were growing on you.” 

“They’re not,” you flushed. “I mean, that isn’t a reason why.” 

“Is that so?” Phainon smiled with that usual boyish charm. But his tone suggested a deeper meaning. 

“That’s a shame,” he then leaned in to murmur sultilry, breath fanning against your ear. “But if you’re so fervent in your desire, I wouldn’t mind fulfilling it after I clock out today.” 

“Phainon!” 

“I’m kidding! Unless you want to take the offer seriously–”

As the two of you bickered and bantered into the sunset, the children by the fountain watched from afar, innocence and admiration etched on their countenances.

“Do you think they’ve kissed yet?”

“Of course not. Kissing makes babies!”

“Yeah, you’re right…”

a/n: I know Timmy isn't really a Greek name but it's an inside joke between me and a friend 😭 anyways is this a safe space to admit that this fic was a little self-indulgent divider creds @/cafekitsune

[simplygojo]

Friend-Of-A-Friend ── Chapter Eleven

author's note ⸺ Hello my friends!! This is the first time I'm doing this but I am actually out of the country rn and scheduled these posts in advanced...spooky asf...ANYWAYS, I am STOKED to be finally getting to show you guys the next few chapters...I have never enjoyed writing something so much before... pairing ⸺ Suguru Geto x Reader content ⸺ corporate-worker!reader, emotional tension, modern au, the good-ole-days trope, reader uses female pronouns, detailed descriptions smoking (weed + cigs), high tensions, sexual vibes from certain actions IYKYK taglist at end, 4k, this is an 18+ series - mdni

divider credit: @/toastray ୨୧ art credit: @/juziluohai

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The rest of the evening unfolded in a rhythm both familiar and new, like a well-worn melody revisited with fresh ears. 

You yapped on and on—stories, half-formed thoughts, little observations that normally might have sounded trivial but felt vital somehow with him listening. 

Suguru listened, as he always did: thoughtful, calm, absorbing everything with quiet attentiveness. No interruptions, no rushing, just his steady presence across you.

Your khao soi was amazing, every bite a spicy, creamy comfort that wrapped around you like a warm blanket. Butttt you’d already been eyeing his pad see ew, you could almost taste the garlicky sweetness.

So, naturally, he offered to share with you. 

Takeout containers swapped back and forth, forks reaching into each other’s without permission. 

It wasn’t just food, really—it was the easy intimacy of sharing space and tastes, the soft brush of elbows and fingers as you both navigated the small table, the gentle teasing over who got more noodles or the last bite of chicken.

Laughter bubbled up freely between the two of you, sharp and light, woven through with those little cracks of nostalgia and something quietly thrilling about this unplanned evening stretching out, unhurried and full.

The conversation had wandered—looping through old classmates you barely remembered, the worst professors you never could forget, random threads about documentaries you’d watched, weird dreams you’d had, how Gojo still texted like he was trapped in 2016.

Suguru had a way of pulling things out of you without even trying. He didn’t pry, just followed the current wherever you let it go. 

And by the time you realized how late it had gotten, your legs were tangled loosely with his beneath the table—ankles brushing, knees occasionally nudging. Neither of you moved to untangle them.

Your khao soi was gone, his noodles nearly demolished, and the playlist had drifted into something mellow and familiar.

You leaned back slightly, your weight resting on your palms, and let the silence linger for a beat. The low hum of the evening wrapped around you both—soft, golden, unrushed.

“This is good,” you said, more to yourself than to him.

Across from you, Suguru glanced up. “The food?”

You tilted your head, eyes flicking over the room—the soft lighting, the nearly empty containers, the lazy sprawl of limbs beneath the table where your ankle brushed his. “All of it.”

He nodded once, slowly. That quiet, deliberate kind of nod he gave when he was really listening. When he agreed with more than just the words.

Silence crept in again, unbothered. The kind that settled instead of pressed. There was something expansive about it—like the night had opened just enough to make space for both of you without crowding either.

“You always eat that slow?” he asked after a while, eyeing your mostly-finished takeout.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “I was talking the whole time!”

He raised a brow, not even pretending to deny it. “You most definitely were,” he said, and there wasn’t a hint of teasing in it. Just a quiet observation. “You do that when you’re comfortable.”

You let out a soft laugh, more breath than sound. “Yeah, I guess... But at least I’m not on the same level as Gojo.”

“Not even close,” he said, without missing a beat. Then, after a pause, “You talk the perfect amount.”

Something about the way he said it—simple, matter-of-fact—landed somewhere low in your chest. Not dramatic. Just... steady. Certain. 

“Yeah? Well, at least someone thinks so.” 

Your voice had a smile in it, even if your mouth didn’t move. And Suguru didn’t say anything in response. You enjoyed the peaceful silence that often came during conversations with Suguru. 

His gaze held yours for a moment, steady and unreadable, before it dropped—trailing down to the table, the space between you, then to where your legs were still tangled loosely beneath. 

His eyes lingered there, thoughtful but unreadable, before slowly making their way back up to your face.

When he met your eyes again, there was nothing overt in his expression. Just a flicker of something—quiet, grounded—before he looked away, as casually as if he hadn’t done any of that.

The silence held, easy and warm, the jazzy playlist spinning out into the background.

Then, trying to sound like it had just occurred to you, you glanced over at him and asked, “Wanna smoke?”

It came out light. Casual. The same way you might ask if he wanted tea.

You already knew he’d have something on him—he always did. 

And it wasn’t that you weren’t enjoying the night sober. You most definitely were. More than you expected to, even.

But something about having him here again made you crave the quiet buzz of it. Not for the high, exactly—just the way it made things stretch out a little longer between the two of you. Settle a little deeper. 

Suguru tilted his head, slowly, like he was weighing the question for no real reason except that he liked to make you wait.

“Sure,” he said, nodding. “You got anything?”

You had no reply. 

Just a slow smile, lips pressing together before curving. One eyebrow edged up, eyes soft and wide with a flicker of guilt tucked just beneath the surface—open, a little sheepish. The kind of look that confessed without a word, like a kid caught red-handed and hoping charm might soften the blow.

His eyes narrowed a little, amused by your reaction. Then he huffed a dry laugh—quiet and disbelieving.

He knew you wouldn’t.

“Of course you don’t,” he muttered, pushing himself up from the rug with a low grunt.

You watched him pat down one pocket, then the other—those loose, baggy jeans slung low enough on his hips that glimpses of skin flashed beneath the hem of his sweatshirt. Finally, he reached deep into one of the front pockets and pulled out a small pack of cigarettes and a white plastic tube you recognized instantly.

Same kind as the other night.

He held them up in his hand and gave his black lighter a harsh flick—the corner of his mouth quirking just slightly. 

“Lucky for you...” he said, not bothering to finish his sentence since you had already sprung up from the carpet yourself. 

You padded toward the balcony, brushing the curtain aside with the back of your hand. The night air slid in through the small opening—cooler than expected, but slightly humid. 

City sounds drifted in from below: a distant honk, the low murmur of someone’s television, footsteps echoing against the sidewalk a few stories down.

Behind you, the soft rustle of fabric and the click of the lighter as Suguru followed. 

You both stepped out in your socks, the chill of the concrete biting against the lingering warmth still clinging to your skin from dinner.

You crossed the small balcony with ease, stepping up to the railing and resting your forearms along the cool metal. 

The night opened wide in front of you—glowing windows across the street, the soft buzz of a distant streetlamp, the low sound of a car rolling past far below. You leaned in slightly, letting the breeze graze your skin, eyes drifting across the quiet stretch of city.

Suguru stepped out after you, settling into place at your side but turning to face the opposite direction. 

He leaned his weight into the railing behind him, arms draped casually over the edge, one ankle hooked over the other. His head dipped slightly, gaze lowered, like something quiet on the ground had caught his attention.

He then brought the joint to his mouth with one hand, lighter already in the other, the flame catching with a soft shhck as he shielded it from the breeze. 

The tip flared amber as he drew in, cheeks hollowing slightly, eyes half-lidded beneath the porch light.

He turned his head, exhaling with a quiet huff. The smoke drifted out in a low stream, curling in the narrow space between your bodies—thin and silver, catching faintly in the light before disappearing into the dark.

Then, without a word, he leaned slightly closer, extending the joint toward you with a slow, deliberate ease. 

His wrist tilted just so, barely enough to catch your eye, and that sideways glance held a quiet challenge, half amusement, half something unspoken.

You accepted it without a word, feeling just as at ease chatting endlessly with Suguru as you did sharing the quiet—both rare comforts in their own way.

The cigarette came next—same slow flick of the lighter, same steady inhale.

He didn’t speak right away, just let the first drag settle in his chest before easing it out through his nose. The smoke trailed upward in a thin, silvery stream, catching in the amber glow of the porch light overhead.

For a while, the quiet between you stretched—easily, unbroken. The kind of silence that didn’t ask for anything.

You brought the joint to your lips again and pulled long and slow, until the heat bit at the base of your throat.

Thick and dry and hot—burning at first, then blooming into something deeper. You held it in until your lungs ached, until the pressure turned warm, and then let it spill from your mouth in a slow, steady stream.

God, that feeling.

It was almost embarrassing how much you’d missed it. Not just the taste or the heat, but the drop. 

That barely-there second where the world tilted, just a little—like a table leg knocked loose under your thoughts—and then settled again, softer somehow. Rounder. Slower. 

There was nothing like it.

You blinked, and the air felt denser. Your limbs heavier in the nicest way. That familiar buzz was already collecting behind your eyes, and a thick cotton haze that dulled everything sharp and left only the quiet.

The high didn’t slam into you. It slipped in.

Easy. Familiar. Like something half-forgotten crawling back into your bloodstream.

And you welcomed it.

You glanced at Suguru without turning your head, and for a second, you just watched the way the smoke curled from the cigarette in his hand.

It rose in soft spirals, catching the amber light before disappearing into the dark—same rhythm as you remembered, same quiet focus in the way he held it. 

There was something soothing about it, almost hypnotic. Like a loop your body still remembered how to fall into.

Another breath, another drag.

This time, you didn’t think before pulling it in—just let it happen.

And behind the smoke that was beginning to collect on your porch, behind the porch light glow, you could feel it starting to hook into your ribs again. 

That old habit. That soft ache for softness.

Below, the city kept moving. But up here, the moment held.

Suguru shifted just enough to catch your gaze, his eyes narrowing subtly—calm, steady, quietly attentive, as if weighing something unspoken. 

His voice came low and close as he finally broke the quiet.

“You always bait people into sharing their stash with that look of yours?”

You exhaled smoke, letting it linger on your smile before poking some fun at him. “Hmm…only the ones who buy me dinner first.”

He huffed—just once—and reached out to take the joint from your hand. You let it go with a soft laugh.

He passed you the cigarette in exchange, sliding it gently between your fingers. His touch lingered—not long, but long enough.

Suguru brought the joint to his lips—but paused.

You saw it too. The faint pink tint left on the filter—barely there, but noticeable if you looked close enough. Which he usually did.

And something in him gave, just slightly.

Not much. Just the flicker of it—so fast you might’ve missed it if you hadn’t been watching him so closely. 

A slight shift in his posture.

The smallest flex in his jaw, like he’d just clenched and released it in the same breath. His fingers tightened around the joint for half a second too long.

He brought the joint to his mouth, slower this time.

You caught the way his gaze flicked to the filter just as he aligned the joint to his lips—purposefully, precisely—so that his lips landed exactly where yours had been. 

Not beside it. Not around it. Dead center. Like it was intentional. Like he wanted to feel the trace of you there.

And maybe you imagined it, but his eyelids seemed just a touch heavier as they fluttered shut as he inhaled.

The inhale was deep, deeper than the last—shoulders rising just slightly beneath the black sweatshirt, the edge of his jaw flexing with the pull.

The ember glowed bright orange, burning through the quiet between you. Then dimmed.

He held it for a breath.

Two.

The smoke trailed out between you, catching for a moment in the porch light before fading into the night.

But he didn’t turn away with the smoke.

Instead, he turned his head toward you.

Deliberate.

The joint still balanced between his fingers, the faintest trace of pink still visible on the paper where your lips had touched.

His gaze wasn’t sharp, but it was focused. On you. Then, unmistakably, on the joint.

Still between his fingers.

Still bearing the faint pink outline of your lips.

After a short moment, his gaze met yours again and held, though the intensity you thought you felt from it was a little too heated to be casual.

Though to be honest, you did have a pretty good imagination.

Then—quiet enough that it slipped between heartbeats, like something not meant to be spoken aloud—

“You don’t even notice what you do, do you?”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t smirk. Just said it like a fact. Like a truth he’d stumbled over and hadn’t figured out what to do with.

Your breath caught—not visibly, not in any way that showed. But you felt it. That slight catch in your chest.

You followed his eyes to the joint and saw it clearly now—the imprint left behind. A soft crescent mark. Too faint to call attention to itself. Too specific to ignore.

Your first instinct was to brush it off. Laugh, maybe. Say something clever.

But you didn’t. You simply tried to ignore the strange, pulsing awareness suddenly alive under your skin.

The two of you just stared at each other for a moment—maybe testing boundaries—maybe not. Your throat felt dry, but it was not from the smoke.

Still, you managed to tilt your head—just a little—and let your eyes flick down to the joint, then back up to his.

“Didn’t think you were paying that much attention to me.”

You said with a laugh, though it sounded more like a deflection than a punchline. You tilted your head, trying to cool the sudden heat rising up the back of your neck.

Suguru didn’t look away.

He didn’t speak, either—not right away. He just held your gaze like he was searching for something in it.

And then, lower his time, like it cost him more—

“I’ve always paid attention to you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full. Full to the damn birm. Full with things unsaid. With you. With him. With the space you hadn’t yet figured out how to cross, let alone if you were even meant to cross it.

Your breath caught again, not from nerves, but from recognition. And maybe he saw that in you, because when he spoke again, it came softer. Closer.

Like a confession held too long in the chest.

He swallowed, just once.

“I think I started paying attention to you before you ever said a word to me.” The words hung there, strange and bare between you, like he hadn’t meant to say them out loud. Like they’d slipped out before he could stop them.

He let out a breath after, quiet and uneven. His gaze had drifted somewhere just past you—distant, unfixed—like he was searching the back of his mind for something half-remembered. 

Whatever passed across his face wasn’t obvious, but you could tell he was sifting through something. Quietly. Carefully.

You didn’t turn away, but you didn’t meet his eyes either. Just stood there with the cigarette between your fingers, smoke curling softly into the night.

The city stretched out in front of you—indifferent, glittering—but all you could feel was the nearness of him beside you. The quiet shift in the air between two bodies that hadn’t moved physically, but had still somehow drawn closer.

He was facing you now, fully. You could feel the weight of his attention on your profile, the way his body curved slightly toward yours like it was his natural instinct.

You took a drag, mostly for something to do with your mouth, then exhaled slowly through your nose. Your pulse ticked at your throat.

And there it was—that moment. The one where you could lean in, crack yourself open just a little, acknowledge the way his words had landed heavy and unguarded between you.

But being you, you took the other route. The safer one. The one with teeth and a crooked smile.

“You know,” you said, tilting your head just slightly, “when you say shit like that, I can’t tell if you’re flirting with me or like hexing me.”

A moment passed. Then the corner of his mouth tugged up—just slightly—and he let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. You liked pulling that out of him. He didn’t give it easily.

“Kinda cryptic,” you added, a little lighter now. Like maybe you hadn’t been holding your breath since he first spoke.

A pause. Then, a quiet breath out from him—almost a laugh.

You caught it from the corner of your eye. That small pull at the corner of his mouth. Hard to earn, but always real when it came.

He reached over and took the cigarette from between your fingers, swapping it for the joint without a word. It was a quiet motion. Unspoken, but easy—like slipping back into the peaceful rhythm the two of you already knew.

He didn’t look away. Just held your gaze for a second longer than necessary with that sly smile plastered on his lips.

Then, casually—so lightly you almost missed it. “You deflect well.”

It wasn’t a challenge. Not even a comment, really. Just a quiet truth laid down without expectation—like he was naming something he'd noticed, not asking you to change it.

Your smile shifted—not bigger, just different. Softer at the edges. A little tired, maybe. A little caught.

He didn’t follow it up with anything else. And you didn’t explain. You knew he understood why you deflected. 

“Thanks,” you said, voice low—dry, but not unkind. You flicked ash off the joint with a practiced tap, then glanced at him sideways. “It’s a skill.”

His eyes didn’t leave yours. Not even when you looked away first. He just nodded once, like he accepted that answer, but didn’t buy it completely.

Silence settled in again, but it wasn’t cold. It was that strange kind of quiet that meant something had shifted. Not everything—but enough that it’d be impossible to pretend it hadn’t.

And still, neither of you moved.

You brought the joint to your lips again, slower this time. Drew in a breath that didn’t quite steady you the way it should have.

For a while, that was all there was—the dim sound of traffic below, the rustle of city wind against the balcony rail, the shared quiet between you. The silence had shifted. Not tense, exactly, but dense—like air thick with something unspoken. 

You could feel it in the space between you. That subtle hum of awareness, too quiet to name but impossible to ignore. His knee just barely angled toward yours. It was the kind of quiet that asked a question without saying it out loud. And you weren’t sure you had an answer.

You shifted slightly, suddenly hyper-aware of how long it had been since either of you said anything. You became aware of your own heartbeat—too present in the quiet, like your body had forgotten how to relax. 

A ripple of self-consciousness stirred, tightening in your chest in an unfamiliar way that made you want to fill the air with anything: a laugh, a cough, some half-formed sentence that didn’t matter, so long as it broke the tension.

Then you cleared your throat softly.

“Well.” You shifted your weight, glanced at the time on your phone, even though you hadn’t gotten any notifications. “Look at that. Almost midnight. Time really flies…or whatever…”

You tried for casual—tried to keep it light, but the words didn’t feel right coming out of your mouth. “We’ve both got work in the morning. You should probably head out before I start offering you a toothbrush and drawer space.”

It was meant to be a joke, but your voice caught just slightly at the end. Not enough to ruin it. Just enough that he noticed. 

Suguru’s brow lifted—barely—and his mouth curved upwards into a knowing smile, but he didn’t tease you for it. He just tilted his head, a little thoughtful now, like he was deciding whether or not to say something.

Instead, he nodded once. “Yeah. Guess you’re right.”

He leaned forward and tapped the spent cigarette against the edge of the balcony rail. Ash scattered into the wind, and a second later, he flicked the butt out into the night with a lazy flick of his fingers. You followed suit—dropped what was left of the joint between two slats, watching it tumble into the darkness below without a sound.

A sudden breath left you, quicker than you’d meant, and you pushed off the railing, wiping your hands on the front of your jeans like it somehow reset something in your body. 

“Okay, well…” you said, already moving toward the balcony door, too brisk to seem casual. “Thanks for hanging out and stuff. This was—yeah. Fun.”

You winced inwardly at the clumsy string of words but didn’t stop. He didn’t say anything—just followed you in, slow and quiet, like he always moved. You left the balcony door cracked behind you and padded barefoot across the apartment, flicking on the hallway light as you went. The warm overhead glow felt too bright all of a sudden, too ordinary for the way your chest was still buzzing.

You stopped at the front door and turned, but he was already there, standing a few feet behind you. Not crowding, not lingering—just… there. Hands in his pockets. Eyes still on you, steady.

You reached for the door handle and paused, trying to think of something smooth to say. Anything that might make the end of this feel less weird than it suddenly did.

“Anyway,” you said, voice thinner than you meant. “Thanks for, um—dinner. The noodles were really good.”

He gave a small nod, a smile pulling gently at his mouth. “Thanks for the company.”

You smiled back, or tried to, but it faltered at the edges. You hesitated, fingers still resting on the door like you might open it, —like you weren’t sure if you should.

He tilted his head slightly. Waited.

“I’m not kicking you out or anything,” you said, too quickly. “I just figured—you know, we’ve both got stuff in the morning, and I didn’t want you to feel like you had to stay. Not that you were going to. But if you were—I mean—”

Suguru let out a soft breath. It wasn’t quite a laugh, but it eased something in the room. “It’s okay,” he said, gently. “I get it.”

You nodded—once, twice—like that settled it, even though nothing really felt settled.

Then finally, you turned the knob and opened the door for him. He stepped forward, the space between you narrowing for just a second too long.

“Night,” you said, eyes not quite meeting his.

“Night,” he echoed, and you felt his gaze linger a beat longer before he stepped through the doorway.

You closed the door after him swiftly and stayed there, hand against the door, forehead nearly tipping forward until it rested there too. The wood was cool beneath your skin. Real. Grounding. But your stomach was doing something strange. A slow roll, a low twist. Not unpleasant. Just… unfamiliar.

And for the first time in a long time, you had no clue what to do with the way you felt.

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[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 I HAVE HOPE (SHE'S BLIND WITH NO NAME)

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: dazai underestimated just how hard it would be on him trying to get close to you again, and he overestimated his ability to separate his mess of emotions concerning you from the mission. that being said, he finds himself confused more than anything else, because he doesn't understand why you're not suspicious of him like you were the first time. and every potential answer he comes to makes his chest weigh heavier and heavier with guilt.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: PART THREE AT LASTTTTTTT I HOPE U ENJOY !!! this chapter was fun for me because we really see just how all of this is affecting reader, she's becoming much more reckless/careless about things & dazai is finally seeing it because it's directed toward him and its eating him up inside. next chapter is going to be VERY fun. reblogs and comments always appreciated!!

GENERAL WARNINGS: fem!reader, port mafia boss!reader, civilian!dazai, mentions of alcoholism, temporary amnesia, dazai is mentally unstable, so is reader (it's pretty apparent in this chapter), both of them are struggling LOL, grieving (reader), a bit of suicide ideation (that's a given from dazai, a little bit from reader too), as always: reader is part of the mafia, expect mafia behavior from her, she is not a good person.

SEE: THE LAND IS INHOSPITABLE (BUT ARE WE?) SERIES MASTERLIST

Usually, the cafe you get your coffee from is slow this early in the morning—you’re in and out within five minutes. The sun has barely just risen, and the morning air is still too brisk for comfort, and yet you’ve been waiting in line for twenty minutes now. Klaus has been complaining incessantly about wanting to go somewhere else for coffee and breakfast, but you want a muffin from here, and you refuse to start off what’s already going to be a bad day by having to go somewhere else.

“I think I’d rather kill myself than wait a second longer,” Klaus complains so loudly that people look your way. You sigh heavily and give him a withering look, silently telling him to be quiet. Instead, he repeats louder, “I think I would rather—”

“Quiet,” you say sharply, keeping your voice low, and Klaus slumps over with a scowl. “If you’ve forgotten, there’s currently an active manhunt for you. I shouldn’t have even brought you here—I should’ve taken Akutagawa or Atsushi.”

“Don’t say that,” he pouts dramatically. “I’m in disguise.”

You roll your eyes at him, but don’t respond. His disguise is a baseball cap and sunglasses, which is probably more suspicious than if he’d come in none considering it’s cloudy today. There are only two more people left in front of you, and you’re just about ready to get back to headquarters to prepare for your next meeting with Cao Xueqin. 

It’s going to be a long day of playing word games with each other—you just need to stall long enough to give Qu Yuan of the South’s Song a chance to make a move in Beijing. You’re not happy about having to go to the woman for help, but you know she’s been dying for the chance to knock the Red Chamber down a peg. The only issue now is that you’ll be forced to send your own men to help her when it inevitably blows up into war, which you were trying to avoid. But you suppose it’s a small price to pay to ensure you’re not facing a three-front war in the heart of Port Mafia territory.  

You step up to the register to talk to the girl behind the counter, who immediately lowers her head in recognition. “Ah! I, uh, didn’t realize you were waiting in line, Miss Mori. I’m sorry. Are you in a rush? We can speed along your order.”

You have to force yourself not to cringe at how she addresses you.

“Y—” You start to say, but pause when you see something—someone—from the corner of your eye. Is that the boy from the bar the other night? “Take your time. It’s no rush.”

“What!” Klaus squawks. “I’m hungry.”

“Put your order in and shut up,” you tell him, distracted. “Put mine in too.”

“Are you joking—” Klaus complains, but you wave him off as you wander over to the far side of the cafe, tilting your head to the side as you approach the small table Dazai is sitting at.

He’s so absorbed in whatever he’s writing in his journal that he doesn’t even notice you approaching him. Curious, your gaze tracks down to what he’s scribbling—a bullet list, you barely catch the name of the cafe, the time, and the bar you met him at before he notices you from the corner of his eye. 

He physically jumps, startled by your presence, “Jesus!” he gasps, shifting the papers out of sight as he turns to look. He looks like he’s not even sure that you’re there as he squints at you, uncertain. “You—you—”

“Me,” you say with a wry smile, raising your eyebrows as your eyes roam over him. There are dark circles under his eyes—he looks like he hasn’t slept in days. “Wow, look at those bags. Someone hasn’t been sleeping well.”

Dazai’s lips part at your words. He blinks twice as if he thinks he didn’t hear you correctly. “What did you just say?” he rasps. “I—”

“I said someone hasn’t been sleeping well,” you repeat, glancing at the empty seat across from him before, pushing it out and sitting down. Your lips quirk up into a teasing smile. “Too busy thinking of me to sleep?” 

“Yeah, right,” Dazai scoffs, but he looks a bit thrown off by your question, which makes you tilt your head curiously. He shakes his head and asks, “What are you doing here?” 

“Wow,” you repeat, not sure why you’re so amused by the rudeness—usually, it would only serve to piss you off, but it’s almost refreshing right now. “Someone’s in a mood. I’m getting coffee—is that a crime now?” 

“Here?” he asks with a frown, looking a bit too disappointed by it.

“Mhm. It’s my favorite place” you agree, leaning back in your seat. “Problem?”

“Just… funny coincidence,” he says, face all twisted up like he doesn’t really mean it.

“Or maybe fate,” you correct, a bit caught off guard by how playful you’re feeling. You haven’t felt this way in… a long time. Since well before you killed Mori. Since Itou was killed. You glance down for a moment, a bit rattled by the sudden thought of both of them. You have to force the next smile on your lips as you ask, “Don’t you believe in fate?”

Something strange crosses his face at your words, but you don’t get an answer from him because someone comes to a stop directly in front of your table. Klaus’s shadow looms over the two of you, you don’t even have to look at him to feel the malice radiating off of him.

“I have to wait on my danish because you want to talk to a boy,” Klaus hisses, glaring at you before turning a cold expression onto Dazai, who looks uncomfortable because of the attention. “Does Chuuya know about him?”

“Klaus, if you mention this to Chuuya…” You don’t finish the threat, giving the younger boy a long look. He sighs, rolling his eyes, but settles down for the most part. “Go away.”

“I really wanted my fucking danish,” he mutters, giving Dazai a suspicious look. “Why’s he so familiar?” 

You raise your eyebrows and say mockingly, “He shouldn’t be to you, you haven’t picked up a book since the EADF dragged you out of your kindergarten class.”

Klaus gapes at you. “I read—” he protests.

“You read takeout menus,” you agree.

“That’s so rude—”

“Go away,” you repeat firmly, rolling your eyes and shaking your head, waving him off.

Klaus casts one more cold, suspicious look at Dazai, but he wanders off to go lean against the wall. You side-eye him when he keeps his gaze trained on the two of you, but he only raises his eyebrows at you.

“Ignore him,” you say as you turn your attention back to Dazai. “He’s insufferable.”

“Who is he?” he asks curiously after clearing his throat. 

Your subordinate in the Mafia, who was stuck in a trafficking ring in Europe for over ten years before another crime lord gifted him to you like he was some sort of pet.

“My brother,” you answer instead after a moment. “What are you doing out so early?”

Dazai pauses like he’s trying to come up with an answer. You tilt your head curiously, and he finally asks defensively, “What makes you think I don’t get up this early usually?” 

Your eyes drift over him once because you say, “Don’t look like the type.”

Dazai scoffs, shifting in his seat. “And what type do I look like?” 

You hum, propping your elbow on the table and resting your chin on your palm as you study him. His shirt is wrinkled, and his bandages are haphazardly wrapped around him, fingers twitching against the wood of the table. Something about him feels off—not the same odd familiarity you felt at the bar, something different this time, you’re not sure what.

“I’ve got some thoughts,” you say after a moment, keeping your voice light.

“Share them with the needy, princess?” he drawls, the corners of his lips curling up into a sharp smile.

Princess. Hime. No one has called you either of those since you took over as boss. And you know it’s a coincidence, there’s no way a random author would be aware of your former title in the Port Mafia, but it still makes you pause to collect yourself.

“Hmm,” you consider, tapping your finger to your chin. “Maybe the next time we meet, I’ll tell you.”

“The next time?” Dazai asks. “You’re already planning our next meeting?” 

“Maybe, or maybe I don’t plan on meeting you again at all, so I don’t ever have to share them,” you answer, and then squint at him. “You’re not stalking me, are you? I’ve never seen you before, now suddenly twice in the same week.”

Dazai doesn’t answer for a second. His expression doesn’t change, but there’s a split second of tension in his jaw before he forces a chuckle. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” he asks. “You showed up at both places after me. I was here first.”

Before you can press further, the cafe worker clears her throat loudly from across the café. “Ma’am, your order’s ready,” she calls loudly, waving you over.

You sigh, standing up and smoothing down your suit jacket. “Well, One Hit Wonder, it’s been fun. Try to get some sleep, will you?” you say. 

“One hit wonder?” Dazai demands loudly, offended, but you only grin to yourself as you walk away, lifting your hand in a lazy wave.

Klaus is already at the counter, shoveling his danish in his mouth, holding both of your coffees, your muffin, and Albatross’s order. You take yours from him and nod for him to follow you out of the cafe. You give him a sharp look when you realize that he’s still scrutinizing Dazai.

“Who was that?” Klaus whispers loudly as soon as the two of you are out of the cafe. “Who—”

“Does it matter?” you ask dryly, smile fading as you take a sip of your coffee. Now to business—you need to figure out the best course of action to keep Cao Xueqin occupied until Qu Yuan can do her thing. “Let’s go.”

“I mean, yeah, kind of,” Klaus says, stopping in his tracks. You sigh as you turn to look at him.

“He’s a civilian, an author I ran into at a bar the other night. He’s not a threat—”

“That’s not what I mean,” Klaus interrupts, rocking on his feet awkwardly, gritting his teeth as he tries to figure out what he wants to say.

“Then what?” you ask, folding your arms over your chest with a frown. “Klaus, we gotta get going—”

“It’s just—” He starts to say, but cuts himself off with a frown. “For a second, you almost looked happy. I haven’t seen you like that in… a long time.”

You look away immediately, swallowing thickly and blinking as you shake your head. “It’s nothing, Klaus,” you tell him quietly. “He’s nothing. Let’s get back to headquarters.”

“If you say so,” Klaus murmurs, continuing down the street to where Albatross is parked and waiting for the two of you. 

Klaus looks like he doesn’t believe you.

You don’t even know if you believe yourself.

Who are you, Dazai Osamu?

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

Every Wednesday night, you meet your associates at the rooftop restaurant near his campus—the same one you brought him to for your first date. Dazai knows this. You told him this while the two of you were eating dinner, and he finally asked how the hell every waiter seemed to know you personally. You own the whole building, evidently, and it’s your go-to place for wining and dining your Mafia associates. You meet a different one once a week to maintain relations, usually on Wednesdays.

Dazai hasn’t been back here since that night you brought him, mainly because he can’t afford it, but also partly because he thinks he won’t be able to handle being back there when his only memory there is of you. This Wednesday, though, he forces himself to put on the suit you bought him for that government event and drags himself to the restaurant’s bar. You get to your meetings early—always at least fifteen minutes before anyone else arrives, so that you can keep an eye out for any potential traps or set-ups. That’s when he plans on bumping into you.

He had a feeling he was making a mistake as soon as he stepped into the building. It was too… you. The last time he stepped into the lobby, your arm was around his waist, and you guided him to the elevator as you greeted the staff. He got weird looks because he fell out of place amongst the elite of society, but you would rub a soothing circle on the back of his hand or his hip, and he would feel at ease again because he was with you, and he always felt at ease with you. 

Now, you’re not here to keep him at ease, and you’re not around to chase away the lingering stares, and Dazai feels very much out of place sitting at the bar with a glass of whiskey that is far too expensive for his meager wallet. He isn’t exactly sure how he’s going to pay for it, and he’s pretty sure the bartender has realized this from the way he keeps casting suspicious looks in his direction—Dazai had a feeling that the fancy suit would only throw them off for so long. You told him once that the rich sniff out those who don’t belong like bloodhounds, so he knew it was only a matter of time.

“Wow, One Hit Wonder, I think you are stalking me.” He hears your achingly familiar voice say from his left, and Dazai nearly chokes on his whiskey, head snapping to the side to focus on you. 

He knew you were coming, he planned this, but he’s still startled by the sight of you. You look beautiful—always do, but especially right now—you’re dressed in a new suit, arms crossed over your chest, head tilted to the side as you look down at him. Your gaze is soft, fond, and Dazai almost forgets to respond to you because he’s so stunned by the way you’re looking at him.

“I–uh–wouldn’t you be the one stalking me?” he splutters. “I was already here. Both times. All three times. You showed up all three times. You’re the stalker.”

Because he was waiting for you to show up, but you don’t need to know that. Dazai’s mouth dries when you raise your eyebrows at him, amused, and then you take a seat next to him at the bar. Immediately, the bartender comes over to give you your drink—he doesn’t even have to ask you, of course, he would know what you want. Your gaze flickers over to his almost empty glass, and you nod at it.

“Fill his up,” you say. “You can put it on my tab.”

Dazai pretends his cheeks don’t heat up as he averts his gaze, and says loudly, “Well, if it’s going on her tab, bring me calamari too.”

It says right on the sign that food isn’t served at the bar, and Dazai isn’t particularly hungry, but he just wants to see the way the bartender’s face twists up when he realizes that he can’t say no to Dazai because of you. That’s what he gets for giving Dazai dirty looks.

“You heard him,” you agree lazily when the bartender shoots you a questioning look. “Who are we to deny a celebrity?”

“Stop,” Dazai complains, burying his face in his hands. “You didn’t even like the book, stop talking about it.” 

“I did like it,” you disagree, taking a sip of your wine. “I didn’t like the ending.”

“Then you may as well have hated it,” Dazai huffs, crossing his arms over his chest and looking away. “So you don’t get to talk about it.”

“No, I enjoyed it, really,” you insist, leaning back in your seat. Dazai is getting embarrassed; he really needs you to stop talking about his book. “I liked the plot, it was interesting. The romance—”

“Alright,” Dazai complains, flustered, turning his back to you and taking a long swig of his whiskey. “No more. Please.”

Your lips curve up into a small smile, and Dazai’s breath catches. It’s not the same as it was, but it’s close—so close that it makes his heart ache. Your smile is soft, and though your gaze isn’t quite there, it’s not as empty as it was when he met you the other day, and that’s enough to make his throat swell. 

“Fine, fine,” you agree, tossing him a teasing smile as you lean your elbow on the top of the bar. “What are you doing here, One Hit Wonder? Isn’t this place… mm, out of your pay range?”

“Well, that’s rude,” Dazai scowls, but you only look more amused by the expression he makes. “Look at what I’m wearing, what makes you think I can’t afford this?”

Now, Dazai is not and never has been stupid. That being said, he’s also never been particularly smart when you’re involved. He’s made a lot of silly decisions, ranging from trying to blackmail a mafia executive to running off to campus on some righteous mission to prove his worth while there were potentially three different criminal organizations hunting him down. So he realizes a second too late that maybe he shouldn’t have mentioned that his suit is from a luxury boutique that very few can get appointments at. You being one of them.

Your gaze flickers down, interested, and his breath catches when you reach out to touch the material of his suit jacket, pinching the sleeve between your fingers. You tilt your head to the side curiously and say, “This is one of Kido’s… who are you, Dazai?” 

Dazai doesn’t know how to reply to that. Doesn’t know how to tell you that he got this suit with you. Doesn’t know how to tell you that he hardly knows who he is without you anymore. He can’t tell you that he misses you. He can’t tell you that he hates you. He can’t tell you that he loves you. So he stays quiet for too long—so long that it should make you suspicious.

But it doesn’t.

You raise your eyebrows at him. “Well?” you ask, leaning in a little with a flirty smile that flusters him. “C’mon. Give me the crash course, I have to go soon.”

Why aren’t you suspicious?

Dazai takes the out you unintentionally give him. “You just got here,” he complains. “Where are you going already?” 

Why aren’t you suspicious of him? 

Dazai feels sick to his stomach when you roll your eyes at his evasion instead of narrowing them. You should be suspicious of him—you were suspicious of him the first time around. You were suspicious of him when he wasn’t even doing anything wrong, when everything was just chance. Now Dazai is actively manufacturing these meetings with you, and there’s not even a hint of suspicion. 

Why not? What exactly has happened in the last six months?

“Business meeting,” you drawl, waving your hand flippantly. “Terribly boring.”

Dazai swallows the uncertainty bubbling in him, smoothing his hands against his slacks as he asks, “What kind of business are you in?”

You pause to take a sip of your drink, and Dazai can imagine the thoughts running through your head. How do you explain that you’re a mafia boss to a civilian who has “no idea” about what your profession is? It makes Dazai bitter. He knows you, he knows what you do, and he accepted you, and now he has to sit here and pretend he has no idea who you are? It’s so fucked up that it’s almost funny, that he almost wants to laugh, but more than that, he wants to cry. 

“I, uh, took over my father’s company recently,” you say as you take a sip of your wine. 

Ah, that’s right, he thinks bitterly, the Mori Corporation. You’re not even technically lying to him, which somehow is even worse. You’re clearly uncomfortable at the mention of Mori, just like how you were at the bar, but Dazai can’t help the way he twists the knife in deeper by pressing.

Dazai raises his eyebrows in mock curiosity and asks, “Your father owned a company? What type of company?”

He doesn’t find any pleasure in hurting you. He’s vindictive and angry, but the satisfaction he feels when you have to mask the pain on your face dissipates instantly, and then he only feels pain. He doesn’t like hurting you, it hurts him to hurt you—but maybe that’s exactly why he can’t stop himself from digging his fingers into your open wounds and pulling them open more.

You inhale and then say slowly, “It’s a… conglomerate. We have stakes in a bunch of different industries.”

“Impressive,” he forces out, voice strained. “Sounds like a lot of work.”

“Yeah,” you agree faintly. Your gaze flickers up to someone behind Dazai, and you say, “I should go. My meeting is starting soon.”

“Right,” Dazai whispers, gnawing at the inside of his cheek. “Right, okay.”

You rise to your feet and then give him a small smile. It’s soft, gentle, and again, your eyes don’t match—not fully—but they’re not empty. It’s so close to what it used to be that it makes his chest ache with longing. 

“It was nice seeing you again, One Hit Wonder,” you say quietly.

Shit.

“You too,” he says weakly as you turn to leave, walking in the direction of a private room in the back.

You’re still not lying to him. Why not? Why not? Why not? Why was it nice seeing him? Why aren’t you suspicious of him? Dazai feels a bit manic, and he’s realizing too quickly that he might be out of his depth with this mission. Being around you is hell and heaven all at once, and it’s too much for him to handle. He’s so angry at you, but he misses you so much that it makes him sick. 

More than anything now, he’s confused—he doesn’t know what’s going on with you. You didn’t treat him like this the first time. You were so suspicious of him, Dazai could tell, and then at the end, everything with Mori confirmed it. Because even if you did ultimately believe Dazai when it came down to it, you hesitated. 

There was no faking the expression on your face as Mori told him about all of the “schemes” that Dazai concocted to get close to you. You’d believed him so easily because you were suspicious from the start, and Dazai doesn’t understand why you aren’t now. He doesn’t understand why you’re acting this way with him, doesn’t understand the teasing attitude and flirting, he doesn’t understand why you aren’t suspicious of him. You should be suspicious of him, he’s already set up running into you three times within a week and a half. 

You should be suspicious, but you’re not, and Ranpo’s words from the meeting the other day ring through his head. It makes his throat swell terribly with guilt.

Shit. He doesn’t know if he can do this. 

--------

You don’t know why you come to this place. It’s disgusting. The dumping ground by the ports stretches miles along the coast—piles of fragmented shipping containers litter the muddy ground, toxic substances disposed of in the area seep into the open soil, and countless rotting corpses are hidden in the guck, long forgotten, left for the earth to consume. You’re sure that one day you’ll be there amongst them once one of the many attempts on your life succeeds, and decisions like this certainly don’t help your odds.

It’s hard for you to get away from your tails on most days. Klaus is usually attached to your hip even when he’s not technically on duty—he has abandonment issues and gets anxious being apart from you. Akutagawa is impossible to lose if he’s the one meant to be your protection detail for the day. Atsushi’s tiger senses allow him to easily track you down when you try to slip away. 

And Chuuya is Chuuya—nothing else needs to be said there.

But on Fridays, one of the Flags is supposed to be your detail because Klaus and Akutagawa go into Tokyo to handle meetings with the Sun and Steel’s special operations unit, working with Hirotsu to get them merged with the Black Lizard, and Chuuya is busy in virtual meetings all day with Nicomedes Joaquin. The Flags are all too busy to be attached to you at once—usually, it’s Iceman or Albatross that tags along with you where you go, but sometimes it’s one of the other three. 

That being said, since they’re all busy, it’s not too hard to… confuse them. 

You tell Iceman that Albatross is with you, and Albatross that Iceman is. You tell Piano Man and Lippmann that Albatross took over for the day, because those two are more likely to seek him out if they think he’s available, and you tell Doc that Iceman took over for the day, because he’s more likely to seek him out if he thinks he’s available. This way, Albatross and Iceman are left alone to have a day off—Albatross, without fail, goes down to a club in Sakae-ku, and Iceman goes to a bar in Aoba-ku to meet some woman, no one bothers them because they think they’re working, and they both think the other is on the job, so you have at least a handful of hours to do what you want until Chuuya comes looking for you after his meetings. 

You don’t do this often because you don’t want them to catch on, but you have to at least once a month—you just need a few hours to yourself without someone hovering over you. Usually, you go to a park—the fresh air and… normality does you well after weeks of being cooped up in the black towers. But sometimes, you find yourself here: the southern ports in Naka-ku, wandering the edges of the dumping grounds the mafia uses for all of its most unsavory waste. 

You tell yourself it’s because of how forsaken this place is. Nobody comes to this abandoned shipping yard because everybody knows it’s Port Mafia territory—civilians keep a wide berth, even the government refuses to tread through the sludge when they know many of their cold cases would be solved here. You know you won’t be disturbed here—not even animals, field mice, even roaches, none of them come near this dumping ground. This is the only place in Yokohama where, at its center, you won't find a single living being within a mile.

You can think here. You’re not as suffocated by the lack of Mori’s presence and the reminder of what you did to him like you are when you’re in his office, and you don’t have to worry about eyes forever lingering on you. You’re left alone with your thoughts… whether it’s for better or for worse is still up in the air.

You exhale quietly as you step out of the car. You parked on the far end of the shipping yard. Whenever you come here, you walk along the edges of the yard. Usually, one loop is enough for you to clear your head, sometimes two when you’re trying to figure out how to proceed with whatever business is coming up, occasionally three or four if you’re in a particularly bad headspace. 

Today is just business. Two loops, most likely.

You shove your hands in your pockets as you walk down the long abandoned road. War has broken out between the South’s Song and the Red Chamber in Beijing, so Cao Xueqin is out of your hair for the time being. Qu Yuan hasn’t reached out to you for assistance yet, but she will. It’s only a matter of time. You haven’t decided yet who you’re going to send over to her—probably one of Tolstoy’s units, maybe Gorky’s. You don’t want to send over Chekhov’s, you need him available to come to Yokohama once things start heating up with the government. Gorky is more expendable.

But your first priority is figuring out who exactly Dostoevsky’s informant in the government is before any conflicts break out. You need to be able to funnel misinformation to him, because once the military police and the Hunting Dogs come down on Yokohama, you know he’ll follow. He’s always been a vulture, letting other organizations do the dirty work so he can swoop in once and pick at the corpses for what he wants. 

You’ve been testing it over the past few months of meetings with him. He likes flaunting information to you, taunting you with the realization that his rats are everywhere, listening to everything, even in the highest levels of the Japanese government. You know how information trickles down through the government, so every time you know that you’re meeting Dostoevsky, you’ll meet up with certain members of the Diet, Cabinet, and the military in the days before. 

You started broad. You chatted with groups of Representatives and Councillors at events, attended the Prime Minister’s sister’s wedding to whisper some words into the ears of his Cabinet, and met with some of the highest-ranking officers in the military for dinner under the guise of coming to an agreement. You narrowed down the rat to being somewhere within the military, high-ranked at that, because there wasn’t enough time for the information to trickle down into the lower-ranked officers between the time you met with them and the night you met Dostoevsky.

You hope that tomorrow you can figure out if it’s one of the high-ranking officers of the service branches or one of the special operations divisions. You’d prefer it if it’s the former rather than the latter, because the special ops divisions will be harder to clean. You’ve burned regular officers out of their positions before—bribed them, discredited them, and then fed them to the wolves—but the special ops officers don’t have the same arrogance that the ones in the service branches do. They’ll be more careful, more suspicious, and it’ll be harder for you to convince the rest that one among them is an imposter when it comes from an outsider—they’re bound through the shared experiences of all of the awful things they’ve done at the request of the government.

 You sigh as you lower your gaze to the ground, kicking absently at a stray piece of asphalt and watching it bounce down the road. Once you have an idea of where Dostoevsky’s informant is, you can start to plan out everything else. You’ll need to figure out when the government is going to send the Hunting Dogs to Yokohama, and then you just… need to prepare.

You lift your hand to rub your face. You’re so tired, you can feel the weariness deep in your bones, in your soul—it’s been conflict after conflict since you took over as boss, and you’re not sure how much more of it you can take. You just want to rest. You want one day without the weight of Mori’s scarf draped around your neck. One day that you’re not constantly reminded of what you did to him. One day where you can pretend to be normal.

You just want—

Your thoughts come to an abrupt halt when you see a familiar figure standing at the edge of the deserted road. It’s the author that you’ve run into a few times this week. He doesn’t even notice you—he’s staring down the steep slope leading into a particularly gross puddle of muck, an odd, conflicted expression on his face.

What the hell is he doing here?

You don’t even call out to him. You’re so flabbergasted by the sight of him that a part of you almost thinks you might be hallucinating him, but you’re not. He’s there, several yards in front of you in the heart of Port Mafia territory, dressed in a cream sweater and khakis, with hands shoved in his pockets and head hanging low. 

Your lips part to say something, but you don’t even know what to say. A part of you wants to demand to know what he’s doing here—because it’s suspicious, isn’t it? You swallow thickly, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation as to why he might be here. Maybe he doesn’t know what this place is (how wouldn’t he know? everybody knows). Maybe he does know, but he’s an author, authors do weird things for creative inspiration, don’t they? Maybe he purposely came here to try to get inspiration for a new book after the number of times you taunted him over being a one-hit wonder.

“Dazai?” you finally ask. Your voice wavers over his name, and you watch as he stiffens instantly, dark eyes cutting to the side. He looks… nervous, like you caught him somewhere you weren’t supposed to. “What are you… doing here?”

He doesn’t respond immediately, which sets off some alarm bells. Why would he be here? And why does he look like he’s just been caught red-handed? The only people who come here are… the cleaning crew. No one comes here, not even petty criminals looking to scavenge through the rubble for something to sell for a quick buck. Has he been… lying to you? But about what? Who is he?

No. There must be another explanation.

“Dazai?” you press again. “What are you doing here? It’s not safe.”

“What am I doing here? What are you doing here?” he asks instead of answering your question. Your eyes narrow, and like he realizes that he deflected, he stammers out, “I just—I come here to think sometimes. It’s quiet.”

“Right,” you agree quietly. “Me too.”

You don’t know if you believe him. His reaction to you seeing him here was strange, on top of the immediate attempt at deflecting your question. It was suspicious, definitely, because of all places, he’s going to come here? It doesn’t really make sense even if you attribute it to… eccentricity, especially taking into account how you’ve bumped into him three times, two of the places being mafia establishments.

Is it on purpose? Is he orchestrating these meetings? Sent by an enemy organization or the government to get close to you? 

More importantly… Does it matter if he is? 

You swallow thickly at the last thought that crosses your mind, blinking as you look down at the ground. Klaus’s words from that morning at the cafe ring through your mind: “For a second, you almost seemed happy.” 

You have enjoyed your brief encounters with Dazai. You’re not sure why, but you’re not sure if it matters why, because it’s been so long since you’ve been able to exist without the overwhelming weight of your life bearing down on your shoulders. And for some reason, during your brief encounters with him, it lifts. 

You can breathe. 

You can almost feel… normal.

It’s what you’ve been desperate for, it’s what you’ve needed so badly, so you think even if he is some sort of plant, you might as well… enjoy this while it lasts, right? It might be your only chance for it, and what’s the worst that could happen anyway? Your life is already as bad as it can get. What’s he going to do? Kill you? You’re at the point where you might welcome it.

“Um—”

“Are you—”

You both speak at the same time, and you bite your tongue instantly before raising your eyebrows at him, beckoning him to continue.

“Are you sure you’re not stalking me?” he finally asks, clearing his throat as the playful lilt returns to his voice. There’s something odd in his eyes, though—uncertainty, maybe? “I mean, four times now. Kind of weird. If you have a crush on me, you can just say it.”

“Right,” you repeat dryly, and then look around pointedly. “You come here to think?”

Dazai’s cheeks flush pink as he rubs the back of his neck. “It’s… hard to explain. I just—I think better here.”

“You’re pretty weird, y’know that?” you say absently, making your way over to him to glance down at where he was staring. 

There’s nothing there—just a puddle of dark slush dribbling out of a large pipe beneath the road—but for some reason, your chest gets all twisted up and for a brief second, you feel a familiar, heavy weight in your hand. Disconcerted, you look away and take a step back, shoving your hands in your pocket before returning your attention to Dazai, who seems to have noticed your odd reaction from how he squints at you.

“You’re here too,” he says with a scowl instead of calling out your strange behavior. “What does that make you?”

Your lips curl up into an easy smile as you shrug. “Pretty weird, I guess.”

Dazai’s expression softens, a smile matching your own tugging at his lips as he looks over you. It’s almost dusk now, and Dazai looks stunning beneath the setting sun. His dark eyes look like warm pools of honey, and there’s a pink flush on his cheeks as he looks at you. The expression on his face is strange—there’s a shine to his eyes and the corners of his lips are tight, like he’s trying to force them to stop trembling. 

He looks sad, you realize, wondering if maybe you interrupted him.

“You come here to… think too?” he finally asks, voice hesitant. When you nod, he asks quietly, “Why here?”

You don’t have an answer to that. You don’t know why you come here. You tell yourself it’s for the solitude, but you have a gut feeling that it’s something more than that. You could go anywhere for solitude—Itou’s old place up on the cliffside south of Higashikoiso or the property you and Chuuya bought on the Hokkaido coastline—but for some reason, you find yourself here every time. And it’s not like you ever feel better after coming here. In fact, you usually feel worse; the weight on your chest gets heavier, and you return to headquarters feeling all too lonely, heart in your throat and stomach churning.

“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “I don’t know why here.”

You don’t think Dazai will be satisfied with that answer. You expect him to press more, or make some sort of teasing remark, but he only smiles to himself, gaze lowering to the ground as if your answer pleased him for some reason.

“Guess we’re both weirdos then,” he says lightly, but you have a feeling that’s not what made him smile. Before you can question it, he continues, “What’d you come here to think about?”

You don’t really know how to respond to that. You can’t exactly tell him that you’re worried about a three-front war breaking out in Yokohama between the Mafia you’re boss of, the government, and Fyodor Dostoevsky’s slimy organization, but you don’t want to outright lie, so you say:

“Business issues,” you say, sighing as you lean back on your heels. “New government regulations… competitors trying to take advantage, pushing us into a corner. It’s a whole mess.”

His lips curve up into a small smile like he knows something you don’t, and you tilt your head to the side curiously, squinting at him, but he only shakes his head.

“Well, the best defense is a good offense,” he says airily. “Get them to back off by targeting them somehow.”

“It’s not—” you start to say, but then pause. Getting the government to back off is out of the picture, Dostoevsky will be just as hard, but maybe not impossible if you can get Nabokov involved. You don’t really want to get more people involved than you have to—you’re already displeased about Qu Yuan—but Nabokov owes you for handling the White Guard for him. “You’re smarter than you look.”

“So I’ve been told,” Dazai teases instead of getting offended, leaning in just a little with a sweet smile. “How do I look? Pretty, right?”

You scoff and roll your eyes before asking, “What about you? What did you come here to think about?” 

His smile falls, gaze averting to the ground for a moment. He hesitates for a moment and then says, “Someone I used to care about. A lot.”

You tilt your head to the side. “The same person that made you write that bitter ass ending to your book?” 

“It was not bitter,” he scowls at you, but it’s only half-hearted. His shoulders slump as he whispers, “Yeah. Same person.”

Dazai doesn’t look at you now. He looks crushed as he turns his gaze back out to the shipping yard. His eyes are glassy, and his lips are pressed together tightly, fingers trembling in front of his body before he shoves his hands back into his pockets. Something twists in your chest at the sight of him so hung up on someone who hurt him, and you’re not sure why, so you press your lips together and push the thought away, ignoring the sinking feeling in your chest. 

“Whoever they are, it’s their loss,” you tell him quietly. You’re usually good at knowing what to say and when to say it, but you find yourself at a bit of a loss here. You want to say something else, but you end up just resigning yourself to standing there with him.

“Right,” he agrees quietly, like he doesn’t believe it himself. “I should get going.”

“Right,” you echo, feeling a bit disappointed when he turns his back on you to leave. After a moment’s hesitation, you call after him, “Dazai?” 

He pauses and looks over his shoulder back at you. His voice is hoarse as he asks, “What is it?”

“I’m gonna be back at that cafe Sunday morning,” you say awkwardly, barely withholding a wince when you see the confusion fly across his face. “... If you’ll be there too.”

“Are you…asking me out on a date?” he asks, lips curving up into a teasing smile. His eyes light up, but they’re a bit distant, like he’s still lost in his own head. “How forward.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you say dryly, rolling your eyes and turning to leave. “Bye, One Hit Wonder. See you there or not.”

“... See you there.”

-----------

Dazai doesn’t understand. 

It’s been three weeks since he first bumped into you at the bar. Three weeks since he started orchestrating encounters with you. Three weeks since he made the deal with the Armed Detective Agency to get close to you for information that can be used against the Port Mafia. 

Three weeks, and you haven’t accused him of anything.

No suspicious glances. No speculative stares. No questioning the way he just always happens to be there—on the same street, at the same cafe, in the same bar drinking a glass of whiskey he can’t afford. You smile when you see him. You talk to him like he belongs there. Like he’s welcome. Like you trust him.

He doesn’t understand. 

You should have noticed by now. You should have long noticed. You should have been suspicious of him that first day at the cafe, and you definitely should’ve been suspicious when you ran into him at the bar. He thought he was done for sure when he ran into you at the same place where you faked his death—that one hadn’t even been intentional, he really does go there sometimes to think, and he never expected you to go there too.

It was… welcome confirmation that maybe you still subconsciously remember him, because why else would you be drawn there to think? What else was that strange reaction you had when you looked over the edge of the road, where his body had dropped over the edge six months ago, and then immediately looked away, confused? Even with your memories of him wiped, your heart and subconscious still remember. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be drawn to such a disgusting area, and you wouldn’t have been so disturbed by the location where you once had to shoot him in the head. 

You seemed to be uncertain when you initially noticed him there. There was no disguising the hesitance on your face as you studied him, asking him what he was doing there, but when he thought that all was lost and he was fumbling out excuses so you didn’t actually kill him in the same place where you faked his death, your expression smoothed out and you teased him.

And Dazai doesn’t understand.

Or maybe it’s less that he doesn’t understand, and more that he doesn’t want to understand. Because if he’s right and you’re drawn to that area because you subconsciously remember him… It’s probably the same subconscious memory of him that’s leading you to brush off all of the things that should be setting off all of the alarm bells that he knows you have, and it’s making him sick to his stomach. That means he’s taking advantage of your memory loss, taking advantage of the trust you still unwittingly have for him to manipulate you. To spy on you. To hurt you.

And he doesn’t want to hurt you.

God, he doesn’t want to hurt you. He thought he did. He thought he was vindictive, he thought he wanted to hurt you half as bad as you hurt him when you wiped your memory of him, but he doesn’t. He feels nauseous with guilt knowing he’s doing exactly what he was once accused of. He knows you’re not doing well—he knew it the first time he ran into you, and he’s seen it in every subsequent meeting. Your eyes are empty every time you enter a room, you don’t hold your head high, and what’s even worse, you only seem to brighten when you see him. 

Your eyes light up, and you straighten up as you lift your hand to wave to him when you find him waiting for you at the cafe. You tell him in advance the mornings that you stop at the cafe, and he can tell that you’re hoping he’ll be there too. You look forward to your meetings with him, and Dazai feels sick every time he realizes it might be the only thing in your life you have to look forward to. 

And Dazai likes meeting with you, too. Not every time. Some days he’s bitter and angry, and he has to make an effort not to show it on his face or in his tone when he’s talking to you. Some mornings, he considers not going after he tells you he’ll see you there because he knows you’ll be disappointed. He doesn’t, of course, because he doesn’t want to hurt you; he’s just upset and resentful because he wants to be doing all of this with a you that remembers him. 

But it’s also because he likes meeting with you.

It’s… It’s not refreshing. He doesn’t really know what the word is for it, but there’s something about getting to know you when you’re not cold and withdrawn with suspicion, and he’s not analyzing your every word and action for answers as to who you are, that’s nice. He can let himself just be in the moment with you. He can let himself laugh when you tease him about his taste in literature. He can let himself engage you in debates about why you think Petrarchan sonnets are better than Shakespearan sonnets (which you get oddly passionate about). He can toss around ideas with you for his new novel, and he finds himself smiling at your enthusiasm. He’s even started writing again—not depressing poetry that he rage and grief writes, but his novel. He’s already written three chapters since he’s started meeting you again.

Dazai never stopped loving you, but somehow, he can almost let himself fall in love with you all over again. 

He can almost let himself forget what he’s there for. 

But he never does. Not for long, and not entirely. The moment always comes—after the laughter, after the coffee, after your hand brushes his on the table and you don’t immediately pull away, that crushing reminder of what he’s doing always returns.

You trust him. A part of you, deep down, still remembers him.

And he’s lying to you. Using you. Manipulating you. Hurting you.

Your early morning meetings at the cafe never last long—twenty-five, thirty minutes max—but he always walks away from them feeling like he needs to scrub his skin raw. He keeps telling himself that he’s doing what’s necessary. It’s this or the Hunting Dogs coming down on Yokohama, and you getting caught in the crossfire of it. It’s this or risking you getting hurt or killed. It’s this or losing any chance at you ever regaining your memories of him. 

He’s doing what’s necessary.

He’s doing this to protect you.

He’s doing this to get you back.

It doesn’t change the way his heart aches when you smile at him, and it doesn’t change the way nausea builds in his stomach when your eyes light up at the sight of him.

Sometimes, he thinks about telling you. Not everything—not about the Agency, certainly, because he doesn’t want to put them at risk. You’re still you, and as sweet as you can be with him, he knows there’s a cold and calculating mafia executive—boss, now—behind the pretty face and soft smiles. But sometimes, he wants to tell you something. He wants to hint at your past together and wants to see if your brows furrow in confusion or if your eyes glaze over as you try to remember a memory you no longer have.

He doesn’t, though. He doesn’t want to open that door. A part of him is scared of what he might find on the other side of it. As much as he wants you to remember—because he does want you to remember, that’s the whole point of this—he's not sure if he’s ready for it to happen so soon. The closer he gets to you, and the closer he gets to figuring out where those paintings are that store your memories of him, the more anxious he gets.

Because right now, even if it is all built on a lie, he almost has what he used to have with you. You look at him softly, and you smile at him gently, and Dazai wants to be able to enjoy it for a little while longer. He deserves it, he thinks, for the six months of hell he went through.

 Once he pulls the trigger, once your memories return, he doesn’t know how you’ll react, but he can imagine. He can imagine the anger in your eyes when you realize that everything you did to protect him was for nothing. He can imagine the frustration when you realize that he tore everything apart because he selfishly wanted you back. He can imagine the betrayal on your face when you realize the past few weeks with him have been nothing but manipulation, and worse, if you figure out that he’s been working with the Armed Detective Agency against you, that he’s been getting close to you to bring down the Port Mafia. 

If that happens, he might lose you entirely, even if you do have your memories back. You’ve never been one to take betrayal lightly. 

Dazai doesn’t think he can survive that.

So he keeps quiet. He keeps playing the part he promised to play, keeps working to get closer to you to gather intel for the Agency. He knows he’s been acting strangely and they’re probably getting suspicious of him—they know that he has a past with you, and they know he has his own reasons for agreeing to this—but he still doesn’t like the unreadable look Kunikida casts his way whenever he walks into the room, and he especially doesn’t like the knowing one that Ranpo sets on him. Yosano is the only one who still acts normally with him, and he knows it’s probably for your sake more than his. He still doesn’t know the full story of your past with her, but he knows Yosano cares deeply about you and worries about you even now after what you’ve become. 

He forces himself not to care, and he lets himself enjoy his early morning meetings with you. He lets himself bask in this before it’s inevitably ripped away.

He sometimes watches you absently stare down at your coffee and wonders if you feel it too—the hollowness, the yearning, the sense that something is missing, and no matter how many cigarettes you burn through or how many nights you drown yourself in alcohol, the emptiness never really goes away.

Sometimes, you say things that nearly make him cry. You’ll laugh at something he says and then pause, brows knitting, and whisper, “This feels familiar… weird, right?”

And he smiles, tight-lipped, and says something like, “Deja vu, maybe?”

It isn’t. He has a feeling you might know it too, but neither of you pushes it. He could, but he doesn’t know what will happen if he does, doesn’t know what he’ll do if he succeeds.

What will happen when you do remember? 

Would you still smile when you saw him or would your expression go cold?

Would you hate him for what he’s been doing the past few weeks or would you forgive him?

Would you cast him out or would you let him come home?

He wants to believe you would. He really wants to believe there’s still a version of this where you forgive him. There’s still a version of this where you understand why he’s doing what he’s doing, even if you don’t agree with it. There’s still a version of this where you choose him.

But life has proven time and time again that Dazai doesn’t get happy endings. 

“Dazai, are you even paying attention?” Yosano asks, hands on her hips as she stands near the whiteboard with Kunikida. She’s frowning at him, not in disappointment, but in concern, which Dazai personally thinks is worse. “This is important. It’s our only chance of getting in Port Mafia headquarters.”

Dazai grimaces. “Sorry,” he says quietly. “Was distracted.”

As he’s been for the majority of the last few meetings with them, but thankfully, they don’t call him out on it. 

“It’s fine,” Yosano replies after a moment, too understanding with him. “Just listen up this time, okay?” 

Kunikida sighs as he pushes his glasses up to the bridge of his nose. “We received intel that in two weeks, the Mori Corporation is going to be hosting an event at their headquarters.”

Dazai blinks. “What?”

Why would you do that? Dazai is baffled as his mind races, trying to figure out why the hell you would be hosting an event at Port Mafia headquarters when there’s so much suspicion on the organization. He knows through the Armed Detective Agency that the government has been on its ass for months, and he knows you know it because he’s pretty sure that whenever you’re ranting about “government regulations,” you’re actually talking about the military bill that passed a few weeks after the two of you separated. He also knows that the government is apparently only one of your problems, considering you’re also constantly venting about competitors that he assumes are enemy organizations.

So why would you invite more attention?

Unless that’s precisely why, he realizes, leaning back in his seat as he thinks to himself. If you’re drawing attention to headquarters in the middle of a storm of suspicion, then you’re not doing it as some arrogant flex of power. You’re not careless or stupid, so there’s a reason he’s missing.

“She’s trying to draw someone out,” he realizes quietly, barely realizing he’s interrupted Kunikida. “But who?

“What?” Yosano frowns.

“The event,” he says slowly, already going over the potential scenarios in his head. He doubts you’d be trying to draw out the government—one of the Port Mafia’s enemies, then? Or… “She wouldn’t just be hosting it to posture. She’s doing it to get someone’s attention—maybe even ours. She wants someone to come looking, to take the bait, that’s why she’s making the venue so obvious.”

Kunikida narrows his eyes. “You think it’s a trap,” he says. “Is she suspicious of you? Did you let anything slip?”

“No, she’s not,” he dismisses. “I—”

“Dazai,” Yosano interrupts, voice cautious. “If she’s suspicious of you, you could be in danger.”

“She’s not suspicious of me,” Dazai repeats loudly. He doesn’t mean for his voice to crack, but it does. That’s the whole problem—you’re not suspicious of him, and you should be, and it makes him sick to his stomach. “She’s not. I’m not in danger.”

There’s a moment of silence. Kunikida and Yosano exchange looks with one another at his abrupt outburst, and Ranpo studies him carefully. Dazai wants to shrivel and die.

“Well,” Kunikida finally says, tone clipped. “Whether it’s a trap or just a way to provoke chaos, it’s an opportunity we can’t afford to waste. If the Port Mafia is opening its doors, even for a single evening, we need to be there. It could be our only opportunity to stop a major conflict from breaking out in Yokohama.”

Could it be a trap for the Armed Detective Agency? Dazai isn’t sure. He knows he’s been extra careful not to implicate them in his conversations with you, so you shouldn’t know anything from what he’s said to you, but god knows what type of intel you get from your insiders. He knows you have some high up informants in the government. If you have any inkling that the Agency might be working with the government…

“You guys shouldn’t come to this event,” he says tightly. His throat swells as he remembers what you had done to Professor Ui and the journalists at the Ivory Eagle. “She… If it’s you guys that she’s trying to lure out… You don’t want to fall for that trap. But I can go. She trusts me. I’ll be okay.”

The words escape Dazai before he can really understand what he’s saying, and he shifts uncomfortably when Kunikida squints at him—not with judgment, but with something closer to worry. Worry for him.

“Are you sure you’re… okay with all of this?” Kunikida asks hesitantly. “You don’t have to keep doing this, we can find another way, I—”

Dazai shoots him a withering look. He doesn’t even want to know what expression must be on his face for Kunikida to be giving him that look and talking to him all softly like he’s about to break.

“Ah, Kunikida-kun, I didn’t know you loved me so much. You don’t need to worry,” he says, faux-playfulness in his tone but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m fine. I’ll do it.”

Is he fine though? What the hell is he supposed to do? You haven’t invited him to this event, and he can’t show up without really blowing everything out of the water. If he shows up there, you’ll be forced to confront him and acknowledge that he’s been orchestrating these meetings with you. Manipulating you. Using you.

But if they go, and this is a trap for them, who knows what you’ll have done to them. And the detectives in the Agency have been here for Dazai in the last six months—all of them have checked in on him in some manner to make sure he’s okay. They took him under their wing so quickly when he showed up at the cafe that day. They didn’t press when he couldn’t answer their questions about you without choking up, and they didn’t take offense when he got vile and defensive if they caught him on a particularly bad day.

They accepted him as he was and with open arms, so Dazai wasn’t going to let them go out and put themselves in danger. Especially not when he knows what you’re capable of.

“If Dazai can get into this event through an invitation…” Tanizaki says, leaning forward. “We were going to try to sneak in as attendants, there’s a huge chance of us getting caught if we go about it that way.”

“It’s up to Dazai,” Yosano says, looking at him with a frown. “... But I really don’t like the idea of sending you in there alone. It’ll be dangerous. Pit of the snakes and all. If you get caught there, we can’t even use Tanizaki-kun for extraction because of your ability.”

Kunikida looks displeased. “I don’t like this at all.”

“I’ll handle it,” he replies, quieter now. “I can get the invitation.”

He doesn’t know how he’ll manage it. Maybe you’ll mention the event during one of your early morning meetings in the next few days, and he can steer the conversation that way and invite himself along. Maybe you’ll even invite him once you realize what he’s getting at. He doubts it—even if the event is under the guise of a Mori Corporation event, he knows it’s going to be a Mafia one, and he knows that there are going to be a lot of unsavory figures in attendance. You’ll need to be focused on all of the things happening there and whatever your plan is, not him.

Getting an invite is not going to be easy.

Yosano still looks like she wants to argue, but she relents with a sigh. “Be careful, Dazai. Please.”

Ranpo doesn’t say anything. He just stares at him with a gaze that sees far too much, and it takes every ounce of Dazai’s strength not to look away.

-----------

“And why is it that we’re here tonight, Dostoevsky?” you drawl as you enter the private room in the Ryugin, one of Chuuya’s favorite restaurants in Tokyo. You adjust your fur shawl with one gloved hand, lifting your chin as the man rises to his feet to greet you. “Have you grown bored of our shows?” 

“Hardly,” Dostoevsky replies, holding his hand out and beckoning you to place yours in it. You raise your eyebrows at him before doing as he wishes, watching as he leans down to brush his lips against your knuckles, lingering for just a moment too long. “But I thought tonight deserved a quieter stage.”

“Is that so?” you hum, careful to keep the expression on your face unbothered when his fingers brush the inside of your wrist. He releases your hand after a second, straightening as he tilts his head to the side to look down at you. “And why is that?” 

Dostoevsky’s smile is as enigmatic as ever, teeth sharp beneath the dim golden lights of the private room. There’s a glimmer in his eyes—dangerous, amused, and you know that this meeting is not going to fall in your favor. You’ve come out of the last two on top, narrowing down the place of his informant to one of the government's most elite special operation units, but you have yet to pinpoint the exact unit they’re in. This meeting will not be as kind to you—Dostoevsky is too at ease, and that’s never a good thing. 

“Because things are finally about to begin,” he says lightly. You press your lips together and wait for him to continue. When he does, he changes the topic. “Utilizing Nabokov was a good move. I had to divert more resources than I was comfortable with back to the motherland… It wasn’t quite enough, though.”

You had a feeling it wouldn’t be, but with Dostoevsky’s attention split, your job becomes easier, if only marginally. You don’t sit down right away, even when he beckons you to. Instead, you trail your fingers across the smooth lacquer of the table, gaze fixed on him. Dostoevsky has always been dangerous, but there’s something different tonight. You can feel it in the air, in the way the servers left so quickly, in the way only the two of you are here, in the way he’s looking at you. 

“Are they?” you ask slowly, ignoring his last comment. “I’ve only been waiting six months for you to finally make your move.”

Dostoevsky chuckles lowly, pulling out your chair. You sit down after a moment and let him slide your chair in. Your breath catches when he leans down behind you, lips brushing your ear and hands resting on your shoulders, slowly sliding down to your biceps.

“Not me, my dear,” he murmurs, voice soft as it is suffocating. “Not yet.”

Dostoevsky finally pulls away to lower himself into the seat across from you, folding his hands in front of him. You try to brush off the way his proximity left your hair standing on end. 

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” you reply dryly. “You’ve always been one to pick at the corpses after everything has settled. You’re much like a vulture, you know?”

Dostoevsky smiles like it’s a compliment, fingers drumming once against the edge of the table before they still. “And yet, here you are—dining with the vulture.”

“Here I am,” you echo flatly, watching as a waiter brings out two glasses of red wine. You wait for him to leave before asking, “If not you, then who?”

“Where is the fun in cluing you in?” Dostoevsky hums. “I would much prefer to watch it all unfold on its own. Unless, of course, you have something to exchange for the information.”

“Information doesn’t come free from either of us,” you reply coolly. “And I’m not in the habit of trading truths for your riddles. I know better than to deal with snakes—your exchanges are never fair.”

“Do you?” he questions, eyes glittering in a way that makes you pause. “Because it seems you’ve become quite… fond of one the past few weeks.”

Dostoevsky is a filthy liar. You know this. In the years you spent with him abroad, you watched him spin complex and meticulous lies at a moment’s notice—the two of you had made a game of narrating stories of your pasts, seeing which of you could get away with weaving in the most lies without getting caught. Dostoevsky has lied people into bankruptcy and the grave with the same soft eyes and pretty smile he wears now—you’ve laughed along with him as he did it. You know better than anyone what he’s capable of.

But he doesn’t seem to be lying right now, and that makes you hesitate. 

“Here,” Dostoevsky says, taking a sip of his wine. “How about instead of trading information, you trade an invitation?”

Your only response is to raise your eyebrows at him.

“I want to come to the event you’re hosting next week,” he explains with an easy smile. “It’s been a while since I’ve been able to attend a good party.”

“You can’t be serious,” you say flatly. “Absolutely not. Why?”

“I told you,” he replies. “It’s been a while since I’ve attended a proper party, and I have a feeling this one is going to be quite entertaining. I assure you, my information is well worth the invitation.”

You’re half inclined to laugh in his face, but you find yourself hesitating. Having a snake in your inner circle when the government is preparing to bring down its wrath on the Port Mafia is not in your best interests, but having Dostoevsky attend an event where you’re trying to lure out some of the Port Mafias more… reckless enemies before war breaks out is equally ill-advised.

But which is worse?

“Fine,” you finally say firmly. “If I suspect you’re plotting anything, you’ll long for death, Dostoevsky.”

Dostoevsky lifts a hand to his heart in mock sincerity. “I will be on my best behavior, I assure you. I only wish to observe.”

“The information,” you prod.

“I got word from my informant that the government has made a deal with the Armed Detective Agency,” he says, leaning back in his seat, a more serious expression settling on his face as he studies you. “They were… concerned that they were wasting time waiting for the detectives to fulfill their end of the bargain. They were under the belief that you were planning to use the event to draw out and assassinate some of the more persistent advocates for military intervention in Yokohama.”

You have to force yourself not to react. Even if the information about the ‘snake’ turns out useless, the invitation has already become worth it. You funneled that little piece of misinformation into the ears of one unit: the Hunting Dogs. 

Is Dostoevsky’s informant in the ranks of Japan’s most elite group of ability users? 

The thought is chilling. You’ll need to confirm it, but you have to share your suspicions with the executives as soon as you can, because the implications if you’re right… Well, they’re very dark to say the least.

“As if I would be that stupid,” you scoff instead. Then, you add derisively, “Although, I assure you I haven’t gotten close to any of the Agency’s detectives.”

“I told them as much,” Dostoevsky hums, taking another sip of his wine, eyes sharp and calculating as he studies your face. “I figure someone must have purposely fed them wrong intel.”

“I wonder why,” you say off-handedly.

“I wonder indeed,” he echoes, carefully examining your expression before frowning, evidently coming away answerless. “It’s not one of the detectives they’re using, my dear. It’s a civilian. An author.”

The amusement and satisfaction that settled in your chest immediately disappears as you sit up in your seat. A civilian, an author, ‘you’ve become quite fond of one these past few weeks.’ 

Dazai?

“The detectives would never risk using a civilian to do their dirty work,” you dismiss immediately. “They’re too honorable for that.”

“I thought the same,” Dostoevsky agrees lightly, “but it’s true. The government offered them two jobs: either get information to call for the removal of Walter Lippmann from office or capture and hand over the foreign terrorist who goes by the name of Klaus Mann. I assume since the civilian is trying to get close to you, that they’re attempting the former.”

Lies, you want to immediately spit out, but the word catches in your throat. You had been suspicious of how many times he bumped into you—especially that evening at the shipping yard—but you let yourself be willfully blind.

“Do you have proof?” you ask flatly, “or are you just spinning another lie?”

“Come, darling,” Dostoevsky drawls. “We know each other well enough to know when the other is lying. I don’t have proof for you, but you can prove it yourself… I’m sure over the next couple days, he’s going to try to find a way to get an invite to the event you’re hosting. When he does, he’ll be expected to immediately go back to the detectives so they can plan. Offer to walk him back to wherever he’s going—he’ll either refuse or lead you to the cafe beneath the Agency. Either way, you’ll have your answer.”

“Or he’ll just lead me somewhere else,” you say dryly, but your voice is tighter than you intended for it to be.

He won’t. You’ve noticed over the past few weeks that Dazai is extraordinarily smooth and good with words whenever he’s talking to anyone but you. Whenever you catch him off guard, he’ll fumble with an answer and get embarrassed, cheeks flushing a pretty pink as buries his face in his hands and groans. 

If you offer this, he’ll fumble and then refuse, and you’ll have your answer. 

But do you want it? Do you really want to know? 

You’re not sure.

“He won’t,” Dostoevsky confirms your thoughts. Then, he leans forward a bit, a playful smile dancing on his lips. “Although, I am curious, what exactly drew you to him? I must say, I’m a bit jealous of how fond you are of him.” 

You raise your eyebrows. “He entertains me,” you reply flatly, even though it’s in no way so simple to describe. You don’t even know why you’re so drawn to him. “Green is unflattering on you, and jealousy implies there’s something between us that makes you feel threatened by him. There is nothing between us.”

“There’s no color unflattering on me,” he dismisses, “and you and I both know that there is certainly something between us.”

“Yes, irritation. Mostly on my part,” you scoff. “There is nothing between us, though I often wish there was a wall.”

Dostoevsky laughs, delighted by the snide comment. Then, he repeats with a teasing smile, “We know each other well enough to know when the other is lying.”

“Sure,” you agree with a roll of your eyes.

“Are Tolstoy and his cousin still in the city?” Dostoevsky suddenly prods, changing the subject. When you raise your eyebrows, he says, “Just curious if I’ll see them at the event.”

“For your sake, you should hope not,” you tell him. “Tolstoy prays for your death every day.”

Dostoevsky sighs dramatically. “He never did get over Tula,” he says more to himself than to you. “So emotional. It was only business.”

“That business cost him all four of his siblings and his parents,” you remind him, “and you only got him involved through a lie.”

Dostoevsky waves his hand dismissively. “Collateral damage for a greater good.”

“I’m sure,” you agree dryly.

“Well, business has concluded,” he says with a contemplative look, dark hair framing his face prettily as he tilts his head to the side inquisitively. “Will you be staying for dinner?”

You know you should probably take the opportunity to go, but you find yourself hesitating—you don’t want to be alone with your thoughts tonight, not when Dostoevsky has thrown in your face that the one thing you’ve been able to look forward to these past few weeks might be a lie. Your gaze meets his, and he raises his eyebrows tauntingly. You let out a soft scoff, and then straighten your shoulders, unfastening your shawl and draping it over the back of your chair before tilting your head to the side.

Dostoevsky’s lips curl up into a pleasant smile, violet eyes lighting up in delight. “You always do manage to surprise me,” he breathes out. 

“Don’t make me regret it.”

“I would never.”

----------

Dazai is running out of time to try to get an invite to this event. 

It’s already Wednesday. He has less than two days, but every time he tries to bring it up to you, he ends up floundering and telling himself that he’ll just ask next time. He thinks maybe you can tell he wants to ask you something, because every time he goes quiet for too long, you squint at him, waiting.

He thinks maybe that’s why this morning has been so awkward. Usually, when you get here, the two of you slip into easy conversation about whatever the topic of the day is—sometimes the new book he’s started writing to spite your loathsome nickname for him, sometimes a random poem he wants your opinion on. This time, he didn’t say anything besides a quiet ‘hello,’ so the two of you have been drinking your coffee in silence. 

“Sorry,” he finally says. “I’m just… thinking.”

“Terrifying,” you reply instantly.

“Rude,” he complains, feeling a bit more at ease when he sees the way your lips curl up into a soft smile. “I just…”

His voice trails off again. I just need to come with you to your event so I can snoop around for information to give the Armed Detective Agency so that they can give it to the government to use against you.

Right, he thinks dryly, words immediately dying on his tongue. He just has to… ask you what you’re doing on Friday. Like he wants to take you on a date. And maybe that will prompt you into asking if he wants to come with you? Or maybe you’ll just say you’re busy—what should he do then? How is he supposed to press? Should he insist on knowing what you’re doing and then invite himself along? That’ll be so… suspicious and—

“Are you busy Friday?” you suddenly ask, and for a brief second, there’s a strange expression on your face. He can’t tell if it’s resigned or sad, and it’s gone too quickly for him to figure it out. “Hm?” 

Dazai stares at you, lips parting to reply, but no words leave them.

Your eyes narrow slightly and then you raise your eyebrows. “Well? Are you?”

“No?” Dazai offers after a moment, voice stunted and awkward. “Um, why…?”

“I’m hosting an event at our headquarters,” you say, leaning back in your seat as you sip your coffee. “It’s going to be miserably boring, and I don’t have a date. Come with me?” 

“You’re… inviting me?” he asks in disbelief, praying it doesn’t come out as suspicious as he thinks it does. “I mean—why me? I’m sure there are better options.”

“Because I like your company,” you say easily, so unguarded that it makes Dazai twist up inside. “Do I need any other reason?”

Yes, Dazai wants to scream at you. Yes, you do need another reason because just enjoying his company doesn’t explain why you aren’t looking deeper into this. It doesn’t explain why you haven’t used your resources to get information on him—if you had, you’d know he’s pretty much been an honorary member of the Armed Detective Agency for six months. It doesn’t explain why you’re not more suspicious of the number of times he coincidentally “ran” into you. It doesn’t explain why you’re letting him into your life so easily when you fought him at every corner the first time. 

He thought maybe it was because you subconsciously remember him, and because of that, you trust him—he still thinks that—but he thinks there must be something else going on. What’s happened to you the past six months? What happened after you wiped your memories of him and took over the Port Mafia? You must have an inkling of what’s going on here, what happened to make you not care?

“I guess not,” he whispers, and then adds, “I like your company too.”

Your smile is sadder this time—it doesn’t reach your eyes like it’s started to the past few weeks. Dazai’s lips part to say something, but he doesn’t know what to say that won’t make his stomach churn with guilt. 

“So, will you come?” you finally ask again, tilting your head to the side. “Or are you too busy for me?”

“Never too busy for you,” he murmurs, voice too raw. He clears his throat quickly, “But, I hope you’re prepared to be embarrassed. I’m notoriously bad at fancy events.”

Your smile is a bit more genuine as you avert your gaze. “You’ll be fine.”

Dazai breathes out a laugh that sounds too much like a whimper, masking it by taking another sip of his coffee. He thought he would feel relieved, but he only feels suffocated. He needs to get out of here and tell the Agency that he got the invite before they settle on doing something stupid because they think he wasn’t able to get the invite.

“I have a meeting in fifteen minutes,” he says after a moment. “I should get going. I’ll see you Friday?”

Something shifts in your expression as he grabs his bag and rises to his feet, he gives you a small smile that he hopes isn’t as shaky as he feels, but pauses when he sees that strange expression return. He was right—it is resignation, or something between resignation and dread, maybe. Why?

“Do you want me to—” You cut your question off abruptly as you look down at your coffee.

Dazai tilts his head to the side with a frown. “Do I want you to….?” he prods curiously.

“Nothing,” you say, shaking your head. “I should get going too. I’ll see you Friday.”

Dazai gives you a curious look but he nods, shouldering his back and giving you one last long look before he turns to go. He doesn’t let himself linger, doesn’t let himself ask the questions that he suddenly very desperately wants answers to. He can’t afford to think about the way your voice faltered or the hesitance on your face—if he does, it’ll consume him. 

He’s gotten what he wanted—needed—hasn’t he? He got the invitation, now he needs to go back to the Agency so he can let them know and they can drop their risky plan of sneaking in as attendants. 

So, he forces himself to keep going. He walks out of the cafe and toward the Armed Detective Agency with his heart in his throat and guilt heavy in his chest.

[jungkoode]

OUT OF LINE | 02

˗ˏˋ where promises go to die ˎˊ˗

"Grief doesn't rot like lilies—it evolves. Sometimes into walls that keep everyone out, sometimes into bridges you never expected to build. Madrid is teaching you the difference."

next | index

— chapter details

word count: 8.5k

content: grief processing, mother's death aftermath, ferret therapy, university friendship dynamics, barcelona nostalgia, jungkook brotherly comfort, provocative physio session, inappropriate medical sounds, taehyung being insufferable on purpose, whatsapp group chat chaos, nike dinner setup, family obligation pressure, madrid vs barcelona culture clash

—author's note

Hello monsters, gremlins, goblins, and yes—you, the one under the table hoarding the peanut cookies like they're State Secrets. You've been reported to the Kiki Nation High Tribunal. Formal charges include: cookie hoarding, suspicious crunching noises, and bribing witnesses with chocolate chip alternatives. Justice will be served. Possibly with milk.

Now, AS FOR THIS CHAPTER. AHAHAAHA. Okay. So.

Right out the gate we start with That Scene. You'll know when you see it. Some of you may be tempted to go "Kiki why did you put your entire kikussy into poetic and ambiguous language???" and to that I say: THANK YOU FOR ASKING, MR. INVISIBLE. You see—my girl Y/N is grieving. And not in the cinematic way, but in that awful, quiet, dissonant way. The kind where everything looks almost normal, sounds almost right, but you're not in it. That suspended, floaty, untethered state where you're just... drifting. I wrote this opening with the intent to evoke, not explain. Because I don't think grief—real grief—ever makes clean narrative sense. It's messy. It loops. It aches. It dissociates. So her inner monologue reflects that.

BUT. I didn't want it to be bleak. So I slipped in a little light: female friendship. You guys know how much I value it. Sofia Chen = my babygirl already. Her screen time may be short but her impact is earthquaking. Also: brace yourselves for the physio intern. I'm not spoiling anything but AAAAA. The little scream I let out when writing him was medically concerning. Just know you're gonna love him. I do. I really do.

Then there's that Taehyung scene. The physio session. Yeah. That one.

Okay so—Coke Zero? TRACK IT. It is not a throwaway. Put it in your mental detective wall with the red string. That detail's doing work.

Now let's talk about what's really happening in that scene: you've got a man weaponizing his body as a final line of defense. He can't stand the thought of being unimpressive—of someone not reacting to him. So what does he do? He performs. Gets obscene. Pushes boundaries. Pokes at discomfort. He's like: if you don't like my mind, my attitude, my words—then at least flinch for my abs. Validate me with your silence, if nothing else. And she doesn't. And it bothers him. He's fishing. And if that doesn't tell you everything about the man's psyche—Listen. I said what I said.

Also. Can we collectively scream about how every private university is just a glorified capitalist PR firm?? I wanted to reflect that weird, fake "we're all a happy family :)" collaboration tone between institutions. The smiley emoji energy that reeks of Excel spreadsheets and nepotism. If you know, you know.

Finally: THE GROUP CHAT SCENE. My ✨ magnum opus ✨ Marco is literally an idiot and possibly irredeemable but I hate how funny he is. It's the banter. The banter is what gets him laid. Leo = my Shayla. I want to protect him so bad. Who knows if I will. Point is—I loved being able to start showing more team names and dynamics. There's something really special about letting a cast feel lived in. You're only seeing glimpses—but those glimpses are building a very specific emotional architecture for what's to come.

ANYWAY. That's enough from me. Enjoy the chapter. Scream in the tags. Track the Coke Zero. And for the love of Jungkook's tattoos, STOP HIDING THE PEANUT COOKIES. I SEE YOU.

– Kiki ♡

— read on

read author intro + tws (must)

lineverse guide

between the lines (jk’s story by @writesvani)

read on wattpad

read on ao3

Kiki Nation’s discussion thread for this chapter

Where do promises go when left unattended?

You wonder if they rot, like lilies left too long in water. Or if they just fade, the way the scent of your mother's perfume used to linger in the hallway—now gone, replaced by the sterile tang of Madrid tap water and overpriced detergent.

It's a question you've long buried, somewhere between the unpacked boxes in your Madrid bedroom and the ache that still sits heavy when you think of your dad's tired eyes.

Or maybe it's bigger than that—your whole damn life, a scrapbook of sweet nothings you swore you'd keep. Staying in Barcelona. Holding tight to Mom's hand in memory. Rooting for a team that felt more like family when yours got ripped in half.

Death didn't just knock that day; it kicked the door down, left the air thick with something sour, like rotting lilies.

Mom used to fill the house with them.

White ones from the market on Sundays, yellow ones she'd steal from the neighbor's garden when she thought no one was looking.

Now you can't walk past a flower shop without your throat closing up, without that familiar knot threatening to crawl up and spill everything you've been swallowing down.

University isn't the escape you hoped for. Not the endless readings on joint mechanics, not the sterile newness of a city that still feels like a borrowed coat, and definitely not the present, which drags like a bad hangover.

You're two weeks into this Madrid experiment, and every day is a reminder of what's gone.

But then, somehow, there are people. Small, unexpected pockets of something lighter that make it easier.

You just never expected easiness to have a name like Sofia Chen.

You're slouched in a lecture hall at UEM, campus filled with the kind of international crowd that makes you feel both invisible and exposed. End of September, semester just kicking off, and the air's got that crisp edge that doesn't match the heat still clinging to the streets outside.

Sofia's next to you, scribbling in her notebook with a focus that's almost annoying. Almost. Meanwhile you—well, you're scrolling through your phone, thumb flicking over a screen that's stubbornly empty of anything worth reading.

No messages from Dani.

Not that you expected any.

You told yourself the distance—geographical, emotional, whatever—would be the perfect excuse to untangle the mess of feelings you've carried for him since you were sixteen. Unreciprocated, unspoken, and now, unnecessary.

Doesn't stop the sting, though. Expected hurt still hurts.

Your fingers drift to Jungkook's chat instead. A few unread messages, probably memes or some random check-in. He's the only thing that feels like home lately, a tether to Barcelona that hasn't snapped yet.

You don't open it. Not here. Not with Sofia's voice cutting through your haze.

"I have never seen anyone our age swallow down those in twos like you do," she mumbles, not looking up from her notes when her pen scratches against the paper, somehow grounding.

You know she's talking about the pikotas in your hand, the sour-sweet candies you've been popping absentmindedly.

Two at a time, always. A habit from forever ago, when Mom would slip them into your pocket before school.

You don't miss a beat, tossing another pair into your mouth. "Just say you have horrible taste."

She snorts, finally glancing over. Her dark hair falls in a neat curtain over one shoulder, and her eyes crinkle just enough to show she's not actually judging.

"I'm half Chinese. Taste is like, our whole point."

You roll your eyes, but there's a smirk tugging at your lips.

Sofia's got a way of sneaking past your usual walls, not with force but with this quiet, persistent ease.

You met her two weeks ago, first day of classes, when the semester started and you were still figuring out how to navigate the sleek, expensive campus. Because it's just the kind of place that screams privilege—private, international, one of the most expensive universities in Spain, all courses in English to cater to the global mix of students who can afford it.

You were sitting alone in the back of a lecture hall, trying to blend into the polished wood and glass, when she plopped down next to you. No hesitation, just a quick "Mind if I sit?" and a grin that didn't wait for your answer.

She clocked your last name on your notebook, matched it to the buzz about your dad being Real Madrid's new physio, and didn't make a big deal of it. Just nodded like it was trivia, not gossip.

You appreciated that more than you let on.

Since then, she's been a constant. Study sessions in the campus library, coffee runs at the overpriced café downstairs, late-night texts about assignments. She's Madrid-born, Chinese-Spanish, a sports psychology major with a sharp mind and an even sharper tongue when she wants. She knows about your dad's job, knows you're fresh off the boat from Barcelona, and hasn't pushed for details.

That's why you don't mind her sitting here, filling the silence with her quiet banter while you chew through candy and memories.

Madrid's like that. Too much of everything—light, noise, space—and none of it fits right.

Not like Barcelona did, with its narrower streets and warmer shadows.

Still, at UEM, you're just another face in a sea of ambitious twenty-somethings, most of whom couldn't care less about football. Real Madrid, Barcelona—it's not their world. They're chasing MBAs, tech startups, international law degrees.

That, however, does not mean they don't know who Kim Taehyung is.

"Hey, speaking of taste—or lack thereof—have you seen the news this weekend? That whole scandal with Real Madrid's golden boy? Taehyung?"

Fuck Sofia for ruining your peace. You take all the good things you said about her back.

Of course she'd bring it up. Not because she's obsessed with football—most people here aren't—but because Taehyung's mess is everywhere. A superstar, a celebrity, the kind of hot that has women tripping over themselves and brands clawing for a piece of him.

His whole 'can't keep it in his pants' routine isn't even a flaw to most; it's charm, a marketable quirk that somehow makes him more desirable.

You've seen the headlines (who hasn't?), the grainy party pics, the lipstick smear on his neck that's got half of Madrid's press losing their minds.

Nike's 'concerned,' apparently.

You doubt he cares.

You shrug, keeping your face blank. "Yeah, I saw. Not exactly news when it's him."

Sofia raises a brow, catching the edge in your tone.

She doesn't know about your first run-in with him, the way he loomed at the training ground like he owned the air itself, expecting you to melt under his gaze; and you… Didn't.

Just stared back, flat and unimpressed, until he looked almost confused.

Which was honestly refreshing. He needs to get humbled.

But Sofia doesn't need that story, not yet. You're not sure why it even sticks in your head. It's not like he matters.

"Fair," she says, tapping her pen against her chin. "Still, it's wild. Guy's got the world at his feet, and he's out there acting like a frat boy on spring break. My psych prof would have a field day with his impulse control—or lack of it."

You huff a small laugh, more out of habit than amusement. "Probably. But it's not like anyone's surprised. That's just… him."

Her eyes narrow a fraction, like she's filing that comment away for later. You don't like how she does that, reads the unsaid stuff in your pauses. Makes you feel seen in ways you're not ready for.

You pop another pikota, let the sour bite ground you.

The lecture hall's still noisy, a guy two rows down arguing with his friend in rapid-fire German, a girl across the aisle snapping a selfie with her overpriced latte.

Normal. Disconnected from the football bubble you've been dragged into.

You wish you could stay in this pocket of mundane forever, where no one cares about football or your dad's job or the way some prick keeps jostling his dick around like it's a birthday party and his junk is a gift.

Your phone buzzes on the desk, screen lighting up with Jungkook's name.

A distraction. A lifeline.

A… video of a ferret stealing an entire sock drawer, dragging socks one by one to build a nest?

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚘𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜

You snort—actually snort—loud enough that Sofia looks up from her notebook with raised eyebrows.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚞𝚋𝚎'𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚊𝚕

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚜

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝙷𝙰𝙷𝙰𝙷𝙰𝙷𝙰

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚝𝚠?

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚏𝚏?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚒 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚍𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚖𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚏𝚝

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝙻𝙼𝙰𝙾𝙾𝙾

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚢 𝚋𝚌 𝙷𝚊𝚛𝚒'𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚒'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚘𝚗𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚒 𝚊𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚢 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚍𝚢 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚛 🤔

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚊 𝚛𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜

You pause, fingers hovering over the keyboard. He's talking about you, obviously. Those stupid chocolate croissants from the Barcelona training facility café that you'd get genuinely upset about when they sold out.

It feels like a lifetime ago—back when your biggest worry was missing breakfast pastries, not navigating the social minefield of Madrid's elite football culture.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚎����𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚜

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚝𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚠'𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞?

You swallow thickly, staring at your screen for a couple seconds.

Because Jungkook's always been good at checking in without making it feel like an interrogation. He knows you well enough to understand that direct questions about your emotional state will get deflected, but asking about Madrid in general? That's safe territory.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚍𝚊𝚍'𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞?

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗?

You chew the inside of your cheek, watching Sofia highlight something in yellow marker.

How do you explain that Madrid feels like wearing clothes that don't fit? That every day feels like you're playing a role you never auditioned for? That you miss the easy warmth of Barcelona so much it physically hurts sometimes?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚢'𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚘𝚑 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢?

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚊 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚑𝚒

Sofia waves at your phone like Jungkook can see her, which makes you roll your eyes.

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝙷𝙸 𝚂𝙾𝙵𝙸𝙰

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚜𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚋𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚢

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚒 𝙰𝙼 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚢

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚒 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚗𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚘𝚛

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚒'𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚢

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚒'𝚜 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚍 𝚓𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚜

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚑𝚒

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚢

Your heart does that stupid flutter thing it always does when Dani gets mentioned.

Even now, even with Carla, even with the distance and the time and the rational knowledge that your teenage crush was exactly that—teenage and over.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚍𝚊𝚍'𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚎 𝚒s

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚝𝚘𝚘

No, he didn't.

It's easier to pretend he didn't.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚑𝚘𝚠'𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜, 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚒 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚋𝚒𝚎'𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎?

You know exactly what you're asking.

He knows too, judging by the way the writing dots disappear two times before his next reply.

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚗𝚊𝚑

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚢

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚜

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚒𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗…?

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞?

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚍 𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎? 👀

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚋𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝙰𝙻𝙻 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖?

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚕𝚢

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒'𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚒 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚠𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚊𝚢

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚛𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 🙄

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚘𝚝

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒'𝚖 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚘𝚝

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚠𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞

The homesickness comes and crashes like a tidal wave.

It never quite goes away, the ache for the people who knew you before Madrid, before everything got complicated.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘𝚘

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚠𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚍'𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚐𝚎𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚑𝚢

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚢

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚒𝚏 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚍 𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚜 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚞𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚜𝚑𝚎'𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒'𝚕𝚕 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚐𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚢 𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚍𝚘

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚜 𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚕𝚎 𝚓𝚔

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚠𝚜

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚒'𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚠𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢

Family.

Something warm settles in your chest.

Not the grief, not the homesickness, but something warmer.

A reminder that distance doesn't erase the connections that matter.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚘𝚝

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: ❤️

You set your phone down, a sigh escaping your lips.

Madrid's still foreign, and two weeks in, and you're still mourning. Not just Mom, though that's a wound that never scabs over. It's Barcelona too. The team, the culture, the way Camp Nou felt like a second home. The way Dani smiled without agenda, the way Jungkook teased like a brother.

You're in Madrid by accident, by necessity, and every white jersey you see feels like a betrayal.

But then there's Sofia, a small, stubborn reminder that not everything here has to hurt.

You chew another candy, slower this time. Let the sourness linger.

Promises might wither when left alone, but maybe, just maybe, some things grow in their place.

You're not ready to name it. Not ready to trust it.

But for now, sitting here with Sofia's quiet scribbling as your backdrop, it's enough to keep you from sinking.

Traffic in Madrid is apparently a personal vendetta against punctuality.

Your dad's running twenty minutes late because some jackass decided the M-40 was the perfect place for a fender bender, which means you're here. Setting up his station. Organizing equipment you could identify with your eyes closed because you've been watching him work since you could walk.

The physio room's too clean, too sterile, too Real Madrid.

The Barcelona facility had character—scuff marks on the walls, that one massage table with the slightly wobbly leg that everyone avoided, the persistent smell of Bengay that had seeped into the paint over fifteen years.

This place looks like it was designed by people who've never actually treated an injury.

You're sorting through resistance bands when Namjoon appears in the doorway, looking like he's lost a fight with his textbooks. Again.

"Your dad said you might be here," he says, adjusting his glasses. "Traffic's insane out there."

Right. Namjoon.

You met him exactly nine days ago when he wandered into the wrong lecture hall and ended up sitting through your Sports Medicine seminar. Turned out he was supposed to be in another class but was too polite to leave once he realized his mistake. Also turned out he's doing his practicum here, shadowing the medical staff twice a week.

Small world. Smaller when your dad's the new guy everyone wants to impress.

"He's stuck near Cuatro Caminos," you say, testing the tension on an elastic band. "Should be here soon."

"Need help with anything?"

You gesture at the perfectly organized equipment. "It's just busy work. Dad's paranoid about first impressions."

Namjoon nods like he understands the pressure of being the new guy. Which he probably does, considering he transferred here from Seoul and still looks slightly shell-shocked by Spanish bureaucracy.

"I'll be in the film room if you need anything," he says. "Marco's apparently having issues with his hip flexor and wants to review some footage."

Of course Marco has issues. Guy probably pulled something showing off for whatever Instagram model he's currently terrorizing.

Namjoon disappears, leaving you alone with the antiseptic smell and the growing certainty that helping your dad was a mistake.

You should be back at UEM, pretending to study while Sofia explains the philosophical implications of biochemical reactions.

Instead, you're here. Instead, you're in enemy territory. Organizing equipment for people who think Barcelona is a quaint regional hobby.

The door opens again.

"Thought I saw the physio's…" The voice trails off.

You know that voice. Heard it exactly one week ago, asking if you knew his name like that was supposed to matter.

You don't look up. Keep sorting through the massage oils like they require your complete attention.

"…Daughter," Taehyung finishes, giving the Coke Zero in his hand one last sip. "Interesting."

"Riveting," you say to the bottles of arnica gel. "There's a Nobel Prize in it somewhere."

He laughs. Actually laughs, like you've said something amusing instead of dismissive. Then, leaves the can on the furniture near the door.

You look up.

Grave mistake.

He's shirtless again because of course he is. Apparently shirts are optional in his world, a suggestion rather than a requirement. Fresh scratch marks across his back, angry red lines that tell a very obvious story about his weekend activities.

Classy.

"Something wrong with your scapula?" you ask, because that's why people come here—medical issues.

Not to parade around half-naked making small talk with staff daughters.

"How'd you know?"

"Lucky guess."

He moves closer, traces of whatever shampoo he uses lingering in the air. It reminds you of lemons… And something else that's probably pheromones or whatever evolutionary bullshit makes objectively terrible men attractive to people with functioning ovaries.

"Your dad around?"

"Running late." You cap the massage oil, set it back in its designated spot. "You can wait."

"Or you could take a look."

You blink. "I'm not a physiotherapist."

"You know what you're doing." He's already settling onto the massage table, lying face down like the decision's been made. "Study the same stuff as your dad, should be the same no?"

"It's really not."

"How?"

Because studying and actually doing the work with your own hands is essentially different.

Because med students are not doctors.

And physio students aren't either.

But explaining that to Kim Taehyung would mean talking to a toddler. And you have better things to do than waste breath on a manchild.

"Because."

"Compelling argument."

You could leave. Should leave. Let him wait for your dad like a normal person.

But maybe it's the way he's so entitled, and acts like so. Maybe it's the need to put him in his place—especially when you don't even know where yours is.

So, you wash your hands.

"Where's the pain?"

"Right side. Under the shoulder blade. Been bothering me since Saturday."

Saturday. When he was making headlines for all the wrong reasons. When those scratch marks were being carved into his back by whatever random woman decided he was worth the trouble.

You approach the table, professional, detached. Just like you've seen Dad do a hundred million times before.

You place your hands on his back, feeling for tension, knots, the specific kind of tightness that comes from overcompensation.

His skin is warm. Firm.

The scratch marks are raised under your fingers, evidence of Saturday night's adventures literally written across his shoulders.

"Here?" You press against the scapula, finding the knot immediately.

"Mmm." The sound is low, almost a purr. "Yeah, right there."

You ignore the way he says it. Focus on the muscle. The problem. The solution.

"Probably compensation," you say, working your thumbs in small circles. "You favor your right side when you tackle. Puts extra stress on the stabilizing muscles."

"Hmmm." Another noise, drawn out and definitely unnecessary. "That feels… really good."

Your hands pause. "Are you making those sounds on purpose?"

"What sounds?"

But he's grinning into the table. You can hear it in his voice.

"The porn sounds."

"I don't know what you mean."

You resume working, digging deeper into the knot. He needs to learn that his little games don't work on everyone.

"Ah," he breathes when you hit a particularly tight spot. "Oh, fuck, that's—"

"Can you not?"

"Not what?"

"Sound like you're getting jerked off."

He turns his head, looking at you over his shoulder with that smirk that probably gets him everything he wants.

"Is that what it sounds like?"

"It sounds like you're doing it on purpose."

"Maybe I am."

"Well, don't."

He simply glances at you, smirk plastered all over his face.

You work in silence for a few minutes, focusing on the actual muscle tension instead of the idiot attached to it. The knot's stubborn, layers of compensation built up over weeks of training and whatever he does in his spare time that leaves scratch marks.

"Your weekend activities aren't helping," you say, pressing harder than strictly necessary.

"Mmhm." Another deliberate sound. "My weekend activities are very… thorough."

"I mean the scratches. They're affecting your posture."

"Ah." Like you've just told him something profound instead of basic anatomy. "The scratches."

"Unless you're wrestling with cats, you might want to tell your… companions… to be more careful."

He laughs, and you feel it vibrate through his back under your hands.

"I'll pass along the feedback."

The muscle finally starts to give, tension releasing under sustained pressure. You move your hands to the surrounding area, checking for related knots, secondary compensation patterns.

"Oh," he breathes when you hit another tight spot. "Yeah, that's… mmm."

"Jesus Christ."

"What?"

"Do you have to narrate everything?"

"I'm appreciative." His voice is muffled by the table but you can still hear the amusement. "Sue me for having good manners."

"This isn't appreciation. This you auditioning for a porno."

"Can't it be both?"

You press your elbow into the knot. Hard.

He chokes on whatever smart-ass comment he was about to make.

"Better," you say flatly.

"Fuck, okay, point taken."

The thing about Taehyung is that he's predictable. He pushes until he finds resistance, then pushes harder to see what happens.

Classic spoiled rich boy behavior—no understanding of boundaries because no one's ever enforced any.

You've met his type before. Barcelona had them too, though they usually had the decency to pretend they weren't entitled assholes.

"Turn around."

He does, and now you're face to face with his chest. Which is. Well. It's a chest. Perfectly sculpted, golden skin, the kind of definition that suggests both excellent genetics and obsessive gym habits.

You've seen better.

(That's a lie, but you're committed to it.)

"The problem's in your back," you say, positioning your hands on his shoulders from the front. "You're compensating with your anterior muscles."

"My what now?"

"Front muscles. Keep up."

He grins at that, like you've just confirmed some theory he's been testing.

"So you're saying I've been working too hard?"

"I'm saying you've been working wrong."

Your hands find the tight spots along his clavicle, pressing into the muscle tissue with more force than strictly necessary.

Indeed, he makes another sound—something between a gasp and a moan—and you seriously consider just walking out.

"That's definitely gonna leave marks," he says, looking down at where your thumbs are digging into his skin.

"Good. Maybe you'll remember proper form."

"Oh, I'll remember this."

The way he says it makes your skin crawl.

Not because it's gross—which it is—but because it sounds like he genuinely means it.

Which is worse, somehow.

You finish the treatment in relative silence, mostly because you've perfected the art of selective hearing. He tries a few more times to get a reaction, but you're done giving attention to his stupidities.

"Ice it for twenty minutes when you get home," you say, stepping back and washing your hands again. "Anti-inflammatories if the pain persists."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

You're already moving toward the sink, washing your hands again because touching him feels like it requires immediate sanitization.

"Your dad teach you anything else?"

"How to bill insurance companies."

He laughs. Again. Like you're actually funny instead of just sarcastic.

"Useful skill."

You dry your hands, not letting him out of your periphery because it feels dangerous, somehow. He's sitting behind you on the table. Shirtless. Fixed.

Still there.

Can he leave?

"Was there something else?"

"Just curious."

"About what?"

"You."

You muster all the oxygen in the room one breath. Inhale deeply. Exhale slowly.

"There's nothing to be curious about."

"I doubt that."

You turn around. He's still sitting on the table, legs dangling like a kid at the doctor's office. Except kids don't usually look like they've been sculpted by people with advanced degrees in human anatomy.

"I'm the physio's daughter. That's it. That's the whole story."

"The physio's daughter who transfers from Barcelona and acts like Real Madrid personally wronged her family."

"I don't act like anything."

"You act like we killed your dog."

"You didn't kill my dog."

"But you hate us anyway."

The worst thing is—he doesn't ask it like a question, just states it like it's a fact. Like he knows more than you're letting on.

"I don't hate anyone."

"Liar."

He doesn't know you enough to accuse you like that, especially when it's imbued in such friendly tone, like he's commenting on your coffee order instead of calling out your entire emotional state.

"I don't know you well enough to hate you."

"But you know enough to disapprove."

"I disapprove of a lot of things."

"Such as?"

"People who think the world revolves around them."

He grins. "Guilty."

"People who can't take a hint."

"Also guilty."

"People who make everything about sex."

"Depends on your definition of everything."

You stare at him. He stares back, completely unashamed. Like this is normal conversation instead of him basically admitting to being exactly the kind of person you despise.

"You're unbelievable."

"Thanks."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"I know."

He slides off, and it's always like this—moving like he's never doubted his welcome anywhere. Casually arrogant, lazily confident.

He's standing now, fingers tapping against the table in that absurd manner of people trying to look sexy.

Whether it works, you're not gonna comment.

But your dad's equipment suddenly feels very small, the space between you measured in inches instead of feet.

"I should go," he says, but doesn't move.

"Yes. You should."

He reaches for his shirt, hanging on a nearby chair. But instead of putting it on, he steps closer. Close enough that you can see the exact color of his eyes, the way his hair falls across his forehead, the small scar near his left eyebrow that probably has a story you don't want to know.

His hand moves, casual and way too quick, slipping into the pocket of your hoodie before you can react.

"Think I'll be borrowing one of these."

He pulls out a pikota, examining it like it's a rare artifact instead of candy you buy at any corner store.

"Those are mine."

"I know." He pops it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "Sour. Interesting choice."

"Give it back."

"Can't. Already eaten."

"The rest of them."

"Finders keepers."

He's still standing too close, looking down at you with that smirk that suggests he knows exactly how inappropriate this is and doesn't care.

"Besides," he says, finally stepping back, "now I know what to call you."

"My name is—"

"Gominola."

Your brows knit in disbelief. There's just no way—no way—that Real Madrid's number two, Kim Taehyung, the arrogant prick standing in front of you, had the audacity to cut you off mid-name… only to nickname you Gominola.

"That's not my name."

"It is now."

He pulls on his shirt, covering the scratch marks and the evidence of whatever he does when he's not being a professional athlete.

"See you around, Gominola."

He's gone before you can respond—so you settle for cursing him inwardly, instead of outwardly.

But not quite gone.

Because the Coke Zero can is still sitting there on the counter like a monument to his casual disrespect for other people's spaces. Empty. Sweating condensation onto the pristine surface of your dad's equipment station.

Of course.

"Your trash," you call out, voice flat.

He pauses in the doorway, glances back at the can like he's seeing it for the first time.

"That's what you're here for, no?"

The audacity. The absolute fucking audacity.

"I'm not your maid."

"Hmmm… No?" He shrugs, casual as breathing. "Organizing equipment, cleaning up after people. Very maid-adjacent activities."

You stare at him. He stares back.

Neither of you moves.

Your eyebrow twitches—just once, a microscopic flicker of irritation that you can't quite suppress. It's involuntary. Reflexive. The kind of tell that gives away more than you'd like.

But he catches it. Of course he does.

"I like that," he says, leaning against the doorframe like he's settling in for a show. "That little frown you get. Right there." He gestures vaguely at your face. "Makes you look real cute when you're pissed off."

Cute.

He called you cute.

Like you're some pet that's learned a new trick. Like your irritation exists for his entertainment.

"Fascinating. I'll add that to the list of things I don't care about."

"Long list?"

"You'd be surprised."

He grins so bright, for a second you wonder if you just complimented his mother instead of basically telling him to fuck off.

"You know what? Keep the can." He straightens up, preparing to leave for real this time. "Consider it a memento."

"Of what?"

"Today. This conversation. The first time you touched me."

Your skin crawls inwards. Because the way he says it? It's not only sexual—though it definitely is—but it also sounds like he's already planning the sequel.

"It was a medical procedure."

"If you say so, Gomi."

And then he's actually gone, leaving you alone with his trash, his stupid nickname, and the lingering scent of lemons that somehow makes the entire room feel smaller.

You grab the can. Toss it in the bin with more force than strictly necessary.

The metal clangs against the sides, echoing in the silence.

Your eyebrow's still twitching.

Cute. Right.

You make a mental note to practice better facial control.

The last thing you need is Kim Taehyung thinking he has any effect on you whatsoever.

The thing about expensive universities is that they love attaching corporate logos to everything.

Like slapping a Nike swoosh on your degree somehow makes the crushing student debt more palatable. Or maybe it's the other way around—Nike gets to pretend they care about education while really just hunting for the next generation of athletes to exploit.

Either way, you're sitting in a lecture hall that's way too big listening to Professor García explain why this is such an 'incredible opportunity.'

"Nike has graciously agreed to sponsor a networking event for our Sports Science students," he says, gesturing at a PowerPoint slide that's probably older than some of the freshman. "This is exactly the kind of industry connection that makes UEM graduates so sought after."

You chew a pikota. Slowly. Let the sour-sweet dissolve on your tongue while Sofia scribbles notes like this is information worth remembering.

Corporate networking events.

Your favorite.

Right up there with root canals and Real Madrid training sessions.

"The event will be held next Friday at seven PM," he continues, clicking to the next slide. "Cocktail attire. Representatives from Nike's European division will be there, along with several prominent figures from Madrid's sports community."

Sofia elbows you. "This could be huge for internships."

"Thrilling," you say, not looking up from your notebook where you're not taking notes. Just doodling. Tiny ferrets stealing socks from faceless businessmen in suits.

"I'm serious. Nike sponsors half the football world. Imagine the connections."

The problem with Sofia is that she still believes in the system. Still thinks that networking and handshakes and business cards will somehow lead to meaningful careers instead of just more meetings with people who think they're important.

You've seen the system. Lived adjacent to it your entire life.

It's mostly bullshit wrapped in expensive suits.

"Plus," Sofia adds, leaning closer, "it's not like you have anything else going on Friday night."

What you hate about Sofia is that she is, often, not wrong.

And this time, she isn't either.

Your social calendar consists of studying, texting Jungkook, and watching your ferrets commit small crimes against your furniture.

Hardly the stuff of legends.

"Representatives from Madrid's sports community," you repeat, finally looking up. "That's vague."

"Probably Real Madrid players," says the guy sitting in front of you. Miguel something. Rich kid with a trust fund and opinions about everything. "My dad knows someone at Nike. Says they've got some big partnership thing happening."

Of course they do.

Because apparently there's no corner of your life that Real Madrid can't invade.

Not university. Not home. Not even corporate networking events that should theoretically have nothing to do with football.

"You okay?" Sofia asks, probably noticing the way your jaw's gone tight.

"Fine."

But you're not fine. You're calculating the odds that you can skip this thing without Professor García noticing. Or caring.

Except that would mean explaining to Sofia why you're suddenly allergic to networking events. Which would mean explaining about the move from Barcelona. Which would mean explaining things you don't have words for yet.

So instead you nod. Smile. Pretend like the thought of spending an evening making small talk with Real Madrid players doesn't make you want to crawl under your desk and stay there.

"Great," García says, apparently wrapping up his sales pitch. "I'll email you the details. Remember, this is optional but highly recommended. Nike doesn't offer these opportunities often."

The lecture moves on to muscle fiber types and you try to focus. Really. But your brain keeps drifting back to Friday night.

To cocktail attire and corporate representatives and the growing certainty that your life in Madrid is about to get exponentially more complicated.

Sofia's still taking notes. Dutiful, organized, probably already planning her outfit.

You draw another ferret. This one's stealing a Nike swoosh.

Seems appropriate.

Home feels different now that your dad’s working for Real Madrid.

Not worse, exactly; just… Heavier. Like the walls are holding their breath, waiting for something to go wrong.

You can hear him in the kitchen, moving around with the kind of agitation that means he’s either cooking something complicated or thinking through a problem. 

You have lived with him enough to know it’s usually both.

"¿Qué tal la universidad?" (How was university?) your dad calls out when he hears you drop your bag by the door.

"Educativa," (Educational) you say, which is technically true.

You did learn that Nike has tentacles that reach into every corner of Spanish academic life.

"Bien. Ven aquí un momento." (Good. Come here for a minute.)

The kitchen smells like garlic and something that might be steaks if your dad’s feeling ambitious. He’s standing at the stove, stirring something in a pan that’s definitely too big for two people.

Force of habit. 

He’s been cooking for crowds since your mom died, like muscle memory doesn’t understand that the crowd is gone.

"Tenemos que hablar sobre el viernes," (We need to talk about Friday) he says without looking up.

Friday. The Nike thing. Of course he knows about it. Probably got an email from someone at the university, or maybe Nike reached out directly. Corporate synergy and all that.

"Ya sé lo del evento de networking," (I already know about the networking event) you say, leaning against the counter. "El profesor García hizo el gran anuncio hoy." (Professor Garcia made the big announcement today.)

"No es eso—" (That's not—) He stops stirring what you now recognize as the veggies side dish. Looks at you. "¿Qué evento de networking?" (What networking event?)

Oh.

Oh, this is worse.

"Nike está patrocinando algo en la UEM. Viernes por la noche. Estudiantes de ciencias del deporte." (Nike's sponsoring something at UEM. Friday night. Sports science students.) You watch his expression change from confusion to something that looks suspiciously like resignation. "¿Por qué?" (Why?)

He sets down the wooden spoon. Runs a hand through his hair in that way that means he’s about to deliver news you won’t like.

"El Real Madrid tiene una cena programada con representantes de Nike. Viernes por la noche a las nueve, pero tenemos que estar allí a las siete y media." (Real Madrid has a dinner scheduled with Nike representatives. Friday night at nine, but we have to be there by seven-thirty.) He pauses. "Las familias del personal están invitadas." (Staff families are invited.)

The pieces click together immediately.

You want to throw something.

"Es el mismo evento." (It's the same event.)

"Eso parece." (Appears so.)

"Así que las 'figuras prominentes de la comunidad deportiva madrileña' son—" (So the 'prominent figures from Madrid's sports community' are—)

"El equipo. Sí." (The team. Yes.)

You stare at him. He stares back, apologetic but not apologetic enough to fix this.

"No puedo ir," (I can't go) you say finally.

"Sí, puedes." (Yes, you can.)

"No iré." (I won't go.)

"Sí, irás." (Yes, you will.)

It’s not a conversation. It’s a statement of fact, delivered in the tone he uses when discussing treatment plans with stubborn patients. 

Final and absolutely non-negotiable.

"Papá—" (Dad—)

"Esto es importante." (This is important.) He turns back to the stove, but his shoulders are tense. "Mi puesto aquí sigue siendo nuevo. Aún me están evaluando. Estos eventos importan." (My position here is still new. Still being evaluated. These events matter.)

Right. 

Because everything comes back to that—his job, his reputation, the delicate political balance of being the former Barcelona physiotherapist who now works for Real Madrid.

You’re not just his daughter at these things. You’re evidence. Proof that the transition is working, that the family has successfully integrated into Madrid’s football culture.

No pressure.

"¿Cuántos jugadores?" (How many players?) you ask, because you need to know the scope of the disaster you're walking into.

"La mayoría del primer equipo. Entrenadores. Algunos miembros de la junta." (Most of the first team. Coaches. Some board members.) He glances at you. "Es un gran evento para Nike. Anuncio de nueva asociación." (It's a big deal for Nike. New partnership announcement.)

"¿Y tengo que estar allí porque...?" (And I have to be there because...?)

"Porque eres parte de esta familia. Y esta familia se apoya mutuamente." (Because you're part of this family. And this family supports each other.)

The guilt trip is subtle but effective. Because he’s right. You are part of this family. 

The only family either of you has left.

And if supporting him means suffering through dinner with Real Madrid players while maintaining the fiction that you’re happy to be there, then that’s what you’ll do.

Even if it kills you.

Even if one of those players is as arrogant as Kim Taehyung.

"Vale," (Fine) you say. "Pero no voy a fingir ser fan del Madrid." (But I'm not pretending to be a Madrid fan.)

"No te estoy pidiendo que lo hagas." (I'm not asking you to.)

"Y no voy a hacer conversación sobre lo genial que es el equipo." (And I'm not making small talk about how great the team is.)

"Entendido." (Understood.)

"Y si alguien pregunta sobre el Barcelona—" (And if anyone asks about Barcelona—)

"Les dices la verdad. Que lo echas de menos pero te estás adaptando." (You tell them the truth. That you miss it but you're adjusting.) He turns off the heat, faces you completely. "Esto no tiene que ser una tortura. Solo... sé tú misma. Sé educada." (This doesn't have to be torture. Just... be yourself. Be polite.)

Be yourself. Right.

Because your ‘self’ is exactly who you want to be around a table full of people who represent everything you’ve been raised to view with suspicion.

Everyone keeps saying that like it’s simple advice instead of the most complicated thing in the world.

Your ‘self’ is a Barcelona girl in Madrid territory. A physio’s daughter who knows too much about football politics and not enough about corporate networking. Someone who misses her mom and protects her dad and has strong opinions about ferret care.

None of which feels particularly useful for surviving dinner with Real Madrid.

But maybe that’s the point.

Maybe being yourself is exactly what will get you through this.

Even if ‘yourself’ includes the part that finds Kim Taehyung insufferable.

Especially that part.

"¿Qué me pongo?" (What should I wear?) you ask, because if you're doing this, you might as well do it right.

"Algo bonito, elegante." (Something nice, elegant.) He pauses. "Tu madre tenía un vestido negro. Aún está en el armario de arriba." (Your mother had a black dress. Still in the closet upstairs.)

The mention of Mom never stops the dull ache from forming and stirring in your chest. 

Like lillies in full bloom. 

"Ya me las arreglaré," (I'll figure something out) you say, because the thought of wearing her clothes to a Real Madrid event feels like blasphemy.

He nods. Goes back to stirring.

You grab a pikota from the jar on the counter, unwrap it, let the sourness ground you while you process the fact that your Friday night just became infinitely more complicated.

"¿Al menos me dirás quién va a estar allí?" (Will you at least tell me who's going to be there?) you ask. "Para poder prepararme para el sabor específico de pesadilla que va a ser esto." (So I can prepare for the specific flavor of nightmare this is going to be?)

He rattles off names. Players you recognize from sports coverage and social media. Coaches you’ve seen on the sidelines. Board members you don’t know and don’t care about.

“Taehyung?” you ask when he doesn’t mention him specifically.

"Probablemente. ¿Por qué?" (Probably. Why?)

Because he called you Gominola and stole your candy and made sounds during a medical procedure like he was auditioning for porn. 

Because he thinks you’re cute when you’re angry and left his trash for you to clean up.

Because something about him makes you want to claw his eyes off and you’re not sure you’ll hold yourself back if you have to be in his space for three hours. 

"Solo preguntaba," (Just wondering) you say.

Your dad gives you a glance that’s accompanied by a small frown, but doesn’t comment on it. Instead…

"Estará bien," (It'll be fine) he says, turning back to the meal. "Unas pocas horas. Buena comida. Luego se acabó." (A few hours. Good food. Then it's over.)

Right. A few hours.

In a room full of Real Madrid players.

Including Taehyung.

Who will probably find new and creative ways to be insufferable while you try to maintain your dignity and support your father’s career.

What could go wrong?

You eat another pikota. This one tastes like impending doom.

"Voy a estudiar," (I'm going to study) you announce, pushing off from the counter.

"La cena está en una hora." (Dinner's in an hour.)

"Bajaré." (I'll be down.)

You head upstairs, leaving him with his meat and his optimism.

Up there, the room feels smaller than usual, like the walls are closing in with the weight of Friday night’s obligations.

Just as if your room represents exactly how you’re feeling.

Hari and Nube are there, watching you from their cage, probably sensing your mood through whatever weird telepathic connection you’ve developed with them.

“Esto es una mierda,” (This is shit) you tell them.

Nube chitches in what sounds like agreement. Hari just steals another sock.

Smart ferret. Some problems are best solved through theft and chaos.

You flop onto your bed, staring at the ceiling while your brain runs through worst-case scenarios.

Taehyung will be there. Obviously. Because the universe has a sense of humor and no mercy.

He’ll probably make more inappropriate comments about your appearance or your attitude or your apparent cuteness when angry. He’ll probably find new ways to invade your personal space while maintaining plausible deniability. He’ll definitely do that thing where he acts like everything is a game and everything is fair and square. 

Everything is his prize if he so much wishes for it to be.

And you’ll have to sit there. Smile. Be polite.

Support your father’s career while maintaining your sanity.

Should be simple.

Should be.

Your phone buzzes. Not Jungkook this time—something different. A WhatsApp notification for a group you don’t recognize.

𝐍𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐃𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 - 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐝

47 𝑝𝑒𝑜𝑝𝑙𝑒 𝑎𝑑𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑔𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑝．

You stare at the screen. Scroll through the participant list. Every name you recognize from training sessions, plus dozens you don’t. Players, coaches, staff, board members. The entire Real Madrid ecosystem crammed into one group chat.

And somewhere in that list—Kim Taehyung.

Of course.

"¡Papá!" (Dad!) you call downstairs.

"¿Sí?" (Yeah?)

"¿Por qué estoy en un grupo de WhatsApp con toda la organización del Real Madrid?" (Why am I in a WhatsApp group with the entire Real Madrid organization?)

Pause. The sound of a wooden spoon being set down.

"Cena de Nike el viernes," (Nike dinner Friday) he says, like this explains everything. "Todos los asistentes necesitan estar al tanto. Vienes, así que estás en el chat." (Everyone attending needs to be in the loop. You're coming, so you're in the chat.)

Right. Because your life wasn’t complicated enough.

You scroll through the chat history. Pure chaos. Forty-seven people trying to coordinate one dinner, and it’s exactly as much of a disaster as you’d expect.

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙵𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝟽:𝟹𝟶

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙽𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙲𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢, 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚊𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜

𝐋𝐞𝐨: 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚛…?

𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐠𝐨: 𝚌𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎

𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐠𝐨: 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚕

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚜 𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛

𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐠𝐨: 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚎

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚋𝚛𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝙵𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚋 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢.

𝐋𝐞𝐨: 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝙸 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚂𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚊?

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙾𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚗𝚘

𝐋𝐞𝐨: 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎’𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚞𝚖𝚙 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚛𝚜  

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙸𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊, 𝙼𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚘?

The typing dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚊 𝚗𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗

𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐠𝐨: 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚙𝚑𝚢𝚜𝚒𝚘 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚘?

Your stomach drops. There it is. The question that’s not really a question.

𝐃𝐚𝐝: 👍

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚘?

You stare at that message. Blink in silence like that’ll somehow transcribe your response into existence.

God, why are they all annoying? 

The typing dots appear under your name. Everyone can see them. Forty-six people watching you not respond.

You delete whatever you were going to type.

𝐗𝐚𝐯𝐢: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝

𝐗𝐚𝐯𝐢: 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚏𝚏 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢

𝐋𝐞𝐨: 𝚜𝚘 𝚂𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎?

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝚈𝙴𝚂 𝙻𝙴𝙾

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚂𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚊’𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝐋𝐞𝐨: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 💀💀💀

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝙴𝙽𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷

The chat goes quiet for exactly thirty seconds. Then:

𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐣𝐨𝐨𝐧: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚏𝚏 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎?

𝐃𝐚𝐝: 𝟷𝟿:𝟷𝟻.

Your dad appears in the doorway, probably wondering why you’ve gone quiet.

"¿Todo bien?" (Everything okay?)

"Solo leyendo el chat grupal." (Just reading the group chat.) You hold up your phone. "Es como ver un documental sobre machos alfa en su hábitat natural." (It's like watching a nature documentary about alpha males in their natural habitat.)

"¿Tan malo?" (That bad?)

"Marco acaba de decirle a Leo que su novia va a dejarlo durante los aperitivos." (Marco just told Leo his girlfriend's going to dump him during appetizers.)

He winces. "Marco es... directo." (Marco's... direct.)

"Marco es un sociópata." (Marco's a sociopath.)

"Es joven." (He's young.)

Young. Everyone keeps using that word like it explains away basic human decency.

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙾𝚔 𝚜𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝚁𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐

The responses flood in. Names, plus-ones, family members. A parade of people who belong in this world, who wear cocktail attire to corporate dinners without feeling like they’re playing dress-up.

You watch the numbers climb. Forty-seven becomes sixty-two becomes seventy-eight.

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚃𝚊𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎?

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚏𝚕𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚘

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚖𝚊𝚗’𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢

𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐠𝐨: 𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝? 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚙𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚌 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝙺𝙴𝙴𝙿 𝙸𝚃 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙵𝙴𝚂𝚂𝙸𝙾𝙽𝙰𝙻

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚕

The lie is so obvious it’s almost insulting. You’ve seen the headlines, the Instagram stories, the lipstick marks that make sports blogs. 

Taehyung’s focus is definitely not on football.

𝐋𝐞𝐨: 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍 - 𝙻𝚎𝚘 + 𝚂𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚊

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝙵 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝙻𝚎𝚘

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙼𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚘 𝙸’𝚖 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝐗𝐚𝐯𝐢: ✅ - 𝚇𝚊𝚟𝚒 + 𝙴𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚊

𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐠𝐨: 𝙳𝚒𝚎𝚐𝚘 + 𝙲𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚊

The list grows. Couples, families, people who fit together like puzzle pieces in this Madrid ecosystem.

𝐃𝐚𝐝: 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍 - 𝙹𝚎𝚜𝚞́𝚜 + 𝚍𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛.

There it is. Your attendance, reduced to a line item in someone else’s confirmation.

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚌𝚊𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢 ❤️

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 𝟽𝟾 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝚁𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚋 

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕

𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐠𝐨: 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚜’ 𝚍𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚋𝚘𝚘 𝚑𝚘𝚘 👎

𝐗𝐚𝐯𝐢: 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚙𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖

𝐋𝐞𝐨: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚙𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚝

𝐗𝐚𝐯𝐢: 𝙼𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚘’𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚒’𝚖 𝚜𝚘 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠  

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚒 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛

𝐑𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐞𝐥: 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚍

𝐀𝐥𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐞: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚝���

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚛. 𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙱𝙾𝚃𝙷 𝙾𝙵 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚂𝚃𝙾𝙿

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝚅𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚝 𝟷𝟾:𝟺𝟻

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝙳𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎

𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐢́𝐚𝐬: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝙻𝙴𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝙴𝙰𝚁𝙻𝚈

𝐋𝐮𝐢𝐬: 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚌 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚜

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝙸’𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜

𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐠𝐨: 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚐𝚊𝚎𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚊 𝚋𝚞𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚐𝚊𝚎𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚒𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚌

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙰𝚋𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 not

𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐣𝐨𝐨𝐧: 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚘?

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝚈𝚎𝚜, 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚏𝚏

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚝𝚜

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙼𝙰𝚁𝙲𝙾

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍

𝐀𝐥𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐞: 𝚠𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 𝐕: 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚜

𝐋𝐮𝐢𝐬: 𝙸’𝚖 𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚎𝚌𝚑

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚎𝚌𝚑

𝐋𝐮𝐢𝐬: 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝙽𝚘 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜 

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚊𝚝

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗

𝐃𝐚𝐝: 𝚃𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛.

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚊𝚛?

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝙻𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚛

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝚃𝚠𝚘 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚡𝚒𝚖𝚞𝚖

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 

𝐗𝐚𝐯𝐢: 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚊 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚋

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐’𝚜 𝚊 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚋 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑

𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐠𝐨: 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝

𝐋𝐞𝐨: 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝙸 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚂𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚊 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚞𝚗

𝐑𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐞𝐥: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚎’𝚕𝚕 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠

𝐀𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐞́: 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜

𝐍𝐢𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐚́𝐬: 𝙲𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚏𝚒𝚝 

𝐍𝐢𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐚́𝐬: 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸’𝚖 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐓𝐨𝐦𝐚́𝐬: 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎

𝐀𝐥𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐞: 𝚍𝚘 𝚠𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚜 𝚘𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚜

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝙰𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚜

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝚈𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚜 

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚑𝚢?

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝚈𝚎𝚜, 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚋 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝐏𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐨: 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝚝𝚘𝚘?

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝙾𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚗𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝

𝐗𝐚𝐯𝐢: 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚍𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚎

𝐋𝐮𝐢𝐬: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝙸 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐢́𝐚𝐬: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐋𝐮𝐢𝐬: 𝙸 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎

𝐋𝐮𝐢𝐬: 𝚜𝚘 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝚂𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕

𝐋𝐞𝐨: 𝚍𝚘 𝙸 𝚝𝚒𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜

𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐠𝐨: 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚋

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝙸’𝚖 𝚝𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚊𝚢 

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚔𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚊

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 ��𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚔𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚊

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝙸 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐???

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚋𝚊𝚍 𝚔𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚊

𝐀𝐥𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐞: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚔𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚊 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚜

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝙾𝚔 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚊𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚞𝚙

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝚂𝚎𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝙵𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜:

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝟷𝟾:𝟺𝟻 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙲𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎 

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝚁𝚎𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚋 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚝

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚋𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚋𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚢

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙸’𝚖 𝚖𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝙵𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚌𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍

𝐗𝐚𝐯𝐢: 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚗

𝐃𝐚𝐝: 𝚂𝚎𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝙵𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢.

"Cena en diez minutos," (Dinner in ten) your dad says.

"Sí. Ya voy." (Yeah. Coming.)

You’re about to pocket your phone when one more message appears.

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚝

Three words. Could mean anything. Could mean nothing.

But they feel like both a warning and an oath.

You’re not sure which would be worse.

The pikotas in your pocket suddenly feel insufficient armor for whatever Friday night’s going to bring.

Seventy-eight people. One dinner. Two many Real Madrid pricks whose entire personality orbits around their egos.

What could go wrong?

Your dad calls up the stairs. Dinner’s ready.

You pocket your phone, take one last look at the ferrets.

“Deseadme suerte,” (Wish me luck) you tell them.

Nube chitches. Hari steals another sock.

Some things never change—even when everything else does.

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[kooppss]

No Big Deal

Sexy Disasters With Feelings masterlist

You were doing so well pretending that night didn’t happen—until Jungkook showed up with a new piercing and a smug smile that ruined everything. Now you’re spiraling, trying to convince yourself this still doesn’t mean anything.

warnings: sex, cursing, mentions of drunk behavior.

word count: 4.2k

a/n: Okay so… it only took me two months (fuck. Is it really been this long?!) and five existential crises to finish this chapter. It’s chaotic, it’s horny—and I really hope you enjoy it. If you’re still here reading, thank you. I was honestly a little nervous about this one, so your likes, reblogs, and little comments mean the world to me. See you in the next chapter (hopefully sooner than two months..)

Now, I've thought it through Crawlin' back to you

You’ve been doing your best to avoid Jungkook for a couple of days now. 

Which is hard, considering you live together.

But after that night—after the stunt you pulled in your kitchen, and on the couch, and then again in his bed—you’ve spent the entire time you’ve been home hiding out in your room, alternating between dying of embarrassment and fantasizing about digging a hole and climbing inside it forever.

You told him you were sorry. Multiple times. 

He said it was fine. 

“You were cute.”

You want to die.

Eventually, once again, hunger wins the war against shame. The apartment is quiet. Maybe he went out. Maybe he’s—

And then you see him.

In the kitchen. Shirt loose. Hair is a little damp. And something glinting above his eye. You stop mid-step. What the hell. Your brain short-circuits. Is that—

“You pierced your face?”

Jungkook turns to face you fully slowly. His eyes flick to yours. For a second, he looks startled. And then he looks smug. 

“Not my face. Just the brow.”

Your brain probably stops functioning because you don’t feel like you have control over your mouth anymore. 

“Why?” you ask like it's a legitimate question. 

“Why not?” he asks with a smile and tilts his head.

It’s small, silver, subtle little dots above his right eye— why does it affect you so much? 

What are you? A crow? Attracted to shiny objects?

Weren’t you over your emo-boys phase in middle school? 

It shouldn’t be allowed. 

He shouldn’t be allowed.

You hate him.

You hate how unfairly hot he looks. You hate how much worse it makes everything. As if it wasn’t already humiliating enough to have tried to undress him with your teeth that night.

“You’re staring,” he says, voice low and smug.

“No, I’m not,” you lie, horribly, like someone caught mid-crime.

His smirk deepens.

“You sure? You’ve been looking at me like that since I turned around.”

“Like what?” you ask, annoyed. You fucking hate him. 

“Like you’re about to do something.”

You cross your arms. You try to look unimpressed. You are not even slightly successful.

“I just didn’t think you were the piercing type,” you mutter.

Jungkook steps closer.

Just a little.

“I didn’t think you were the piercing type,” he says with a pleased smirk. 

“You don’t know me,” you say like he offended you, even though you didn’t know you’re the piercing type. 

“And you obviously don’t know me,” he says, pleased. But there’s something gentle behind his words. A meaning he tries to deliver, and you miss catching. 

His eyes sparkle like he’s about to say something dangerous. Something you’ll think about later, in the dark, alone.

But all he does is reach past you to grab the peanut butter from the cabinet.

“You want toast?” he asks, completely unbothered.

You blink at him, caught in the whiplash of that voice and that stupid piercing and the way your stomach growls.

“Yeah,” you say as casually as possible. “Sure.”

You sit down waiting for your toast. You try not to look at him.

But you do.

Oh, no. 

You’re so fucked.

He brings you the toast a few minutes later, plate in one hand, mug of tea in the other. He doesn’t say anything as he sets them down in front of you. Just moves like it’s the most normal thing in the world, like you didn’t basically try to seduce him and fail a few nights ago. 

Like his eyebrow isn’t now a monumental event in your life. 

You eye the toast. “You put Nutella on it?”

He shrugs, sliding into the chair across from you. “You always want something sweet when you’re pissed. Figured it might help.”

“I’m not pissed,” You say, sounding pissed.

“Okay,” he says simply, “So what are you?”

“I-I’m–” 

You hate him.

“Urghhh, you’re so annoying!” 

He giggles like he finds your meltdown amusing. 

You chew your toast unnecessarily aggressively.

Neither of you says anything after that. You both just chew on your toast and sip from your tea.

The silence isn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it’s heavy. Something is sitting in the air between you—unspoken, obvious. Like both of you are waiting for someone to address this. 

Jungkook’s watching you.

You try to ignore it.

You fail.

“You didn’t have to take care of me that night,” you mutter eventually, eyes on your plate. “I was acting like a drunk, horny idiot.”

“I mean,” he says with a soft chuckle, “you were.”

You shoot him a glare. He holds up both hands in surrender, still grinning. “But I didn’t mind.”

You roll your eyes. “You minded a little.”

He tilts his head. “Only because I didn’t want you to regret it.”

You pause.

You don’t look up.

“I wouldn’t have,” you say quietly.

Jungkook goes still.

You feel it in the air more than you see it. 

You finally meet his eyes.

It’s subtle, but something shifts between you—like the conversation just took a step off a ledge, and now you’re both in danger.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. His voice is quieter now. The smugness is still there. 

“Then why’d you say it should be a one-time thing?”

You should have seen this one coming from miles away.

You should have known this is what he’s going to say. 

It’s not like it’s the first time he teases or challenges this statement.

He’ll use any chance you give him. 

“Because I meant it,” you say while chewing, trying to deliver nonchalant, but fail. 

“Meant?” he asks with raised brows. 

“Because I mean it,” you try to fix the mistake. 

He’s watching you again, but not smug this time. Soft. Curious. A little disbelieving of the bulshit you say. 

“You know I think about it too, right?” he says, like it’s obvious.

You scoff, taking another bite of toast. Trying to defuse whatever he’s doing. “Congrats to me. You think about the sex we had. That’s not exactly groundbreaking.”

He chuckles, unfazed. “Didn’t say it was.”

“I’m just saying,” you go on, eyes fixed on your plate, “We just did it one time, and that’s it. It was good. My drunk self tried to do it again. And that’s it, it doesn’t have to mean anything.  ”

“Doesn’t have to,” he repeats slowly. “But what if it does?”

You freeze for half a second. Then recover with a small shrug, like he said something about the weather.

“I mean…” You take a sip of tea. “You’re not exactly the ‘meaningful’ type.”

His eyebrows lift, amused. “Wow.”

You meet his eyes for a second, then look away. “I didn’t mean that in a bad way.”

He twists his lips. “You kind of did.” 

You sigh, setting your cup down. “I just meant… You’re you. You flirt with everyone. You’re hot and you know it, and I’m not stupid.”

Jungkook tilts his head, watching you a little too closely.

“So what, you thought that night was just about sex for me?” “I wasn’t just being nice the other night,” he adds. “When I said it was better if we didn’t–”

“Isn’t it always just about sex with you?” you say before he continues. 

“I liked being with you,” he says quietly. “It’s not like my whole purpose in life is to fuck you.”

It’s weird. The crude words with the gentle voice. You scoff, trying to brush it off.

“Sure.”

“I’m serious. You're nice, and fun, and funny.” He continues and smirks, “And I always like defeating you.”

“Shut up,” you try not to smile, and you toss the little crust from your toast at him. 

He smiles. 

“I didn’t want to have sex with you like that because I didn’t want to ruin this.”

You cock a brow, “To ruin what?” 

“This,” he gestures between the two of you.

“Us.” 

You blink at him. The word hangs in the air, too loud and too soft at the same time.

“Us?” you repeat, voice flat—like you’re not letting it land the way he wants to.

He nods once, slow. Sure.

You look away, start fidgeting with your mug. “There’s no us, Jungkook.”

He doesn’t react. Not visibly.

“I mean,” you continue, forcing a light tone, “we’re just roommates. Friends, maybe. Occasionally… disastrous.”

“Right,” he says, too casually. But there’s something tight in his voice now. Something he’s reining in.

So you stand up and gather your dishes. “Thanks for the toast.”

He doesn’t answer at first.

Then, as you’re rinsing the plate at the sink, he says, “You always do this.”

Your hands pause under the water.

“Do what?” you ask, careful.

“Try to run away when something is about to happen.”

There is roughness in his voice. Yet, he says it differently. He doesn’t sound hurt, or pained. It’s something else. Something raw and electric. 

Before you manage to process that you’ve heard this before– seen this mask, this persona– you hear the chair slide on the floor as Jungkook stands up.

He comes to stand behind you, almost touching, but not really. 

He lowers his head, lips ghosting your ear. You can feel his breath fanning on your cheek. 

“Do you really want to run away?”

You try to swallow the lump in your throat. 

You want to say something. But you can’t find words. 

Do you want to push him away? Or do you want to pull him closer?

You don’t know anymore.

And you can’t blame alcohol this time.

“I know this is all you think about from the moment you enter the room.”

You hate that he’s not wrong. 

“You’re not as hard to read as you’d like to think.”

He sounds so smug that it infuriates you. 

Yet, you don’t move, don’t deny. 

He reaches his hand past your waist and closes the faucet. You blink a few times. You didn’t even notice the water still running on your hands. 

He rests his hand on your waist, like it’s natural, like it belongs there. It’s warm and heavy. And it dizzies you. 

“Do you still mean it?” 

“W-what..?” You’re not sure if it’s really unclear or if it’s him obscuring your mind. 

“That we should be a one-time thing.” 

He says and lands a soft kiss behind your ear. 

“I-I-wh–” you mumble incoherently.

And the bastard chuckles, dark and low, “I see.” 

You should say something.

Anything.

But your mouth has forgotten how to form words.

His lips are still close. You can feel the echo of that kiss behind your ear.

His hand hasn’t moved from your waist. If anything, his grip tightens—just slightly. A silent question.

You don’t answer.

Not with words.

But without consciousness, your body reacts. Suddenly, your back pressed to his front. 

Was he pressing closer to you, or were you leaning back into him?

You don’t know.

And you’re not sure that you care at the moment. All you can feel is a fire and a need building to an almost unbearable height.

He hears your answer.  

You feel him exhale, slow. Controlled. And then he isn’t.

His free hand rises, fingers brushing your hair aside, exposing more of your neck.

He leans in again, slower this time.

His lips press to the skin just below your jaw. 

Then lower. 

Then lower again.

Each kiss burns.

Your breath hitches. 

You’re still frozen, your hands gripping the edge of the sink like it’s the only thing anchoring you from fainting.

Then his voice, low and right against your skin.

“Tell me to stop.”

But he knows you won’t.

You can’t.

Instead, your head tips just slightly to the side—an invitation you don’t want to speak out loud.

He pulls you back from the counter, turns you in his arms.

Your eyes meet, and everything in his is fire and restraint. Lust and fear. You don’t know what he’s scared of. You don’t want to know.

“This doesn’t have to mean anything,” he says, repeating your words back to you—but his tone makes it clear he knows they’re bullshit.

And maybe that’s why it makes your stomach flip.

You answer him by gripping the front of his shirt and pulling him down to kiss you.

This time, it’s different. It’s not tentative or fueled by alcohol. It’s sharp and sure and deep.

He groans into your mouth and walks you backward, toward his room, like he’s known this was coming. Like he’s been waiting for you to finally cave. 

Maybe you also knew.

“This time I’m doing this properly,” he murmurs between kisses. 

You don’t know what he means, but you’re about to find out. 

You pull back just slightly, enough to look at him, breathless. 

“You’re way too smug right now.”

He grins, cocky and infuriating, “What, can’t a guy be smug when he’s proven right?”

You blink at him, “Proven right?”

He leans closer, “Knew it wasn’t gonna be a one-time thing.”

You roll your eyes, “God, you’re such an asshole.”

He smiles wider, returning to kiss you as he says between your lips, “Maybe.”

You’re in his room, and he starts to pull your shirt over your head. The stupid smile is still on his face. 

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

He hums against your jaw, and he trails down the side of your neck, “I told you. I knew you’d come around.”

You scoff, “I didn’t come around. I just—”

He gives a wet kiss behind your ear. One that sends a shiver down your spine, and he leans back. Eyes meeting yours, dark and lustful, but glinting with mischief. 

“You just what?” he asks with a smirk.

“You’re insufferable.”

He returns his lips to the skin of your neck, hands hot and certain on your waist as he leads you towards the bed.

You stumble back until the backs of your knees hit the mattress, and you sit, breath hitching, thighs slightly parted. He looks down at you with dark eyes and a crooked one-sided grin. Like he’s plotting something. Your demise, maybe.

He drops to his knees.

You blink at him, startled.

He smirks up at you.

His hands glide up your bare thighs, spreading them gently, and he leans forward, kissing the inside of your knee.

He kisses higher. 

And higher. 

Until your breath is ragged and your spine is arching and your fingers are gripping the sheets.

He looks up at you, more gentle this time. Less like a predator, and more like… like.. A lover boy? 

Your answer is a shaky exhale and a hand in his hair, tugging just enough to make him grin.

“Lean back for me,” he commands, but it’s soft and breathless.

And you obey, starting to lean back slowly. 

Before you fully lie on your back, he tugs your shirt, “Wait.” 

You help him pull the shirt over your head. He puts his palm flatly on your bare stomach, eyes big and unblinking, taking in your bare top. 

He pushes slightly, but you resist, “You too.” You say weakly, your mouth dry. 

“Gladly,” he smiles and pulls the shirt with one swift motion.

He returns his hand to your lower stomach, pushing you a bit. And you comply, lying on his bed, legs dangling over the edge. 

His hand goes to the waistband of your shorts, and he starts to pull them down with your panties, slow. Very slow.

Your breath hitches as the air hits your skin. Cool against the heat.

Jungkook’s eyes stay locked on yours for a beat too long as he slides the fabric down your legs. 

As if to say this isn’t just sex, and you know it.

He drops your clothes to the floor and runs his hands slowly up the insides of your thighs again, fingers dragging, teasing, warm. His palms settle at your hips.

You look at him, and he looks at where his hands are touching.

You catch the glimmer of his new piercing, and a shiver goes down your spine. 

He notices, and he lifts his eyes to see you looking at him before you avert your gaze. 

You expect him to say something stupid, something cocky and so very him. 

But he doesn’t. 

He dips his head, moving your right leg slightly above his shoulder. 

Oh, shit.

His mouth is on you, and his tongue is warm, slow. Like he has all the time in the world to savor this moment, and he plans to take every second of it.

Your hips jolt, and his hands tighten on your thighs, holding you steady, grounding you with a soft groan against your skin.

You’re already panting, gripping the sheets, breath breaking.

He doesn't say anything. Just keep going. Keep devouring, like you’re his favorite thing.

You moan louder when he flicks his tongue just right—when he sucks at the spot that’s already making your vision blur.

He pulls back for a split second, looking up at you with a wet mouth and hooded eyes.

And when he goes back in, he slides his hand as well.

He doesn’t go in yet, he just lets his fingers be there, linger at your entrance. Let them be coated with slick as he puts a little pressure, moving them gently around. 

He starts pushing them in, not all the way at first. He starts shallow and goes deeper with each few thrusts, like he’s testing, like he’s studying where he should stop. 

And he finds the spot easily. As if he already knows. 

He notices right away that he’s got it. 

And then he starts being serious. 

He puts work and intentions into his movements. 

Fuck.

You can barely breathe.

Every muscle in your body is on fire, straining toward him. Your hips buck again—helplessly—and Jungkook just hums against you, sounding entirely too satisfied with himself. 

Or just satisfied.

That piercing glint again as he glances up, catching your eyes with a mix of focus and cockiness.

"You good?" he asks with a raspy voice, lips brushing against your thigh.

You can only nod, frantic, barely able to form words. His fingers curl inside you again, and your mouth drops open in a silent cry.

He keeps going, steady and sure, unrelenting in the way he’s touching you like he already knows your body better than you do.

You’re unraveling. 

Fast.

And you hate him for it.

And you need him for it.

You reach for him blindly, fist curling in his hair, not sure what you’re trying to do.

But apparently, Jungkook knows what you need because his mouth is back on you.

Your head flops back onto the bed, breath stuttering. 

His name slips from your lips, quiet, broken.

He hears it. You know he does. Because his grip on your thigh tightens, his pace shifts, and suddenly it’s all too much.

Your hand is still tangled in his hair. You grip harder, pulling without direction. Your thighs start to shake.

“Fuck—K-kook,” you gasp. 

You don’t know if you want him to stop or never stop.

He keeps going, steady and relentless, fingers curling perfectly in time with his mouth, pushing you closer, deeper.

Your spine lifts off the mattress. Your breath catches.

And then you break.

It hits hard, like a snap. It rips through you in pulses, your thighs clamping around his head as you gasp his name again. 

Louder this time.

Your fingers dig into his hair and shoulder, and anything you can reach.

You’re vaguely aware of your own sounds, too raw, too real, but you’re too far gone to stop them.

He keeps going through it, holding you down with strong hands. He doesn’t stop until you're twitching, oversensitive.

When he finally pulls back, his face is flushed, his hair a mess, strands stick to his glistening forehead, his lips slick, and that piercing catches the light again.

He looks wrecked.

You are wrecked.

You cover your face with one arm, breath still jagged, skin buzzing.

You feel him laugh against your thigh, quiet, smug.

He moves back, dragging his palms down your legs before letting go completely. You hear the mattress creak as he sits beside you, his breathing just as uneven.

You’re still staring at the ceiling, still trying to remember how to exist inside your own body.

Your legs feel like jelly. Your face is burning.

You let your arm drop just enough to peek at him. He’s looking at you like he just won something.

Like he knew exactly how this would go.

He reaches out, gently brushes a strand of hair from your sweaty face.

“Lie down prettily for me, babe.”

Then he stands, shoving down his sweats and boxers in one motion.

With one stride, he’s at the nightstand, pulling a condom from the drawer.

He tears the foil open, but before slipping it on, he glances back over his shoulder.

“You good?” he asks with a sweet smile..

You blink, realize you’re staring. Frozen in place.  It snaps you out of it.

“Ye—” Your voice catches. You clear your throat. “Yeah.”

You shift across the bed, lying back properly now, and seconds later, he’s crawling over you.

You meet his eyes, and he dips his head for a kiss.

He guides himself in, and while your mouths are still connected, he pushes in slowly.

You groan against each other’s lips when he bottoms out, fully seated inside you.

He lifts his head, just enough to look down at you as he begins to move—slow, deep, steady.

And fuck, this feels good.

No—but like, too good.

You’re moaning. Gasping.

He just got in there. 

What is going on?

He picks up the pace slightly. Nothing wild, just a steady rhythm.

But nothing about you feels steady.

You grab at his shoulders, arms winding around him like you’re trying to stay grounded.

You pull him closer, bury your face in his neck. Trying—failing—to muffle the sounds coming out of you.

This can’t be real.

This shouldn’t be happening.

You’re close. Way too fast.

It hasn’t even been two minutes. You’re almost sure.

Fuck.

You bite his shoulder—hard—desperate to hold it in, to hold yourself together.

But it doesn’t work.

It crashes over you, sudden and sharp.

You’re shaking.

Your whole body pulses around him. You feel your walls clench around him, hard.

You can barely breathe.

This never happened to you.

Not like this.

Not this fast.

What kind of sorcery is he doing?

What kind of spell did he put on you? Put on that dick?

Jungkook doesn’t slow. That same rhythm carries on—only faltering for a second as he presses a single kiss to your shoulder.

He shifts, one hand braced beside your head, the other grabbing your thigh to tilt your hips.

He picks up the pace. Louder now.

His hands are everywhere. One moment, he grabs a boob, fingers closing around your nipple, then squeezing the flesh. Another moment, his hand on your jaw, pulling you into a kiss. Then he settles back on your thigh, giving himself a better position to go deeper. 

Your hands also wander. You feel the muscles of his back working under the hot sticky skin. You try to hold onto his biceps, but your fingers can barely wrap around half of it. You go to his thigh, sliding over to grope his ass. 

Everything about him feels good.

And it still feels too good, even through the sensitivity. Even through the aftershocks.

His movements turn sloppy. Thrusts losing rhythm. Both of you moaning like you’ve lost any shame.

Maybe there wasn’t much to begin with. 

And with a forceful final thrust, he buries himself deep. 

“F-fuck.”

You can feel him twitch inside of you, and you feel yourself pulse against him. 

With a loud grunt, he crushes back onto you. Sweaty, hot skin stuck to each other. 

He’s still jerking, his body still tense, and he breaths quickly. 

It takes both of you a few long minutes to calm down. 

He pulls himself out of you with a grunt, plopping by your side, making your body jump off the mattress a little. 

He’s rolling off the condom, tossing it towards–what you hope is– a trash can near his bed. 

He lies back with a sigh. 

And you can feel his gaze on you. 

You scowl. “Stop looking at me like that.”

You sneak a look at him. 

He smirks, unfazed. “Like what?”

You look back at the ceiling, “Like you’re so fucking proud of yourself.”

You feel him shrug, way too casual. 

“You seemed to like it.”

You sit up slightly, groaning, you look down at him, “I hate you.”

He grins wider, “I know.”

You pull the sheet up over your chest and flop back down, pretending like this was no big deal. 

Like it didn’t just wreck you from the inside out.

Like this was just sex.

Just really, really good sex.

And maybe it was.

Maybe that’s all it is.

You don’t look at him again.

But you feel his arm wrapping around you. 

Holding you in place.

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[amoremarveloustime]

Cowboy Cassanova || Cowboy!Bucky x Fem!Reader

Summary: You return to your rural hometown after living in the big city since high school. Your grandma—your safe space—offers you a room in her house for the summer to escape everything going on in your life. Which, sounds like exactly what you need, until you meet a grumpy cowboy who seems to hate you. And, you hate him too.

Word Count: 4.8k

Series Warnings/Tags: 18+ mdni, smut, enemies to lovers, small town, swearing, drinking, limited understanding of how cowboys work, heavily influenced by Sweet Home Alabama and Hart of Dixie, Alexa play cowboy cassanova by Carrie Underwood

A/N: Welcome to my first tumblr fic!! I’m so excited to be writing this as a loooong time spectator and reader who has only written on wattpad!! Please enjoy my daydreams :)

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Dividers by @uzmacchiato

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Part One ⊹ ࣪ ˖

The air was different here.

The warmth of the breeze, slight humidity that made strands of your hair stick to your neck, dusty. It juxtaposed your memory of city air—filled with smoke and smelled like desperation. You had been taking in that air for almost a decade now, ever since you packed up and left this town without so much as a glance back. Sure, it was painful to leave your grandma behind—the woman who raised you and gave you the best parts of yourself—but she always supported your dreams.

Which meant that now, she helped you pick the broken pieces off the floor.

Your coveted job as a fashion journalist was a long time in the making. As a little girl, you were playing with patterns and experimenting with ensembles in her closet. A walk-in, bigger than little you could ever comprehend. After high school, you knew New York was where you belonged. Oh, how you wish eighteen-year-old you could see you now: struggling to drag your large suitcase down the gravel driveway along with your shame, heels catching on every third rock it met, and very, very sweaty.

Your grandma stood on the porch, smile plastered on her wrinkly face as she waved a dish towel in your direction. The Uber (the one that took thirty minutes to pick you up, must not be big business in this town) had dropped you at the front of her land, neglecting to drive you to the door and forcing you to walk the rest. Your grandma couldn’t drive anymore—unable to navigate the old stick shift truck as her eyesight began to dwindle—or else she swears she would have picked you up.

“Grandma,” You breathed, finally climbing the wooden steps that creaked under your feet. She squeezed you, the familiar scent of her old perfume filling your nostrils as images of your childhood danced in your mind.

You meant to make it back all these years. You really did. You called almost daily, sent her photos, taught her how to FaceTime—but something in you couldn’t bring you to return. Until now.

“Look at you,” She marveled. “I can finally squeeze the living daylights out of you, child—have you been eating enough? You’re looking awfully thin,”

“A Club Pilates membership will do that to you, Gran.”

“I have no earthly idea what that is.”

You laughed then, attempting to tug the damn hunk of metal up the stairs, your heels severely restricting any progress. Grandma shook her head, bracing herself on a chipped post before poking her head back in the house, calling, “Sam!”

Turning to you she whispered, “This poor boy, been helping me clean out that disaster of a garage every day,”

Footsteps approached, the heaviness of his boots meeting the floor echoing before he appeared—a tall, dark man with dirty jeans and an even dirtier t-shirt shot her a smile before offering his hand. “You must be Ruth’s granddaughter. You know, she never stops talkin’ about you.”

You smiled as you introduced yourself politely, shaking his sweaty hand and pretending you weren’t going to wipe it off when you got inside. “This is who’s been driving you around town, hm?”

“Someone’s gotta get her to her weekly shuffleboard,” Sam’s voice from the kitchen as he unscrewed the lid on a cold water bottle. “Lord knows she’ll call me every Wednesday to remind me to be on time.”

As Ruth puttered towards the stairs, mumbling about the guest room not being ready, you leaned on the counter with your arms crossed as Sam gulped half the bottle. “So, how’d you get stuck with that gig?”

“My nan’s in her league, told me she had some things around the house that needed organizin’. I got injured a while back, pretty much countin’ me out for the rodeo this season. Had some time on my hands.”

“The rodeo, huh?” Her lips pressed together in a tight smile. “Haven’t been to that in about a decade.”

“I still go, support my friends. You’ll have to come out with us some time.”

The offer hung in the air, casual and light. You hadn’t anticipated making any new friends during your stay—you didn’t anticipate anything, really. You just knew you needed to get out of New York.

“I’ll have to give that some thought.”

“Well, now that you’re here, I have to skedaddle.”

“Rodeo plans?”

He chuckled before draining the rest of the bottle, tossing it in the recycling bin. “Babysitting my nephews. Sometimes, it sure as hell feels like a rodeo. I’ll see you around,”

You waved, watching as he left the house through the front door. You pushed off from the counter, eyes scanning the house as she walked through it. Photographs were the same as before—baby pictures of you, your grandma and late grandfather, the various animals Ruth had raised over the years—like time hadn’t passed at all since you left. Your tired feet carried you up the worn stairs, the image of a younger, smaller, you running up and down attempting to evade bath time.

Your room was at the end of the hall, the same bedspread and soft mattress waiting for you. Sam had brought your suitcase up, placing it neatly by the door. Ruth watched you as you looked around, the room suddenly feeling so much smaller than it felt as a child.

“Didn’t ever change much about it,” She admitted. “Just in case you needed to use it.”

“It’s perfect, Gran.”

“Well,” She tsked, blinking rapidly like she always did when she began to get misty, “You settle in. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything—and maybe I’ll make your favorite dinner,”

You didn’t have the heart to tell her that her idea of your favorite dinner had likely changed—your palate rapidly expanded after living in one of the largest foodie towns in America. You simply nodded, turning to where your suitcase still stared at you menacingly. You didn’t unpack fully, only pulling out a few essentials for now. You made your way back downstairs, the sound of soft jazz music filling your ears the closer you got to the living room.

“Honeybee, do you think you could take the truck to the market? We need some things for supper.”

You waved at her nonchalantly. “Sure, of course. Just give me a list.”

She scribbled a few things down quickly, handing you the piece of yellow notepad paper and giving you a kiss on your forehead. You grabbed your purse, shoving the note inside and grabbing the keys that hung on the hook next to the door. As you walked out the door, the harsh reality set in as your eyes laid on the baby blue Ford—you hadn’t driven stick since you were sixteen.

You turned back towards the door, mentally cursing yourself. The last thing you were going to do was ask your eighty-something grandmother to give you a driving lesson. You could do this, you told yourself. How hard could it be?

Turns out, really hard.

The ten minute drive to the market was jerky, filled with you trying to figure out which pedals you should be pressing at what times, and don’t even get you started on the clutch. Heels probably weren’t your best idea, however, it’s all your feet would tolerate after years in the fashion district.

Finally, you pulled into the market, ignoring a few honks on the way. You stepped out, smoothing your blouse before walking into the market. You glanced at the list, then back up at the numerous aisles in front of you. You decided to just walk down a few, and you figured eventually you’d find what you needed. You’d spent the last few years DoorDashing your groceries, it was easier to manage in a high-rise apartment.

You didn’t notice how a few people stared, probably shell-shocked at the sight of your monochromatic outfit and high heels. People here tended to dress more for comfort than anything.

After about forty-five minutes for six items, you checked out, somehow balancing the paper bag and your large purse. You threw the items in the passenger seat, saying a prayer before getting behind the wheel for a safe journey home. You reached—far—for the door, yanking it shut as the metal clanged from its wear and tear. You switched the truck on, not noticing how it slightly stalled as you glanced in the mirror absentmindedly before switching gears. Your heel, slippery from your sweaty feet, slid down suddenly—causing you to jerk the car in reverse, where you felt a thud.

You froze.

Your face winced, knowing you couldn’t have possibly imagined that. You definitely hit something—what, you didn’t know. You pictured a cute squirrel, a helpless puppy, mind spiraling to the worst case scenario as you swung open the door again. Stepping out and ready to face your fatal error, your mouth fell agape at the sight of exactly what you hit with your truck.

Not a squirrel. Definitely not a puppy. Worse.

A tall, broad-shouldered man, who was dusting off his jeans and swearing under his breath as he glanced up. His face was chiseled, soft stubble crept along his cheeks and highlighted the sharpness of his jaw. His hair was long, tucked behind his ears and slightly tousled—like he ran his hands through it a little too much. A sleek, white cowboy hat sat atop his hair. But, nothing could’ve prepared you for his eyes. Striking, steel blues pierced your gaze, a harsh and unapologetic fierceness to them.

He took one long, sweeping look at you—eyes narrowing at your tight leather shorts that hugged your thighs and god, he looked positively pissed off when his eyes arrived at your black pumps.

Your hands slowly rose as your eyes widened, “I am so—“

“Is it your first fuckin’ day on Earth or something?”

Taken aback, you blinked furiously. Your mouth opened to respond, but the way his brows tugged further together left you with a loss of words. “I-I’m sorry?”

“If you’re lost, you can get a map inside. Clearly you took a wrong turn somewhere, city girl.”

The way he spat out the words ‘city girl’ rubbed you the wrong way instantly, like he was disgusted with the mere idea.

“Excuse me?”

“You just hit me with your damn truck,” He drawled, gesturing to his body, which in your opinion, looked fully intact.

“Are you sure your giant ego didn’t hit it?” You retorted, apology reeling back in and attitude taking its place.

“No, no, sweetheart, your lack of awareness is what hit me.”

You frowned at the condescension in his tone. “My foot slipped, asshole. You seem perfectly fine to me.”

“Do the town a favor and never get behind the wheel again. Especially in those.”

His finger sharply pointed to your feet, looking as if you had shit dripping from them instead of moderately expensive shoes.

“I’ll have you know, these are Manolo’s.” You crossed your arms, huffing.

“That supposed to mean somethin’ to me?”

“I guess not. Since whatever you threw on seems to be your idea of fashion.”

He scoffed. “I don’t have any idea of fashion.”

Smirking, you cocked your head. “Clearly.”

“That’s not—“ He looked at the truck again, like he was taken aback at the sight of it. “Wait a minute, this is Ol’ Ruthie’s truck.”

“Sure is.”

“Did you kill her and steal it?”

“What? No, you psycho,” You scrunched your face at him, scoffing. “She’s my Grandma.”

He barked a laugh at that, causing you to shift your weight onto your hip, your hand finding a home there. You rose a brow, wondering what could possibly be funny about that.

“And what’s so funny?”

“It’s just,” His annoyingly white teeth were on display as he caught his breath, shaking his head and looking at nothing in particular in the distance. “She’s so sweet and—how in the fresh hell could you be related to her?”

You frowned. “If you don’t mind, I’m gonna leave now. Maybe get out of the way this time before I hit you again.”

“Yeah, well, Lord knows you fuckin’ might. Hey, watch out for the deer, be a shame for them to meet such a terrible fate—matter of fact, should I follow you home to make sure you don’t kill a small child?”

“Wanting to follow me home makes you a stalker, and I happen to know the sheriff.”

“I’m still not convinced you didn’t walk straight out of a portal from hell and have Ol’ Ruthie tied up somewhere.” His large hands settled on his leather belt.

You crossed your arms again, moving towards the truck door. “Guess you’ll have something to think about while you lie awake tonight…besides what plaid shirt you’ll wear tomorrow.”

“Careful, city girl, lotta potholes around here. Wouldn’t want you to twist an ankle.”

You slammed the truck door—half because you literally had to apply force to fully close it and half because steam might as well have been coming out of your ears. Angrily, you switched gears again, careful with your feet and slowly inching backwards, your entire torso turned to ensure he wasn’t actually behind you again. You doubted you could live that down.

Except there he was, standing on the side of the parking spot with his hands perched on his hips, a sarcastic grin plastered on his face as he assessed the way you backed out. The window was slightly cracked—it always was, Gran never managed to fix it—so you could hear his smug voice ring out.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Nice and slow for me.”

You didn’t think your jaw could drop any lower—until it did. Heart pounding, you tore your gaze away from his and yanked the wheel with a sharp twist. Tires screeched as you slammed your foot on the gas, the car lurching forward in a desperate rush to escape the gravity of his stare.

In the rearview mirror, you saw him tip his hat before retreating into his own truck—parked in the spot next to yours.

You spent the rest of the drive home practically seething with anger, half a mind to turn around and finish the job by ramming Gran’s truck into the back of his. However, all thoughts about the plaid-clad asshole dissipated when you finally pulled into the driveway to find a new car parked near the porch.

Your grandma stepped out waving accompanied by a woman—one you recognized instantly. Your feet carried you out of the truck, gravel just as unforgiving to your heels as before, until you reached the steps with arms stretched towards her.

“Nat!” You exclaimed, yelping as she pulled you into a tight hug. “What are you doing here?”

“Sam said you just got into town, had to come and see if it was really true,” She chuckled, squeezing your arms as she pulled back.

There was warmth in her smile, but something else lingered beneath it—an echo of disbelief, maybe even a flicker of hurt. The kind that comes from promises made long ago… and never kept.

”Are you okay? You’re all flushed,” She continued, the back of her hand pressing to your cheek.

“Hm?” Your own hand flew to your face, discovering warmth on your skin. “Yeah, no, I just kind of hit some jerk with the truck at the market.”

“What?” Ruth gaped, looking over you—then the truck. “Are you okay? Was he okay?”

“Oh, he’s fine.” You grunted. “Had enough strength to come and yell at me for it. What happened to good old southern charm?”

“Some of the men in this town are garbage, you know that.” Nat grinned. “Speaking of garbage men,”

Her teasing tone lingered in the air as she lifted her hand, palm up, revealing a small but gleaming stone nestled on that finger.

Your jaw dropped.

Eyes wide, your breath caught as a flood of questions crashed through your mind—each one louder than the last. Ruth smiled at you like she’d anticipated your reaction before ushering the two of you into the kitchen.

”Come on, y’all can catch up inside,”

Nat stayed for dinner, marveling about her fiancèe and everything she’d been up to in the last decade. You did the same—once you two started talking, you didn’t stop.

She was always your absolute best friend, from the moment you met in kindergarten until you received diplomas. You’d kept up through social media, but it wasn’t the same. Parts of you feared this reunion on the flight over, but true to her, she didn’t miss a beat when she pulled you into that hug.

“I have to say,” Nate’s lips pressed against her beer bottle. “You look different,”

“Well,” You shrugged sheepishly. “New York’s a bit of a different pace.”

“No, I just mean…you look worldly. Like you’ve gone out there and lived.”

You smiled, lips pushing to the side as you thought about the journey that brought you back here. You had lived, you just weren’t sure if it had all been worth it.

“For a second there, I thought you’d forgotten about us.” Her voice continued, the lightness in her tone masking the true feelings behind her words.

“Never, Nat. I really meant to visit, I just…I don’t know.”

”Hey,” She grabbed your hand. “Don’t gotta explain yourself to me. But, you can make it up to me.”

“I’m afraid to ask how,” You laughed.

“Come out with me tonight.” She stated, more like an order than a request. Nat was always the friend getting the two of you into trouble in high school, much to Ruth’s chagrin—but the old woman looked at Nat like her own despite it all.

“I don’t know, I’m kind of ti—“

“I haven’t seen you in almost ten years. I just got engaged, you owe me this much—plus, if you’re going to be here all summer, you’re going to need people that aren’t eighty to hang with. No offense to Ruthie.”

“I’m gonna tell her you said that.”

She pointed her beer bottle at you menacingly. “Don’t you dare,”

You thought for a moment, reflecting on the day you’d had. Not only had you returned to your hometown, a place you never thought you’d see again, but the way that man had looked at you like you didn’t belong here…yeah, you could use a drink.

“Fine.”

The tires of Nat’s rundown four-runner screeched to halt, gravel crunching underneath as you pulled up to a place only preserved in your memories: Coyote Jack’s. Pictures of you and Nat sneaking in through the back—aided by your high school sweetheart’s older bartender brother—stealing shooters from the freezer and dancing for hours swirled in your mind.

“Looks just like I remember,” You breathed as she rounded the car to stand next to you.

“I bet it remembers you too,” She winked, pulling your hand to get in line.

You hadn’t packed for this town. To be fair, you didn’t own clothes for this town. You owned clothes for Fifth Avenue. You kept the leather shorts on—maybe to spite that guy from earlier—and paired them with a white tube top, smoothed and tucked in. Your hair was in a slicked back ponytail, desperate to escape what the humidity did to your unforgiving curl pattern.

The bouncer took one look at you, triple-checking your New York ID like it was counterfeit. Finally, he let you pass, and your entire mind went for a stroll. The neon signs, dart boards, even the sticky floor—some of the best night you ever had were spent here.

Nat glanced back with a toothy grin, eyes twinkling with mischief. She laced her fingers through yours and tugged you deeper into the bar.

It didn’t take long for the reality to hit: you were wildly out of place.

Denim was practically a uniform, stitched into every pair of legs that passed you. The air shook with the rhythm of boots pounding the dance floor—a steady, unapologetic thunder that made it clear: this was their world, and you were just visiting.

Despite the years of your life spent in this town, you never felt more like a passerby. Which meant, that asshole was right. Shaking the thoughts—and him—out of your head, you held your head high as Nat finally arrived at her destination: a table in the corner with three people staring straight at you.

“Y’all,” She proudly spoke, gesturing to you like you were on display. “This, right here, is the best time you’re ever gonna meet, and more importantly—my childhood best friend,”

You gave a small wave, offering your name with a polite smile—only to feel a sudden, sharp awareness settle over you. Every gesture, every word felt magnified, like a spotlight had swung your way.

”This is my fiancée, Steve,” She glanced lovingly up at a tall, rugged blonde man who held his hand out.

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,”

You bit back a laugh at the sheer southern charm dripping from his every word. Your mind flicked back to her earlier joke—calling him a “garbage man” with a smirk—and now, watching him in action, you finally got the punchline.

You memorized the names and faces of the others—Wanda, bright and bubbly and making looks at the tall Vis, who you learned just moved here a year ago. An arm suddenly slung around your shoulder, craning your neck to look at the culprit.

“Sam, hey,” You smiled. “Thought you were babysitting your nephews?”

“For a couple hours. My sister, Sarah, hates to miss bedtime, which is convenient because I hate to miss bar-time,”

“I was just introducing her to the group,” Nat spoke, plucking a beer from Steve, who brought over a round. You reached for one too, fumbling with the cap, twisting harder than necessary.

Before you could admit defeat, the bottle slipped from your hands—Steve had already stepped in, wordless, twisting the cap off with practiced ease before handing it back with a small, knowing smile. Little did he know, though, you once opened these with just your teeth.

“Well we got a straggler, ran to the john—he’ll be back in a sec. I’m so glad you decided to join us!” Sam spoke a little louder, the music beginning to pick up as the dance floor livened.

“I used to come here in high school with Nat,” You responded, the familiar liquid of the locally made ale coating your throat.

You chatted with Wanda and Sam, answering their prying questions of what it was like to live in such a big city, what you did for work—all things you could’ve gone without discussing, but replied anyways, getting more comfortable by the minute. And that feeling was about to be as fleeting as the glow of the fireflies outside.

“Hey,” Nat’s fingers brushed your arm as she called your name, “Meet Steve’s best man—“

You turned—and Sam’s arm slipped from your shoulders as he pivoted with you. But the ringing in your ears drowned everything else out.

There he was.

Standing dead ahead, now dressed to match the room: dark jeans, a white short-sleeved button-up pulled tight across the muscle-packed bulk of his arms, a polished belt buckle gleaming under the low bar lights… and that same stupid, stupid hat.

His eyes locked on you instantly, darkening as they dragged over your body with the same audacity they had that afternoon. You didn’t flinch—you were too busy bracing for it.

And sure enough, there it was. That inevitable flick of his gaze—straight down to your heels. His mouth didn’t move, but the judgment hit just the same.

“Run out of plaid shirts to wear?” Your voice was low, but it carried across despite the music.

He only frowned, the smugness of earlier leaving when he realized you hadn’t been a passerby. You weren’t just stopping in. You were here, with his friends, in his favorite bar—looking like you were just getting settled in.

“Do you two…” Nat’s voice faltered as her lips slid into a grin, like she was appeased by the idea. “Know each other?”

“Didn’t quite get the chance to introduce myself,” He finally spoke. “Was too busy getting hit by the tailgate of her truck.”

Sam nearly choked on his laughter, beer threatening to spill from his lips. “Come again?”

“Wait, this is the ‘jerk’ you hit?” Nat pieced your story together as she watched the way your fingers tightened around your beer and your eyebrows pulled tighter.

“Talking about me already?” He smirked now, his jaw tightening as he took a swig from his beer. “I’m flattered, city girl.”

“Had to warn a fellow woman that assholes like you are lurking around.”

“You know, I never did quite catch that apology for earlier.”

You offered a sweet, sinister smile. “Well, keep those arms out. Maybe one day it’ll come.”

“Talking about me and my arms? Sweetheart, you sure you don’t got a little crush?”

“Wow,” You drawled, ignoring the way his continued use of the pet name settled in your stomach. Deep, deep hatred piled low in your belly. “You really love yourself, huh, cowboy?”

“Alright,” Sam cut in, his voice firm as his eyes flicked between the two of you. He stepped forward, lifting a hand to slide between you—right into the narrow space where tempers had pulled you far too close. “Why don’t we take a beat, Buck?”

Sam and pulled ‘Buck’ away to where Vis was toying with the record machine in another corner of the bar. You downed your beer with a satisfied ‘hmph’, turning back to see the widened eyes of Nat.

“The fuck was that?” She gaped at you. “I’ve never seen Bucky so worked up,”

“What kind of a name is ‘Bucky’?” You ignored her question, fingernails tapping the sides of the empty glass in your hand.

“Family name,” Steve responded, an amused smile splaying across his face. He and Nat exchanged a loaded glance as they watched your eyes follow the cowboy, frown deepening and hand clenching.

“Yeah, well, it’s stupid.”

“You tell ‘em, girl.”

By the old record machine, Vis and Sam bickered over song choices, slipping quarters in with reckless abandon—as if they had money to burn.

Across the room, Bucky’s gaze drifted, landing on you mid-story, hands gesturing wildly. You laughed, lighting up the space as Steve and Nat leaned in, clearly entertained.

His jaw tightened. This was definitely not how he pictured his night going.

“Buck, you there?” Sam’s voice spoke, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “We can’t decide between Nelson and Cash.”

“I’m offended you have to ask.” Bucky’s beer was almost empty as he glanced down the neck of the bottle.

“Cash it is,” Vis sighed.

“What’s your deal, huh? You look like you’re angrier than a hornet in a Coke can. She really hit you with her truck?”

“Backed right into me, in Old Ruthie’s truck. Where the fuck did she even get that?”

“Probably from Ruth’s house.”

Bucky turned to Sam then, brows pulling in confusion. You had told him you were Ruth’s granddaughter, but for some reason, he still didn’t believe you. He took a glance over at you—your flared leather shorts, the way your hair was stiff in its gelled ponytail, those goddamn fucking heels—and he couldn’t fathom the idea.

“You’re telling me that’s Ruthie’s granddaughter.”

“I am. Met her earlier today.”

“Like, by adoption?”

Sam thundered a laugh, his hand lazily coming to his stomach. “No, Buck, she raised the girl. Parents lost custody of her at a young age, lived with Ruthie ever since. Left right after high school.”

“For where, Mars?”

“New York.”

That, he could believe.

Everything about you screamed city—from your clipped, abrasive tone to the sharp edges in how you moved and spoke. And then there was what you wore.

That damn shiny tube top had grabbed his attention mid-argument, not that he’d ever admit it. The way your collarbone jutted when you raised your voice, the subtle twitch of your arm muscles when you gestured—it all got under his skin.

Where a city girl got muscles like that, he had no idea. Probably from one of those ridiculous-looking machines they always show in late-night workout infomercials.

Whatever it was, it annoyed the hell out of him.

“Listen, she’s pretty cool, try to not be so judgey.” Sam and Vis started back for the group.

“I’m not judgey,” Bucky muttered, locking eyes with you as you laughed, your group inching closer. “Is everyone just conveniently forgetting she hit me with her truck?”

But his words were swallowed by the music—too loud, too rowdy—and by the way Sam jumped into the conversation you were effortlessly leading.

Bucky’s jaw tightened as he watched you light up the room without even trying, your smile pulling people in like gravity. It grated on him—how easy it was for you. How everyone fell for it.

But he wouldn’t be falling for it. Not one bit.

A/N: WOW I’m literally so excited to write this. Hope you enjoyed and let me know if you want to be tagged for updates!!<3

[idk-karla]

The Neighbor, pt. 5

Pairing: bucky barnes x single!mom!reader (Post Thunderbolts)

Summary: Dating Bucky comes with learning curves but loads of happiness.

Author's note: Sorry it took me so long to post this, I had some creative struggles with this chapter. Sometimes I forget the point of this is to just.. have fun.

Part 4

Masterlist

I didn’t see him for almost a week after the farmers market. He’d met me on the porch the next morning, with warm coffee and a soft kiss. He’d even walked with Ellie and I to school before he left for what was supposed to be a quick recon mission. Except it had apparently gone south because I got this message that same night after hours of complete radio silence:

Bucky: Recon bad. Gonns taje ling.

Which I could only assume meant: “Recon went bad. Gonna take long.” Not that he replied when I texted back to clarify.

Sixteen hours later, I got another message; A thumbs-up emoji and a helicopter. Classic. I tried calling, but it went straight to voicemail, like he didn’t have service.

Almost a full day passed before I finally got another text, more coherent this time.

Bucky: Crazy shit happened. On the way back. See you soon.

That was probably the most I was going to get. Bucky wasn’t very expressive to begin with and add in the fact that he’s 107, I was lucky I didn’t just get a smoke signal.

I wasn’t entirely surprised when I heard the soft knock at my door at almost midnight. Ellie had been out cold for hours and I was enjoying some necessary, self-indulgent adult time in cozy pajamas, a glass of wine (several, actually), chocolate, and reruns of my favorite show. I managed to half-run a brush through my hair before opening the door.

“You really shouldn’t open your door at midnight without at least checking who it is,” Bucky reprimanded me as a greeting. 

“Hi,” I responded with an eye roll. My heart thumped in my chest at the sight of him. For several reasons. I’d missed him was the main one. The second one was that his beautiful face was bruised and battered. A black eye, stitches above his brow, and a healing split in his cheek.

“Christ,” I breathed, reaching for him instinctively. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” His voice was low, but the way his arms came around my waist and pulled me in like he couldn’t bear another second without touching me told a different story. I wrapped my arms around his neck, burying my face in his shoulder. He smelled like soap and cedar. Like damp cotton and night air. Like Bucky. Like home.

“A black eye and stitches is not fine,” I murmured into his skin. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

He shook his head. “It’s fine, love,” he said softly. “Just hazards of the job.”

I pulled back just enough to look at him properly, brushing a curl of hair back from his forehead, careful to avoid the stitches.

“I missed you,” I whispered.

His gaze flicked down to my mouth, then slowly back to my eyes. “Oh yeah?” he murmured. “How much?”

I answered him with a kiss. I kissed him like I meant it. Like I’d felt the absence of him in every breath for the last three days. My fingers slid into his hair, damp from the shower he’d probably just taken. His lips were careful but craving, his hands gripping my waist like he wasn’t entirely sure I was real. He kissed me back like he’d been drowning and I was air.

“I missed you too,” he whispered against my lips.

I smiled, breathless. “Come inside.” 

He nodded, then bent to pick up a pink box I hadn’t noticed at his feet before stepping into the warmth of my apartment. He locked the door behind him, then turned, suddenly a little awkward, standing in the living room holding the box like it was a live grenade.

“I’m, uh… not very good at this,” he said, offering the box out to me.

I took it from his hands, greedy and already smiling. Inside, nestled in soft pink tissue paper, was a red card. In plain, neat cursive were two simple words:

Be Mine.

Not a question. No hearts. No glitter. Just a statement. So very Bucky to its core I almost laughed. Beneath it, a bouquet of crocheted roses peeked out: red, pink, and white. I pulled it out carefully, my heart already twisting. The soft material uncurled as I lifted it, revealing a small handmade blanket.

“Bucky…” I looked up at him, eyes glassy.

He stepped closer, reaching gently for the edge of the blanket to flip it over. His fingers grazed mine as he showed me a detail I hadn’t noticed. Stitched into one corner in tiny, careful embroidery was a date. The date we kissed.

“Good day,” he said quietly, almost smiling. “Wanted to remember it.”

A laugh bubbled from my chest so carefree and warm, it surprised me. I threw my arms around his neck again, melting into him like gravity had just been waiting for permission.

“You’re going to have to remind me why it was so good,” I murmured, grinning up at him. “I think I forgot.”

His low, breathy laugh rumbled against my skin before I was suddenly off the ground, lifted effortlessly into his arms.

I let out a startled yelp, muffled against his shoulder, trying not to laugh too loud in case I woke Ellie. My legs wrapped instinctively around his waist, my arms around his neck as he walked us toward the couch.

He kissed me on the way. First my temple, then my cheek, down to my jaw, the corner of my lips, my chin, my neck. Anywhere but my actual lips. By the time we fell onto the couch, I was nearly panting. 

“Bucky,” I whispered, a soft plea against his ear.

He hummed against my throat, teasingly. His hands roamed by body, rough palms greedily focused on mapping the feel of my body.

“You know,” I pulled the ends of his hair as he continued to trail skills all over my skin. “you’re supposed to ask someone to be yours.”

He shook his head, brushing his nose against my cheek.  “Couldn’t risk you saying no.”

“That’s not how this works,” I giggled, breath catching as his lips grazed the hollow of my throat. I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, cheeks flushed. “When did you even have time to do all this?”

“Before the recon mission took a shit,” he muttered, sheepish. “I asked yelena for help. She said real roses were stupid because they’s just die. She helped me order this. I fucking hate technology.”

I laughed, tugging him closer. “That’s… actually kind of sweet. And romantic.”

“Ah yes,” he said dryly. “Two words I’m usually associated with.”

I touched his face gently, fingers brushing over his bruised cheek. “You are with me.”

His features softened. He leaned in and finally kissed me again. Slow, reverent, promising.

I pulled away after a few minutes, settling comfortably in his lap. “I want to hear what happened on the recon,” 

“I’ll tell you in the morning,” he murmured, his voice low and rough now.

“Why the morning?”

“Because,” he said, lips brushing my ear, “I have a new mission right now.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I want to see how many times I can make you come,” An absolutely devilish smile was spread across his lips.

I gaped at him like a fish out of water, surprised. He laughed before taking my mouth back on his. We sank back into the couch, the blanket bouquet slipping to the floor.

***

The weeks that followed were interestingly blissful to say the least. 

Dating a 107-year-old super soldier who was only now starting to experience a normal life after decades of war, while raising a preschooler definitely kept my life from getting boring. It was domestic in a way I hadn’t expected. Comfortable. Sometimes intimate enough to knock the air right out of me.

Bucky was patient. And thoughtful, and kind and anticipated my needs before I had a chance to ask for them.

He would run his fingers down my spine when I couldn’t sleep, slow and steady, until my breathing evened out. He’d fold the laundry before I even noticed it needed doing, mugs of tea would appear beside me before I had the chance to ask, and I’d find Post-It notes on the fridge with reminders in his tight, neat handwriting:

Eat today. Take a break. Have a good day. 

He was trying to cook. I say “trying” loosely. It mostly meant he hovered behind me like a shadow, arms crossed, eyes locked on the cutting board like it was a live bomb.  That intense, tactical focus of his now completely redirected toward the stove like sautéing garlic was a classified mission. It was… endearing. A little intimidating. Kind of hot, if I was being honest.

I tried to take care of him as best I could. 

I made him start wearing actual protective gear on missions and in training, even if it meant arguing with him for twenty minutes and physically handing him the padding. I packed extra snacks in his bag. Made sure he ate when the nerves or the guilt crept up too high in his chest. I learned his triggers. What sounds unsettled him. What looks meant he needed air. What silences weren’t quiet, but full of fight-or-flight.

I kept a stash of his favorite snacks tucked in the back of the pantry, even the weird old-timey ones that took forever to hunt down. The look on his face when I surprised him with lemon drops and MoonPies had been priceless. He was still quiet. Bucky wasn’t the talkative type by nature, but he tried. He tried to open up, piece by piece, like he was teaching his own heart a new language. Some things were still too heavy, still sealed behind walls built for survival but he let me see what he could. And it was an honor. Every scar, every word, every moment he trusted me with, us with, as a gift. I made space for the silence, for the parts of him that didn’t want fixing, just understanding.  And I learned to read the silences. Not all of them were bad. Some were soft. Some said thank you or I’m trying without ever making a sound.

He didn’t disappear for weeks on end anymore. Just a few days at most. And when he came back, it was always with something in his hand for Ellie. A shiny rock. A tiny plastic figurine. A page of superhero stickers. Once, a pinecone she ultimately declared “magic.” 

Every time he came home whether to Ellie’s wide grin or to me waiting up with the porch light on, he’d pause on the steps like he couldn’t believe this was real. Like coming home was still something he didn’t quite know how to do.

Ellie was practically his best friend now, not that he’d ever admit it. She figured him out faster than anyone else had. Knew that under all the black clothes and metal and scowling was a giant, mushy softie who would hand over the last cookie without blinking. She had him completely wrapped around her glitter-covered little finger and they both knew it.

The day he picked her up from preschool on his motorcycle, she screamed so loud with excitement I could hear her from halfway up the block. I hadn’t even made it off the porch yet, my heart lodged firmly in my throat.  But I trusted him. God, I trusted him. He kept her safe. He kept me safe, too.

There was only one thing I hadn’t quite figured out how to help with. He didn’t sleep. Not really.

He’d lie down beside me, hold me all night like I was the only tether he had to this life. But hours would pass with him tracing gentle shapes on my skin, wide awake while the rest of the house slept. Sometimes I woke to find him already dressed, standing by the window as if waiting for something. Or nothing. Or maybe just trying to let the past settle quietly behind his ribs.

Once, I found him on the couch, curled around one of Ellie’s stuffed animals like his heart had needed something soft and hadn’t known where else to turn. I never pushed. I’d just come to him, curl up at his side and stay awake with him the rest of the night until he had to leave for work. 

If all I could do was offer him a quiet place to rest, then that was enough for me. I was going to talk to him about it eventually but for right now, I just needed him to know he wasn’t alone anymore.

Part 6

[rizlowwritessortof]

He can be really smooth when he wants to. When they say 'lock up your grandmas' on The Boys promos, they're not kidding! 😂 I think he's having a lot of fun charming Sofia, and she's having a ball flirting with him - I kind of love her character! 😊🥰

And I think Ben is enjoying himself, because why else is he hanging around longer than planned? Not that he would admit that!

Finally catching up here, on to the next chapter!! 🥰

UNRAVEL ME - Part 4

Pairing: Soldier Boy (Ben) x Afro-Latina!Reader

Summary: In the wake of Vought Tower finally falling, you find yourself crossing paths with Soldier Boy. Rogue, weakened, dangerous, and hunted, he needs a place to hide. You’re not about to offer up your own home to shelter a supe wanted by Homelander and the CIA…but he’s also not going to let you refuse.

AN: Here we go! Another big step in their adventure...

Song Inspo: “Mi Muchachita” by Luis Segura (English lyrics)

Word Count: 8.8K

Tags/Warnings: Fake dating (lol), meet the family, some old-school machismo, Dominican food, bachata, “North Cuba” (Miami), angst, rom-com vibes

💜 Series Masterlist

❤️ YouTube Playlist || Spotify Playlist

Part 4: Food & Family

After driving through the loops of highway along I-95, Ben grows frustrated at the thirty or so signs of exits that lead to different parts of the city. One wrong turn, and it could send you miles away from where you were—even over the bridge to Miami Beach.

You consult the GPS on your iPad, since your new “burner” phone is just an old-style flip phone. 

You’re able to point him where to go to get to the airport. He finally takes the right exit, but he pulls off the highway split, off the main road, and heads into the alley of a side street.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer you, just pulls to a stop and shifts the car into park.

“It’s been fun, sweetheart, but I think it’s time we part ways here. I’ve got a couple errands to run before I get the fuck out of here,” he says.

You consider him shrewdly. “Errands? What the hell do you mean? How’re you gonna even get a plane ticket? You don’t have any money…”

And it dawns on you. You suck in a breath, then you glare at him.

“What’re you going to do, Ben?”

“That’s my fucking business, all right?”

“What’re you gonna do, knock over a bank? Kill a few people on your way out?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to, sweetheart,” he says. He looks at the darkening alley ahead rather than at you. He’s keeping an eye out for anyone that might spot you two in the car, until you lean over and lay a hand on his forearm.

“Ben,” you say. “Look, I’ll pay for your ticket.”

His brows crunch together. “I don’t want your fucking money, all right?”

You hesitate. Now that’s a first. But you still take your hand back to start digging into your purse for your wallet. He reaches out and stops you with a big, warm hand over yours. Firm.

“You hear what I fucking said?” he snaps.

You just sigh. “Ben, breaking into a bank—”

“Doesn’t have to be a fucking bank.”

“All right, a store! Either way, that might raise a few alarms, don’t you think?”

“I’ll figure it out,” Ben says. His gaze cuts away from you and toward the city behind you both.

Suddenly, it hits you. This is it. No more of this asshole being a human crater exploding into your life. 

But it’s also kind of hard to imagine him getting on that plane alone, fucking off to obscurity again. You bite your lip while considering him. It feels like a waste.

“What if…what if you stay and fight?” you say. “Fight off Homelander. Expose him for the piece of shit he is.”

Ben’s steely expression just hardens further. “I’m done talking about that frosted hole. Whatever formula they mixed him with in that fucking lab, it didn’t come out of my ball sack.” 

You roll your eyes. God, he’s so gross. “Ben. For God’s sake. Don’t deflect—”

“You do realize I have the FBI, the CIA, and the whole rest of the alphabet soup on my ass, right?” he says. Finally, he looks at you. “They don’t want me here. They didn’t even try to find me when the fucking Commies… So no. Fuck ‘em. I’ll make new somewhere else.”

It’s truly incredible, considering how damn angry you were at him yesterday. Angry and afraid.

Now, you begin to feel a twinge of…concern. Yes, he’s arrogant and vulgar, selfish, and more than a bit of a dick at times. He’s killed people, whether on accident or on purpose, even if it was partially for your sake. But after last night, getting just a glimpse of what he went through, you wonder if he really deserves to be run out of the country. 

I may regret this, but…

“Listen,” you begin. “It’s getting late. Do you want to have dinner with me and my family? You’ll get some good food, one more night States’ side.”

Ben looks just as surprised by your offer as you are to suggest it. His lips begin to quirk upward, albeit incredulously.

“You offering to be my tour guide?” he asks.

You give him a knowing look. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It’s just dinner. Nothing else.”

You raise a finger, gesturing at him to hold on a second, and you grab your phone to call your mom first. She’s easier to talk to than your father, who would probably bombard you with questions about the trip and why it was taking you so long to get home.

“Hello?” your mom answers.

“Hey, it’s me,” you reply.

“Why are you calling from this weird number? Did something happen to your phone? Is that why you haven’t been answering our calls?”

“Yeah, sorry, I lost my phone and had to get a replacement,” you lie on the fly. You’ve had to get good at it over the past week. “I made it to Miami though. I’m almost home.”

“Oh, that’s great! Meet at Mamá’s house though. We’re making dinner right now,” she says.

You smile. Looks like Ben is going to get to meet your grandma too. “Really? Oh, okay. We’ll meet you there then.”

“We? Who’s we?”

“Oh, I’m uh…bringing a friend,” you say, though your face begins to heat in a blush at the way Ben smirks at you.

“A friend, huh?” your mom asks, in a suspicious tone.

“Yeah, okay see you soon!” You hang up the phone before she can ask you any more questions. Sometimes she can be as bad as your dad. You shift your attention to Ben.

“Okay, let’s switch seats. I think it’ll be easier if I drive,” you say.

He raises a skeptical brow at you. “Where are we going?”

You offer him a smile. “Oh, just wait. You’re in for a good time.”

Homelander’s angry strides are heavy and unmistakable. Vought employees veer out of his way and give him a wide berth, keeping their heads down all the while. His heated steps bring him to the Surveillance team, where The Deep has been at the helm for the past couple of months.

And what the fuck does he have to show for it? He’s sipping a soda while flirting with one of the glorified interns trying to sort through the classified files on her screen. Deep perks up when he notices Homelander barging into the room.

“Oh! Hey, sir—”

“Where the fuck is my son?” Homelander snaps.

Ever since the incident last week, Ryan has been ducking out of his room more than usual. Despite him choosing the right side, Homelander’s side, Ryan hasn’t been working with the production team on his superhero image.

Nothing useful has come in about Soldier Boy, and now Butcher has disappeared from their sight as well. Though that one doesn’t matter so much. Homelander will be happy to see that bastard die of the cancer already eating his brain. There’s probably nothing Homelander could do that would be more fucking hilarious than that.

“Uhh, not sure, sir. But we do have something new on the Soldier Boy front,” Deep says. He cues a finger at the girl, Ashley or Annika or whatever the fuck her name is.

She presses a play button on her computer screen, and Homelander bends at the waist to scrutinize the footage. It captures an alleyway between the main building of Vought Tower and the garage.

“This is the day of the, um, the incident,” she adds.

Soldier Boy exits the building, stumbling out really. He eventually crosses paths with a young woman. To Homelander, she almost seems familiar.

Soldier Boy grabs her arm, says something to her that makes her eyes widen with fear, then drags her toward him so he can cover her mouth with his hand. They wait there against the wall for almost thirty seconds. Then, he pulls her into the garage with him.

“Who the fuck is that?” Homelander asks.

Allie chimes in. “Ah, she was a Vought employee, sir. She recently quit without prior notice.”

“See, we had Webweaver on this, but the police just found his body in Lake Marion, South Carolina,” Deep says. 

A slow smile spreads across Homelander’s face. “Fucking finally.”

“Uhh, what?” Deep says.

It’s a lead, Homelander thinks. A trail. One step closer to hunting down dear old Dad. 

Emphasis on fucking old.

Your grandmother lives south, west, and more west, almost right on the edge of the Everglades—a 1.5-million-acre wetlands protected by the state. When tourists and natives alike end up on the news for getting their limbs bit off by alligators or left half-dead by a cottonmouth snake, it’s usually because they were stupid enough to hike through the mangroves and jump into the swampy waters alone.

You pull up in front of your grandma’s house and park in the paved driveway. It’s a modest three-bedroom, Spanish-style home that your dad grew up in with his two brothers, your Uncle Felix and Uncle Luis. They re-painted the outer walls the color of a soft sunset in golden orange, the roof tiles a darker terracotta. A rod iron gate around the property meets at the front with a small arch Ben will later have to duck his head under.

You can already smell freshly cut grass as the sprinklers run in the front yard, but for the moment, you stay in the car to figure out the game plan.

“So,” Ben says, “what role am I playing for tonight, sweetheart? Your work friend, or your boyfriend? Both have their pros and cons, and potential benefits.”

His grin is far too cocksure not to irritate you on sight. You’re already regretting this lapse in your sanity that led you to try being nice to this asshole.

You also realize that you haven’t exactly thought this through. What if they recognize him from the news? 

…Well, your parents don’t like social media and your grandmother barely even knows how to text, let alone what Instagram is. 

“Let’s just play it by ear,” you say, resisting a sigh. “But for now…God, fine, you’re my boyfriend.”

“Okay,” he gamely nods. “How long’ve we been dating?”

“Long enough for me to bring you to see my parents, so let’s say a few months,” you say. Then, you grab his wrist. “Please, try to tone down the cursing and general pussy talk around my family. They’re Catholic and…conservative.”

Again, his lips twitch upward in a way you don’t really like.

“Sure,” he says, “I can turn on the charm.”

He turns his wrist under your grasp to bring your hand up to his lips. 

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I can be very convincing.” 

A warm blush spreads across your cheeks, prickling down your neck.

Shit. You’re already regretting this. 

After slipping your hand from his grasp so you can look yourself over in the little car mirror, you get out of the car first. Ben follows your lead and walks up to the front door with you. 

You look over at him with a more critical eye, humming to yourself. You try to fix his wrinkled shirt, straighten his collar. Ben watches you do it with an amused gleam in his eyes. 

“My mom is the queen of snap judgments,” you explain. “One damn smudge or wrinkle and she’s gonna think you don’t bathe.”

You lean up and sort your fingers through his hair a little, sweeping the strands away from his brow. You have to ignore the way he’s watching you. 

When you turn and knock on the door, Ben settles a hand on the small of your back. You shoot him a raised brow. He winks at you. You don’t have time to comment or even push his hand away, because that’s when the door opens.

You greet your dad with a wide smile to cover up your nerves. Out of anyone that could’ve opened the door, why did it have to be him? He kisses your cheek when you lean in to hug him, but he eyes the man beside you with a note of appraisal. 

“Who’s this?” he asks. 

“Dad, this is Ben,” you say, choking out the second bit, “my boyfriend.” 

“Sir,” Ben greets. He offers the man a firm handshake. 

“Victor,” your dad replies, though he shoots you a look. “You didn’t tell us you had a boyfriend.”

“Is that her?” your mom says. She comes out to greet you and Ben, taking in his tall, handsome form with a pleased scrutiny. “My goodness, this is your friend, huh?” She gives you a teasing wink. “I didn’t buy that one for a minute, but it has been a long time since you’ve brought a man home.”

Ben’s smile takes on an amused glint when he casts you some side-eye. 

“It’s kinda new,” you confess, trying to ignore the hot blush in your cheeks. Your mom is already having way too much fun with this, but she immediately levels up her own brand of Cuban Mom Charm, taking Ben into the house by his arm. 

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Ben. I’m Gloria. This is my husband Victor,” she says, gesturing at your dad, who stands stoically behind her. Ben gives him another nod, then hits your mom with a kind of suavecito that would put James Bond to shame. 

“Now I know who to thank for giving my girl her beautiful smile. We’ve got Miss Florida herself right here,” Ben flirts, squeezing her hand on his arm.

Gloria twitters a laugh, making you bite your lip against a snort. 

She leads him further into your grandmother’s house, while you and Victor follow behind. Ben takes note of all the pictures on the walls and housed in various frames on virtually every shelf and accent table: your parents’ wedding, your father and your uncles when they were young, and you at various ages—kindergarten through your high school graduation, followed by your college graduation. 

There are pictures of you with your parents, your ten first cousins and thirty second cousins, your aunts and uncles, and you with your grandmother—the woman who’s currently cooking up something that smells delicious in the kitchen. Garlic and onions and olive oil; the smells mingle together with the red and green bell peppers being sautéed in a pan with some kind of red sauce. 

Your grandma Sofia takes in Ben from head to toe with wide-eyed, blinking surprise, even a bit of wonder. She glances at you, at Ben’s hand once again resting on the small of your back. Slowly, she brightens.

“Ay, Diosito mio, who’s this handsome man in my house?” she says.

Ben smiles, but you step in before he can flirt with her too. 

“Mamá, this is Ben. Uh, my boyfriend,” you tell her while giving her a big, warm hug. You try to blink past the tears stinging your eyes. You’ve probably missed your grandma the most. 

She squeezes you tight, but she also smacks you on the ass. 

“Hey!” you protest, laughing in embarrassment.

“Oye, you couldn’t call to tell us you finally got another man?” she chides. “How long has this one being going on?”

“Um, a few months—”

The old woman gasps, as if you told her that her recorded episodes of Caso Cerrado, the Latino version of Judge Judy, had been erased. Taking another look at a highly amused Ben, she crosses herself and delivers a kiss to the heavens. 

“Ay, Padre Santísimo. Finally, a man who doesn’t dress como un niño malcreado—like Justin Bieber.”

Your mouth falls open in shock. Your mother snickers, while Ben chuckles deeply. He doesn’t know who the fuck Justin Bieber is, but he knows about at least one of the pussy man-boys you’ve dated in the past. He slides you a knowing smirk.

“No, ma’am. She’s got a real man now,” he adds.

You blow out a subtle breath, trying with all your might not to glare at him. You do shoot him a tight smile, a warning in your eyes.

But he just trails a strong hand across the small of your back. The sensation makes tingles travel down your spine. 

You bite your lip and return your attention to your mom, who grabs some cheese and salami for you and Ben to snack on. You sit with him at the kitchen island and help your grandmother peel potatoes for the meal. By now Victor has claimed his usual spot on the couch, no doubt to catch up on one of the ten new baseball games he always has recorded. If there’s one thing your dad is obsessed with, it’s baseball. 

Ben lingers with you though, casually resting a hand on the back of your chair while he leans back in his seat at the island. 

“What’s on the menu?” Ben asks. 

“Carne guisada, white rice, and tostones. Eh, fried plantains,” Sofia replies. “Have you ever had Dominican food before?”

“No, but it smells delicious.”

“Ay, mija, have you not been feeding him?” your grandma reproaches, to your long-suffering sigh. 

If she only fucking knew.

Your mom watches in amusement while taking over stirring the stew. Meanwhile, Sofia rounds the kitchen island so she can tug you down by your arm.

“What have I taught you, huh?” she whispers. “A man well-fed will stay in your bed.” 

Mortification burns hot in your cheeks. Your hand comes up to half cover your face. 

“Ay, Mamá,” you hiss. Inside, you’re dying a thousand deaths. 

You glance at Ben over your shoulder. He sips at his beer, but by the way he’s smirking, of fucking course he heard her. 

“You call her ‘mom’ too?” he asks.

“Yes, they all call me that because I am everyone’s mother here,” Sofia says. She wipes her hand free of parsley bits and pats Ben’s hand where it rests on the counter. “But you, young man, can call me Sofia.”

“Mamá!”

Ben eats dinner with gusto. Your grandmother is satisfied and pleased by how much he’s clearly enjoying the braised beef stew. She even loads him up with his third serving. You watch him in amusement, even though you shake your head.

He’s stuffing his face as if he’s never eaten real food before. Though you wonder when the last time he had a real home-cooked meal was…before you met him, that is.

Ben and Victor talk about baseball and the classic players they admire (with Ben having actually met a few of them). While the men are distracted with their conversation at the far end of the table, you have to endure your mother and grandmother’s grilling. 

Where is he from?

What does he do? 

How old is he? 

Spring weddings are just beautiful in Miami, you know. Your cousin Julissa had a spring wedding by the beach. Wasn’t it nice?

Needless to say, you should be winning an Oscar for your own improv performance tonight.  

“Where are you guys staying tonight?” Gloria asks.

Your grandma looks affronted. “Well, here of course.”

You laugh a bit nervously. “Actually, Ben can’t stay. He, um…he has a plane to catch in the morning, for a business trip.”

“Oh, what kind of business? You said he works at Vought too,” Gloria asks.

You nod, though you have to think quickly to come up with something plausible. You glance over at Ben, who briefly meets your gaze. The look in his eyes tells you that he’s caught the edges of your conversation and wants to know what you’ll say as well.

“Uh, Ben is in Vought’s Sales Division,” you say. “Sometimes they have him travel overseas.” 

“Oh, wow. Where are you going, Ben?” Gloria asks him.

“Buenos Aires,” Ben replies. “Vought’s trying to develop another Voughtland down there. They’ve been trying for years, but the locals figure they’ve got enough entertainment, what with the tourist traps and the drug cartels and all. So they’ve brought me on to seal the deal. Think of me as a…well, as a closer. ‘S why they pay me the big bucks.” 

You resist the urge to shake your head, but you do squeeze his thigh in warning under the table. He gives you a smile and a raise of his brows. Eying him pointedly, you shift the conversation. 

“So he’s planning on staying at the airport tonight, since it’s such an early flight,” you say. 

Sofia shakes her head, as well as a finger in the air. 

“No, no. You are a guest in my home, so you will stay here tonight. I won’t take no for an answer,” she says. 

Ben gives you a self-satisfied smile, before he answers her.

“Well, who am I to say no?”

It seems strategic, the way your mom corners Ben in the kitchen to try and fish more information out of him. Meanwhile, your dad pulls you aside into the living room.

“So tell me. What’s going on with that job of yours?” he asks. His brows have that telltale furrow of concentrated Dad Worry. On Victor, it looks just shy of being angry.

You cross your arms, debating with yourself for a moment. You’ve been lying a lot tonight, but this is something you know you have to come clean about, even if you know it’s a victory for your father.

“I quit, okay,” you admit.

His shoulders loosen in relief. His gaze raises heavenward while his hands rest on his hips.

“Thank God,” he says. But then, he concentrates back on you. “This mean you’re finally moving back home?”

“I didn’t say that,” you snap. “I’m gonna stay here with Mamá for a little while until I figure out what I’m gonna do. But I’m going to find something in New York. I have time now. Maybe I can finally start my own graphic design business.”

For the past year that you hadn’t been able to find other work to leave Vought, you’d begun to spin the idea in your mind. You have friends in the Marketing department who could help you build a website, run some ads across socials. You know how to create your own content, do your own marketing, even reach out to potential clients. All you need at this point is some time and money. You have one, and you can use some of what you have in savings to invest in the idea—to build something of your own. Something honest.

Victor’s jaw clenches. He swipes a hand of frustration over his face, his gait shifting with the effort of keeping his anger contained in his mother’s house.

“Why do you always have to be so damn stubborn?” he grits out.

“Why’re you always trying to control my life?” you counter, just at hotly. “I’m not a little girl. I’ve been doing what I have to do on my own—”

“But that’s it. You don’t have to,” he says. “You wanna get blown up in one of those buildings? Or run through in the street by one of those fucking supes, like that girl two years ago? You’re smart, mija. Use that brain for something besides selfish little ideas that don’t go anywhere.”

Your mouth falls open, but nothing else escapes. Your heart is in your throat, a painful lump as tears cling to your lashes.

“You went to NYU because the schools here somehow weren’t good enough. Now you’re in debt,” he continues, raising his hand up to his brows. “Hasta los ojitos. ¿Verdad? You tried to make it in that city because you wanted to be an artist. And where did you end up? At a corrupt fucking company that worked you like a dog, and nearly got you buried under a pile of rubble like it was 9/11 all over again.”

His words cut into you like so many knives. A familiar well of acid had been churning in your stomach; now it reaches up into the base of your throat where you’re already choked by embarrassment, resentment, shame.

“Okay, dessert!” your mom calls from the kitchen, this time unaware of her husband. She brings out the large pan of flan she made last night and sets it on the table while Ben begrudgingly brings out the smaller plates and spoons. The smell of Café Bustelo reaches you as the cafetera begins to steam and boil on the stove. Sofia lifts the top of it and nods when she finds that the espresso is done percolating.

“Quién quiere café?” she asks.

Heaving a sigh through his nose, Victor raises a finger. Ben notices you, sees whatever he sees in your face, no matter how you try to bury it down. You can tell that he’s heard every word, just by that look on his face. Ben approaches you and your dad, once again sliding a hand across the small of your back, but you speak before he has a chance to say anything.

“You want coffee, right?”

Ben nods slightly, letting you leave him to escape into the kitchen. He shifts his attention to your father. The man is shorter than Ben, but still a presence that commands respect in the house.

“You still work for Vought after everything that’s happened?” Victor asks him.

Ben’s brow turns wry. “Oh, I’ve got an exit strategy.”

Victor nods. That seems to mollify him a bit, even as he watches his daughter. Ruefulness enters his gaze, even if it’s still hard with his convictions. It just reminds Ben of his father’s blue-eyed stare—the kind that always pierced straight through his skin and saw every scrap of weakness underneath.

“She’d rather live in that fucking cesspool than listen to me,” Victor says. “Young, stubborn, thinks she knows it all.”

Ben’s lips tug at a smile. Yeah, that’s fucking you.

“She thinks she can handle it out there by herself, but take away all that attitude, and what?” Victor shakes his head. “She’s fucking soft.”

Ben glances over at him, then at the silver medals framed in glass on the wall. There’s a picture of a younger version of the man in front him, leaner, just as stoic, wearing an army green uniform and a captain’s insignia. If Victor looked to be in his mid-fifties now, that would’ve put him in his early 20s during the Vietnam War.

Other than a few photo ops after the Tet Offensive and a movie he did in the late ‘60s, Ben spent most of his time snorting coke and fucking the female cast of Bewitched. (Elizabeth Montgomery blamed her failed marriage on him, but that shit was wrecked long before he came into her picture. Literally.)

Ben’s gaze drifts away from the shiny wall of accomplishment, and back over to you across the room. You’re helping your mom set out the plates of flan after she cuts each slice. He sees how hard you try to bury everything you have boiling inside behind the task, swiping a stray curl out of your eyes as you go. He’s come to recognize that look, and the things you do to keep moving forward.

“She can be,” Ben nods at your father. “But maybe she’s stronger than you think.”

Victor’s brows furrow, but Ben doesn’t stick around for more. He joins you back at the dinner table and takes a small white espresso cup you offer him. Your fingers brush with his on the pass, but its his hand casually curling wily strands of your hair behind your ear that earns your attention, your slightly widening eyes.

He smirks down at you before taking a seat. Despite yourself, your lips tug at a smile, and you join him.

After dessert, your parents finally head back home. You finally allow yourself to confess to your grandmother that you quit your job. It’s easier to be honest with her than with your parents sometimes.

She’s sorry to hear the news, knowing you enjoyed your independence in New York. While you didn’t necessarily love your job, up until now it had allowed you to have the life you wanted.  

Since she has more room to spare in her house, she’s graciously agreed to have you stay with her for a little while. You know what you told your dad, but you wonder if you can even go back to New York after this. He might just win after all.

But of course, there’s also Ben.

“I still don’t know what the big fucking deal is,” he says, somewhat grumpily. 

You sigh and shove an extra blanket into his hands from the hallway closet. 

“Look, my grandma is fun, even a little mischievous, but she’s not actually going to let me share a bedroom with my ‘boyfriend’ under her roof. Conservative Catholics, remember?” 

You also hand him a towel to take a shower. “Besides, it’s not like I’d let you into my bed anyway. Can you please just remember our deal?” 

He nods, albeit reluctantly. “Don’t you fucking worry. I’ll be out in the morning before God and everyone wakes up.” 

You hesitate, leaning your back against the doorway to your room. Ben will be staying in the second guest room down the hall.

“Well, you can still knock on my door before you leave,” you say, with a slight smile. “You know, if you wanna say goodbye.”

Ben eyes you, a smirk pulling at the corners of his lips.

“Might as well get that outta the way now,” he says.

Your smile fades in confusion, but before you can react, he slips an arm around your waist and guides you in close. After a beat to gauge the look on your face—surprised, but not angry, by the way your eyes roam his face—he bows his head to claim your lips.

It’s a thorough kiss, and a little demanding as his lips move over yours, but it makes a tendril of heat lick down your spine as your fingers curl around his biceps. 

You find yourself at a loss when he breaks away. His eyes open to meet yours, smiling when he finds you breathless.

“Goodbye, sweetheart,” he says.

And he lets you go, allowing your hair to slip through his fingers. 

You’re tempted to smack that self-satisfied look off his face, but you shake your head with a smile. You guess you can give him one for the road. 

Butcher, Hughie, and the rest of the boys are tearing apart Webweaver’s disgusting apartment. Considering the supe’s phone is dead, and he hasn’t been seen in over 24 hours, Butcher is willing to bet that Soldier Boy killed the little prick. 

Unfortunately for Butcher, Webweaver was feeding him information. 

“There’s nothing here,” M.M. says in disgust, wiping his hands of a sticky substance. He’d rather not know what it is.

“He had to know something in order to pick up the cunt’s trail,” Butcher says. He points to Webweaver’s laptop, where Hughie is trying to hack the password.

Butcher’s phone buzzes in his pocket. Fishing it out and peering at the ID, he smiles slightly at the text. 

I’m close to your apartment. Can we talk?

Ryan. Finally, the kid is coming around. Butcher types out a reply.

Give me half an hour. 

Butcher considers his next words carefully, and he adds…

There are things we needa talk about.

There was too much shit he hadn’t told the kid, for fear of pushing him away. (Already done.)

Or fearing the kid wouldn’t believe him. (Ain’t got nothing left to lose now.)

Butcher only half suppresses a wheezing cough.

Oh, yeah, he’s still fucking dying. But if there’s one thing he’s going to do, it’s find Soldier Boy, so he can make good on their deal on snuffing Homelander.

He knows he’ll have to be even more creative with how he gets the supe to agree, seeing as Butcher double-crossed him once before. But this time, he has M.M. and Annie actually on board with the plan. Homelander plans to get V24 in the military with Victoria Neuman’s help.

So all the fucking Spice Girls finally agree: right now, Homelander’s the bigger threat. Then, they’ll somehow deal with Soldier Boy.

Or better yet, the two will kill each other. 

“Got it!” Hughie fist pumps the air. He’s been able to crack into Webweaver’s laptop, even though he balks at having to sort through a tremendous amount of disturbing pornography.

He finally finds a file labeled: Parking Lot, June 3, 5:34 p.m.

He presses play. The first thing he sees is your scared face come into frame, followed by Soldier Boy. 

​​“Oh my God,” you breathe. “Soldier Boy?” He glances up at you through furrowed brows. He looks ragged and soot-stained, his breathing labored as he leans against the wall. He focuses on you. “Uh, a-are you okay?” you ask shakily, clutching your messenger bag.

“All right,” Butcher drawls. “Who the fuck is that?” 

In the morning, you wake to the sun in your eyes through the windows. You get up and check the room across the hall. The door is open, and the bed is made, clear of Ben’s things. You feel disappointed that he didn’t wake you up before he left.

I guess the one goodbye was good enough for him, you think, not willing to wonder why that kind of upsets you. 

Whatever. It’s for the best. Soldier Boy is finally out of your life, and you can focus on what you need to do to pick up the threads of your life.

With that decision made, you go about starting your day. You don’t bother to change out of your pajamas. You just fluff out your curls and venture out to the kitchen, where the smell of Cuban coffee once again wafts stronger in the air. Your grandma might be Dominican, but she’s embraced her daughter-in-law’s Cuban-centric community with the little things, like espresso and pastries in the morning.

There you find something unexpected. You find Ben sipping coffee, chatting with your grandmother at the kitchen island while she makes breakfast. Her favorite radio station plays on the counter and masks the contents of their conversation, but they’re smiling and laughing, having a good ol’ fucking time.

Until Ben notices you standing there with your mouth hanging open. He grins.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he says, taking another sip of his coffee. Sofia smiles over at you too.

“Ben,” you say. Your voice strikes a higher pitch than usual. “What happened to your flight?”

“It got cancelled,” he claims, though he beckons you over. You remember then that this little play is still going on—meaning you force yourself to smile and go to him as if you’re so very happy to see him.

Why the hell did I ever think this was a good fucking idea?!

He takes full advantage of the boyfriend charade, laying a heavy hand on the small of your back. It travels around your waist and comes to rest on your hip. He brushes his thumb back and forth over the thin fabric of your pajama top, and even has the gall to eye you with a grin, likely noticing that you aren’t wearing a bra.

“I invited him to stay for a couple more days, get to know the family,” Sofia says while stirring some scrambled eggs. Bacon is also sizzling on another pan on the stove.

While her back is turned, you shoot Ben a knowing glare.

To think you were a little disappointed about being rid of him. Now, you’re just angry and irritated as good sense hits you upside the head. The longer he stays with you, the better chance of Homelander or the government finding him. 

You’re quiet throughout breakfast while Sofia asks Ben more questions about himself.

“Do you go to church?” she asks, with a raised brow.

You snort into your coffee, but Ben just rubs the back of his neck. 

“I’ll admit, I’ve skipped a few Sundays,” he says, somewhat dismissively.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. His skin would probably burn if he took one step inside of a sanctuary. 

“Well, what about kids. Do you like children?” Sofia asks.

Your eyes widen. “Mamá, seriously?”

“I always thought I’d have a few,” Ben replies. You turn to look at him, and the sincerity of his tone and the sudden thoughtful gleam in his eyes surprises you even more.

“Guess I’ve been waiting for the right time to settle down,” he says, glancing at you. It’s hard for you to read that look, but it makes you wonder what the fuck he’s thinking.

He goes back to eating.

After breakfast, you get up to help Sofia clear the table. While she’s putting the pastries away, you grab Ben’s arm and lead him closer to the living room. 

“You really need to go,” you whisper-hiss. “You promised me—”

He rolls his eyes. “All right, keep your fucking panties on. Just one more night of R&R and I’ll get gone.”

“You better be for real, because I can’t—”

“Ay, mi canción,” Sofia says. She comes over and tugs on your hand. “You remember this one, right?”

The song that plays on the radio is “Mi Muchachita” by Luis Segura, the song your mom would always wake you up with on Saturday mornings to get you up to help her clean the house. It was a tradition your grandma started when your dad and his brothers were kids. She later got your mom hooked on it when she came to stay with your family for a few years, shortly after you were born. Gloria had needed the help, and her parents had already passed away a few years back.

Now, Sofia leads you away from Ben so that you can dance with her. She pulls into the bachata—ironically, the dance that began in the bars and brothels of Santo Domingo. In the 1960s, it was the dance of the lower class, the degenerates, and the campesinos. Bolero rhythm was its heart, but the spirit of the common people was its soul.

You protest at first at being uprooted from your grumpy mood, but your grandma has a way of hooking you into almost anything. Eventually your tense shoulders relax, and you’re laughing and twirling under her hand while you let your body inhabit the song.

Ben watches the scene in amusement, becoming transfixed by the sway of your hips, to the quick and natural steps of your feet…until Sofia grabs his hand too. 

“Hey, no. I’m good,” he says. “I don’t dance…whatever this is.”

“So I teach you,” she insists, beckoning him closer. “Come, come! Watch me. Es fácil. Real easy.”

You step off to the side to give them room, and you giggle while watching Ben try to follow her instructions. Sofia is persistent though. She teaches him how to step in counts of two, how to lead her back and forth, then turn her around. She even sends you a cheeky look while she has the man’s hands trapped either in her hand, or on her waist.

You hide your laughter behind your espresso cup. Damn. She’s still got game.

After a few minutes, Sofia leads him over to join Ben’s hand with yours, claiming she needs a rest. She guides you into his arms, and you step in with a good-natured smile.

“This is a bit fucking much,” he mutters to you. “It’s too complicated.” 

“You’re actually doing well. Just feel it though. Don’t watch your feet,” you continue to instruct him, amused by his hesitance. 

He seems to be into this though, and he begins to gain some confidence the more he learns the flow of the steps. He holds your hand more assured as he moves from side to side in time with the beat. For a white boy born with a silver spoon in his mouth, he has some decent rhythm. 

Ben throws in a spin that’s not quite bachata-like. It feels more like the swing of the ‘40s, the stuff you’ve only seen in movies. Still, it thrills you when you end up even closer in his arms, his warm chest pressed to yours. He looks down on you with hooded eyes that slowly roam your face, stopping on your lips.

He begins to bow his head toward yours, but you clear your throat and smile, a little nervously. You place a hand on his chest and push him back subtly as the song comes to an end. 

“Oh! Before I forget,” Sofia says. 

You almost forgot she was there. Instinctively you freeze where you stand, still catching your breath all too close to Ben. 

“Can you pick up some things from the store for later? I’m making arroz con pollo,” she says. “But you know what, I’ll give you a list, ‘cause I’m out of some other things too.”

Glancing up at Ben once more, you take the excuse to step away from him. You agree to take your grandma’s list, and you head to your room to get changed. 

The man not only follows you to the car, but insists on “getting out of the house” and going with you to the local Cuban-owned grocery store and café. 

“Christ on a Cross, is this the price of steak nowadays?” he mutters, eying all the cuts behind the cold glass. “Used to be cheaper to order it at a fucking restaurant.”

You’ve stopped here to pick up a couple packages of ground beef. You shoot him a glance, wondering why he cares when he had enough money to buy the restaurant, once upon a time. Maybe it’s the principle of the matter with him.

“Welcome to the modern world,” you drawl. “It’s getting too expensive to live, and jobs don’t want to pay for shit.”

He raises a brow, but he follows you down the aisle.

Ben is kind of the worst to go shopping with. He sneaks things into the cart when he thinks you’re not looking. You tell him you’re not buying him three different cakes and a dirty magazine. Where the hell did he even find that? 

You stuff it all back on a shelf, behind some boxed novelty cakes imported from Mexico. Though you agree to buy him one dessert, after you throw in some peaches. 

“You may be a super soldier, but you should eat more fruits and veggies,” you quip. Stuffing himself full of takeout, booze, and weed all the time can’t be good for him.

Ben raises a wry brow at you. He sidles up close while you’re putting goods on the checkout counter. His hand molds to the curve of your waist as he speaks lowly in your ear.

“I’ve got all the peaches I need, sweetheart.”

You blush hotly and send him a wide-eyed look over your shoulder. His hand means to drift lower on your ass, but your lips purse, and you smack his hand away.

“Do you have no shame?” you whisper-hiss. Giving him one kiss was like feeding a stray dog. Now he thinks he can keep sniffing your ass for more. 

“Come on, Chiquita. Would it kill you to lighten the fuck up?” he teases. 

You roll your eyes heavenward, praying for strength. You manage to get through the rest of the transaction of the checkout line mostly in peace, and Ben does all the heavy lifting of putting the bags in the car. However, you’re giving him a bit of a cold shoulder as you get back into the car.  

“All right, what’s the matter now?” he asks. “For Christ’s sake, you don’t have to be so fucking frigid.”

“Why did you come anyway?” you ask, slamming the trunk closed. “Just to cop another feel? What, did you think I was gonna blow you in the alley behind the bodega?”

Ben hesitates with a frown. There’s a moment where you think he might give you an earnest answer, but ultimately, he just shrugs. “Worth a shot.”

You scoff, both incredulous and disgusted as you rip the driver’s side door open and get inside the car. You barely wait for Ben to do the same on the passenger side, before you’re turning the ignition and angrily shifting the car into reverse. 

You back out with more force than Ben would’ve recommended, but he flexes his fingers on his thigh. He doesn’t want to tell you that he hadn’t liked the idea of you going out alone. Not without a weapon, some protection.

But he also didn’t think you’d still be cockblocking him so much after last night. And this morning, he thought you were actually warming up to him…

Guess not, he thinks sardonically, with a roll of his eyes. Whatever. It’s not like he’ll be wanting for pussy when he gets to South America. Pretty soon, it’s going to be him fucking bitches on nude beaches, drowning himself in margaritas, blow, and pussy all day long. 

He doesn’t know what it is about you though. He knows you’re into him, even if you won’t admit it… 

It’s that challenge, that Latina fire that stokes his blood every time he looks at you. Gotta be.

He also knows that the moment he leaves, one of two things will happen. Either Vought finds you, or the CIA does. If it’s the latter, they’ll question you. Even if they don’t get the information they want, they could try to protect you and your family.

Regardless, Ben knows he can’t stay. That’ll just make things worse, for himself, and for you. All he can do is take advantage of the hours he has left here.

“Look, what’s your problem, huh?” he tries again. “Think I can’t show you a good time?”

You heave a sigh without looking at him. “It’s not about that, Ben.”

“Then what’s it about?”

“You’re leaving. You’re not going to stay and fight the deranged prick who’s on the verge of taking over the whole damn country,” you say sharply. “You’re gonna fuck off to who knows where, bury your head in the sand, and numb yourself for the rest of your life. So there’s no point in exploring you and me. I’m not gonna be some quick fuck and ‘Sayonara, sweetheart. Been a good time.’ No! None of that shit.”

That falls heavily between you two, even with the radio playing at a moderate volume.

Ben simmers in the near silence while you drive through the heavy traffic in Miami. You curse when you get stuck at an intersection. 

“This is taking fucking forever,” he grumbles.

You whip your head over at him again. “Okay, and? Should I part the Red Sea of Miami for you?”

“All right, Christ. Enough,” he says. He rubs at his forehead like you’re giving him a headache. 

Good, you think. The feeling’s mutual.

Ben crosses his arms in his seat and stares out ahead. Traffic is starting to easy up, allowing you to inch closer to the righthand turn. 

You blow out a sigh, contemplating the man riding shotgun. You’re not sure why he’s still here with you. Why he doesn’t want to just leave his old life behind and make new somewhere else. It’s obvious that he wants you, but does he care about you? 

There’s no point in exploring you and me.

You hadn’t meant to say that, but it left you with a sinking feeling in your chest afterward. You still feel its hold on you now, steely fingers gripping your heart.

It’s fucking crazy. You must be crazy…to want him to care.

But before you can let your mind devolve any further, Ben breaks you out of your thoughts when he points out a McDonald’s up ahead. 

“How about you pull over into the drive-thru there,” he says.

You raise a brow at him. “You’re hungry again? Already?”

He shrugs. You shake your head, but your lips begin to tug at a smile. This fucking bottomless pit.

“All right, I’ve got this.”

You take him to a hole-in-the-wall Cuban bakery. The sign is half-scratched off, but you know it from memory. This place has been here for over 50 years, since waves of Cubans fled the iron fist of Fidel Castro’s communism in anything that would float those 90 miles—from pristine sands, and the home of guava fruit, plantains, and pure sugar cane, to the rough shores of the Florida Keys.

Ben polishes off a Cuban sandwich and three guava and cheese pastries, washing it all down with three beers and a cigar he got by talking shop with the locals playing dominoes in the dining area. The men are old enough to remember him as Soldier Boy. Even though they watch the news all day long, they have a healthy mistrust of everything they see.

They're more inclined to trust the supe they watched and admired when they were young men, the supe that (they thought) represented the ideals of the American dream; the same dream they themselves had fought for when they arrived in this country.

“Don’t worry, we’re not gonna out you to the press,” says the only one of them who speaks English. “I’ll just get to tell the wife that I shared a cigar with Soldier Boy. She don’t gotta know when.” 

The other men laugh, Ben included. You roll your eyes. 

They talk him into playing around of dominoes with them, offering to “teach” him how to play, as long as he bets $5 to start with. You lean over his shoulder and help him make the right moves. Your dad and your uncles taught you how to play when you were a kid.

With your help, he ends up winning $200 dollars off of the old men. They don't get mad about it, all too happy just to spend time with one of the only superheroes they respect. You realize then why Ben is getting along so well with these guys; the man himself is at least twenty years older than them. This is essentially a group of his peers.

And what does that make me? you wonder, not knowing whether to laugh or be icked out. The longer you stare at Ben's profile, the line of his jaw, the cut of his beard, the roguish sweep of his hair and the shape and broadness of his form all too casually sitting in a metal chair, the more that thought fades to the back of your mind.

You focus more on Ben, specifically the way he's all too smirky and cocky and proud of his winnings. You’re amused at the way he counts the bills to himself later in the car. You’d think he won the lotto at Atlantic City or something. 

“Hey,” he says, earning your attention. “Let me take you out before I go. Call it a thank you.”

You give him an incredulous look. “You haven’t tested fate enough today? You should be lying low. Me too for that matter.”

“Relax, Chiquita. Nobody fucking knows we’re here,” Ben says, continuing to count his bills. He glances over at you though. “Besides, you’ll be fine, long as you’re with me.”

You consider him with a tilt of your head. Long as you’re with me, huh?

He wants to actually do something for you. More than that, he wants to protect you.

You fight the small swell of butterflies in your stomach. Matter of fact, you hate those little shits. A small sigh escapes your lips.

This guy is fucking exhausting.

“How many goodbyes are we going to have, Ben?” you ask.

He quirks a smile. 

“Just humor me.”

AN: Did you like the little scene change? I had to give things a more tropical vibe for Miami. 😉 Plus, we got a bit of the fake dating trope sliding in there, meeting the parents, some disappointed father syndrome -- checking some rom-com boxes right? 😂

Next Time:

You lead him away from the tight crowd on the dance floor and around the bar, and into a dark hall near the bathrooms. It’s still loud though, that baseline dropping as the DJ’s sirens go off in the club. 

Ben stumbles, his left hand shooting out to smack heavily against the wall. He dents the plaster. You quickly move in front of him and rest your hands against his chest.

“Ben, you with me?” you say in a measured tone. “Hey, you okay? You hearing me?”

His brows furrow in answer, but you can tell he’s not all there. His breathing is growing ragged. You feel his chest getting warm, and then hot. 

Oh, fuck, your blood runs cold. Is this the strange new explosive power that nearly crumbled Vought Tower? Is this club about to get wiped off the map, like that building in Midtown? Are you about to get blown sky high along with it?

Fuck that. 

You grab his face in your hands. “Ben, you focus on me, okay? Before you blow your cover. Before you hurt someone.”

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[gigiszn]

I'M ONLY HUMAN — jinu x fem!reader

p2 to NEVERBELIKEYOU

an: wow im honestly surprised that a lot of you guys liked the last one! i hope this one is up to your standards guys i really enjoyed writing it sorry it took me awhile to get this one out i went to the beach yesterday and came home absolutely DRAINED... but enjoy this soft smut! please do not worry, because the next chapter will pick up where this one left off with some smutty smut smut

tw: kissing, fighting, threats, demons, grinding, arguing.

wc: 2.8k

۫ ꣑ৎ ｡°‧⭑.ᐟ

You couldn't stop thinking about it. And the funniest thing was, you couldn't for the life of you put your finger on what exactly you were thinking of.

Of course, your mind was constantly circling the image of you and Jinu — lips mere centimetres away, breaths colliding, and the small smirk you could've sworn you saw still plastered on his face, even during a moment like that.

You also cruised through the memories of your fights, or the dancing as you thought of it. The way you moved in sync. Waltzing through the streets, your arrow stopped by his demonic claw. His kick swerved as you bent and flipped, only for him to move just before your combat boot landed on his jaw.

Or maybe it was the way you saw a gentler side to him that nobody else had seen. The way he hid his big blue tiger with a freakish smile and a brooding crow that looked like it knew all your secrets, the way he would swat at the crow the second it pinched a miniscule hat from the top of the tigers' head. Nonetheless, the tiger remained blank faced — rather, smiling faced, even as the bickering encircled around him.

At the end of your trailblazing trip down memory lane, you realized no matter what you thought of that night, it circled down to one thing.

Jinu.

He was intoxicating. You hated the way he made you feel. The way he made you want. And want what, exactly? It drove you mad, as if he was an alarm that you couldn't snooze. A bug that whirled and whirled and whirled around your head, far enough that you just couldn't shoo it away.

It made you curious. Intrigued. Left you wanting.

You couldn't get the feeling of just the trace of his lips off your mind. You hadn't even kissed Jinu, yet in that soft moment, you felt, even just for a second, his human side. You had been taught by Celine that most demons were born demons, with no good in their core. But some were different. Better. Smarter. Stronger. Because they weren't fueled by Gwi-Ma, they were fueled by the humanity they once possessed. The moment the Saja boys came to fruition, you had a feeling Jinu was one of them. Perhaps the others, too, but they were still weaker.

"Y/N?.. Y/N.... Y/N!" You were startled back to reality with the milk from your cereal bowl splashing against your cheeks, Mira's palms flat against the table.

"You good?"

"Where'd you just go?" Rumi questioned, head tilted as her eyebrows furrowed. She was better at reading you than the others. With Zoey and Mira, it was a piece of cake to brush it off and sidetrack the two with a compliment or an observation, but with Rumi? You'd have to literally disappear into the night if you wanted her off your trail.

You gave her a look that meant 'I'll talk to you later', quickly masking it by clearing your throat and looking at the awaiting faces of Zoey and Mira.

"Ah, nothing. Just thinking about the Honmoon and everything," You eased in, shaking your head casually, "Hey, Zoey, how are those lyrics coming along?"

You smiled, nodding your head enthusiastically as Zoey quickly jumped into her rant about Huntrix's new song, Mira following suit and becoming distracted.

Your eyes drifted over to Rumi's once more, though you had no choice but to notice how her eyes hadn't left you the entire time. Your gaze solidified, nodding your head slowly.

۫ ꣑ৎ ｡°‧⭑.ᐟ

You hummed the tune of 'How Its Done' to yourself as you stepped out onto your balcony, the sky tones of a peachy orange and cool purple, splashes of yellow and pink highlighting the empty spaces as the messy clouds brought the illustration in the sky together. You liked to think of the morning sky as an empty canvas, the ancestors painting every night without fail during the evening as a gift to humans.

A watering can was in your left hand, a brownie in your right. You wandered across the decently sized balcony, letting the nozzle of the can tilt downwards at its own weight, water drizzling from the watering can and onto your abundance of plants. You were a gardener, what can you say?

You make your way to the indent of your balcony, where your main plant collection lies. As you bent down to water your hydrangeas, a pair of ever-so-large amber eyes opened one after the other.

A normal person would be shocked, terrified, running around as if their head had fallen off at the mere sight of this unknown creature. But you knew all too well what the golden irises were, and the only thought you could muster was why the hell his eyes opened one at a time?

"Come here, kitty," You cooed, hand outstretched to the devil-cat. A normal person would've screamed, or even frozen in fear. But you weren't normal, were you?

The tiger crept forward, its movements both hesitant and oddly bashful for something so fearsome. It lowered itself into a careful sit, stopping at a cautious distance. Its left eye flicked to your abdomen, the right trailing behind like it was too lazy to care. Gross.

It observed your patterns, the marks now having grown to the point where it looked like a shiny purplish belt wrapping around the front of your torso, the ends of the patterns reaching to wrap around you slowly but surely.

"You can thank your leader for those, kitty." You sighed, turning away from the cat to lean against the railing of your balcony, only to be met with an annoyed looking crow adorning a tiny top-hat.

You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes at the bird in suspicion. After a still beat, a second pair of eyes suddenly snapped open—hidden beneath its feathers. The crow let out a sharp caw, then took off in a frantic flutter, wings brushing the air above your head as it darted toward the tiger.

"Actually, these two aren't under Gwi-Ma's control."

Your arrow was to his neck as soon as his words faltered, the anger and confusion you felt swirling in your irises once more. Your steps weren't careful like the tigers, rather demanding and enraged as you cornered Jinu against the glass wall of your building. His eyes studied you carefully — testing, waiting. Perhaps to see if you'd follow through, although you both had known you wouldn't harm him. Not yet.

"That's not the way you greet a friend," Jinu pouted, his lips curling downward as his demonic eyes flashed with a light only to be described as calculated and inhumane. You pressed your forearm against his neck harder, eyes glaring into his with a spite that made his throat bob with a gulp.

"You are not my friend, Jinu," you hissed, your forearm releasing its pressure from Jinu, instead holding the arrow in your hand like a blade against his sweating neck.

"I thought you were supposed to shoot that thing," Jinu continued, smirking as his neck strained to have a better look at the weapon being held against him. He and you both knew that one wrong move would be his demise, but it didn't seem like the demon cared all too much.

"I'm a multifaceted person." You interjected, unwilling to be a pawn in his game of chess. Jinu could jest and tease all he liked, but you weren't around for mind games.

In the blink of an eye, he vanished, leaving behind a swirl of hot pink smoke that curled in the air like a final laugh. A light tap on your shoulder snapped you back to reality—Jinu now stood behind you, that same infuriatingly confident smirk playing on his lips.

"You didn't think you could get me that easily, did you?"

"I was planning on it."

"I'm a demon, remember, little hunter?"

"How could I forget?"

"It hurts that you underestimate me."

"You know what hurts, Jinu?"

The balcony fell silent. The air was thick, tense, brewing. His cocky grin faltered, lips pursing as his eyes fell in a way that spoke thousands of words with no words at all. Jinu's chest fell as a deep sigh escaped his mouth, fingers curling up into balls. His brows furrowed for a moment, the wrinkle between forming a sharp line. He was conflicted, though you couldn't place your finger on what. He knew what the next words you uttered would be, yet he let them spill from your mouth anyways.

Your eyes were glazed over with the frustration you've held for the past week, lip trembling ever so slightly. You blinked hard, mistakenly letting just one tear escape from your iris. Hands shaking, you let the bow and arrows slip from your hands, fading into nothing.

The tiger and crow stood a distance away, the tigers tongue hanging from its mouth. Its expression was an unreadable one, but in the sense that you truly couldn't tell if there was a thought behind its eyes.

"What hurts is that I have no idea what I fucking am," your voice broke on your last words, delicate hands wobbling over your face to cover your eyes as your cries shook through your body. Leaning against the wall, you continued crying, feeling shame and embarrassment wash over you like a flood.

"I.. Can't deal with this like you can.. I'm only human."

You were letting everyone down.

You, a leader?

It was pathetic.

Truly, fully, utt—

...

You were caught in his arms, held like something fragile yet fiercely cherished. Fingers curled into your sleeves, you lifted your gaze, and there they were—his eyes, dark and luminous, spilling with a quiet knowing that felt impossibly intimate. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t fear. It was a kind of recognition, as if he saw every scar beneath your skin and accepted them as part of the masterpiece. Slowly, his lashes lowered and he drew you in tighter, as though the act of holding you could keep the chaos of the world at bay. Your hands hovered, unsure, then found their way around him, trembling like the first notes of a song not yet learned. Hugging a demon should’ve felt wrong. But in that moment, it felt like poetry—strange, beautiful, and inevitable.

After a still moment, your eyes met once more. There was a strange buzz in the air. A moment that felt dangerous, impossible, yet so completely right. Jinu's eyes flickered from your lips to your eyes, brows furrowed in a quiet mental battle. You could feel him pulling back. Afraid. The same way you were just days prior.

But this time, you didn't want to let go.

Stepping onto your tip-toes, you pulled him by his shoulders down to you and onto your lips. Jinu was frozen for a moment, eyes wide as he attempted to recalibrate and understand what the hell was going on. Then, his worries washed away and he latched onto you as if you were a balloon of helium, and he was the weight anchoring you down to earth.

In a way, he was.

Jinu's arms were traced around your waist, wrapping around you tighter like a serpent does to its prey. You breathed in harmony, lips dancing just as you two would every day as you attempted to shoot your arrowhead through his devilish heart.

Your bodies danced, too. His arms and feet guided the both of you as he led you inside and onto your bed. His veiny hand slowly traced up your arm, over your forearm, gripping your hand and holding it over your head. You pulled away from his lips, panting and trying to catch the air that was left in the room.

He paused, looking down before making eye-contact once more, "The only time I can't hear Gwi-Ma in my head is when I'm with you, Y/N."

His voice was filled with confidence, a confidence that could only come from a man who would risk his life to defend his word. Your eyes brimmed with tears once more, your lips pressing against his with a feverish hunger. It was animalistic and romantic, the passion from two kindred souls who had followed the red string to the very end and intertwined with their missing half.

Jinu's hands explore your body with practiced precision, one sliding up your back while the other lets go of your hand above your head and cups your face, thumb tracing your jawline. His kisses trail down your throat, each one leaving a slight tingling sensation where his lips touched. He becomes more insistent as he moved against you, fingers tracing the intricate patterns on your skin, leaving ghostly marks that fade into you.

"You're so beautiful, Y/N.. Patterns and all," he mutters under his breath, your body responding with a whine. Your hips rut upwards against his, both of you silent apart from your grunts and moans that you ever-so-desperately tried to stop from leaving your throat as to not alert the others' on the literally unholy acts taking place.

“Please, Jinu… I need you…”

The words left your mouth like a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding—soft, tremulous, almost too fragile to exist in the charged air between you. Candlelight flickered against the walls, casting warm gold across his face, catching in the dark sweep of his hair. The sharpness in his jaw eased, and something unreadable settled into his eyes—a warmth, a recognition, a tether quietly snapping into place.

His hands, which had once moved with danger, now moved like silk. His fingertips grazed your skin, trailing slowly down, reverent in their touch, until they found the edge of your waistband. There, they hesitated—curling lightly around the fabric, as if he were giving you time to change your mind. But you didn’t.

Then, like a knife through silk—

Knock. Click.

The sound fractured everything. Your heart shot up into your throat, only to immediately collapse, plummeting straight to your feet.

“Hey, what’s with all the noise in here?”

Rumi’s voice was groggy, irritated, the words drawn out by sleep. You turned in panic. She stood framed in the doorway, rubbing her eyes, hair a wild halo in the dim hallway light. Her presence didn’t just interrupt the moment—it shattered it, like glass cracking beneath too much pressure.

“RUMI! I—It’s not what it looks like!” you cried, scrambling to your feet, tripping slightly on the tangled sheets as you rushed to block her view.

She blinked at you, slow and dazed, brow furrowing as her eyes scanned the room.

“Your… bedroom… isn’t what it looks like?” she asked, voice flat with confusion.

You spun around—Jinu was gone. The bed was still a storm of rumpled blankets and tossed pillows, the space still warm from where he’d been. And then you saw it: a delicate curl of hot pink smoke, trailing lazily into the air like a final exhale. It shimmered faintly in the dim light, the last trace of him disappearing like a secret slipping through your fingers.

“Nothing,” you lied quickly, forcing a shaky smile. “Just dreaming, hah.”

You guided her gently out of the room with both hands, trying to sound casual.

“Probably just need some Nyquil, right? Okay, sleep good, Rumi!”

Before she could say a word, the door shut between you, muffling the hallway and sealing you back into the room’s charged silence.

You slumped against the door, your back sliding slowly down the wood until you sat on the floor. Your palms rubbed across your face, dragging down slowly as if trying to wipe away the memory.

Then, movement.

You looked up.

Through the glass balcony door, dimly lit by the silver wash of moonlight, sat the tiger and the crow. The tiger, regal and tense, its glowing eyes watching you with unreadable calm. The crow beside it, perched with eerie stillness, feathers ruffled ever so slightly by the night wind. They were facing you—just watching. Silent witnesses.

You let out a dry, disbelieving chuckle, “You two better not have been watching.”

You crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps and drew the curtains across the glass, cutting them off from view.

“Go tell him this isn’t over.”

And then, as the velvet fabric fell into place and the room dimmed, you looked down.

There—sprawled across your abdomen and climbing upward—was the mark. The lines were inky and delicate, coiling like vines, now crawling steadily up your ribs and toward your collarbone. It was more intricate than before, like the mark itself had begun to breathe with you.

You touched it lightly, fingertips tracing its path.

No fear. Not anymore.

Just… anticipation.

But you shook it off. Not now. Not yet. Because no matter how gently he held you, no matter how deeply he looked into your soul—

He was still a demon.

[taomyou]

nerds do it better - chapter 5: Satorumon

synopsis: You know, most people wouldn't be all that interested in getting to know the weird Digimon kid. Good thing you're not most people! - or, you and Gojo meet at a Digimon TCG game night and become really, really good friends. tags: gojo satoru x reader, nerd!gojo, fem!nerd!reader, modern au, college/uni au, fluff, friends to lovers, mutual pining, cosplay, displays of affection, slow burn, kissing & making out || wc: 13.6k taglist: @okkupid (comment to join!) ao3 || tumblr masterlist || next chapter's hints a/n: to any fellow digimon fans, i hope you appreciate the references, there's a ton of them there. if you're not a digimon fan, let me know if you'd want a different post where i explain them <3 enjoy! this one's my favorite

You and Gojo stand in silence, uncomfortably close to each other and everyone else around you.

. . .

Uh, well, actually.

The people behind you are arguing with strangers and trying to push through the line to “find their friends,” the couple in front of you are loudly talking about what they’re going to do to each other when they get to the nearest family bathroom, and you’re pretty sure that no one apart from you, Gojo, and the sibling duo in Kagamine Rin and Len cosplay next to you is wearing deodorant.

So, silence probably isn’t the right word to use right now.

You can feel Gojo nervously looking around, and you’re trying just as hard to not let your annoyance and discomfort find their way to your face. You’re probably not doing that great a job, but you just hope that anyone who’s looking at you right now is just checking out your cosplay.

Gojo clears his throat next to you, tugging at his collar with one hand and fanning himself with the other. “Crazy weather we've been having, huh?”

“Yep! Sure are!” You grin sarcastically, forcing a laugh through your teeth. You angle your fan towards Gojo, who hums as the breeze comes towards him. “How long have we been standing here, by the way?”

“Huh?” Gojo leans in closer to hear you. “Speak up!”

“How long have we been in line?” You ask louder.

“Oh!” Gojo shakes his wrist to unveil two Vital Bracelets from underneath his sleeve. He offered to take care of yours for you today, seeing as you wouldn’t be able to wear it with your cosplay, so he’s got both a blue strap and a pink one on. He presses the button for the time, and he frowns before turning the screen towards you. “Almost two hours.”

“Great,” you groan, dramatically throwing your head back. You already asked the same question, like five minutes ago, so you don’t know what answer you were hoping for, but certainly not that.

Gojo chuckles before nodding his head in acknowledgment, humming as he guides your head back safely onto his shoulder without poking him again like it had back at the hotel room.

You know neither of you want to say it, but you know he’s thinking the same thing.

Let’s leave.

It’s still early—a modest 10 in the morning—but the searing heat combined with all the warm, sweaty bodies around you is starting to make you feel faint. Not enough for you to actually need to leave, but you’re leaning on Gojo as much as your outfit allows so that you don’t have to exert all your energy standing upright. Gojo’s faring slightly better, but if even he’s feeling hot, there’s no hope for the rest of you.

You and Gojo have already gotten through all the “would you rather” questions you prepared to kill the time, and you’ve started dipping into the “deep and personal” questions Gojo keeps on standby for when he needs something to fill the time. The line is moving, sure, but not fast enough for either of you to feel any sort of relief when you take your small steps forward.

You both planned on standing in line for an unreasonably long time, but this is getting ridiculous. They’ve been checking badges for an hour or so already, but you can only now start to see the queue to get through that and security.

Thank goodness you chose a cosplay that didn’t require heels.

One of the many voices surrounding you gets louder, but you don’t pay any mind to it until Gojo pokes at your cheek to pull you away from your thoughts. He says your name repeatedly, trying to get your attention.

“Huh?” You look up at him, careful not to move too much and poke him with your horns. Gojo tips his head in the direction of a stranger, and you look back to see the Rin cosplayer. She looks maybe a year or two younger than you and Gojo.

“Hi! I just wanted to say I, uh, really like your cosplay. You’re Lilithmon, right?”

You smile, nodding enthusiastically. “I am! Thank you, I’m happy you recognized it! The two of you look great, too!”

“Thanks!” After a nudge from the Len, she clears her throat and nervously smiles, swatting away his elbow. “Would it be alright if I got a picture of you?”

“Oh! Yeah, of course!” You hurry to put your phone in your purse, and before you even try to set it aside on the floor, Gojo takes it off your hands. “Do I look okay?” You ask him.

“May I?” Gojo asks, hand hovering over your bangs. You nod, and while the Rin fumbles with her camera, Gojo fixes your hair for you, humming as he gently readjusts one of the pins. He smiles once it's back in its proper place, and he steps aside to get out of the photo, space permitting, and you pose.

“Okay! One, two, three!” You hear a few clicks from the camera, and when she nods, you start to step forward to offer your contact so she could send the pictures to you after the con.

Before you can do that, though, the Len cosplayer is raising his hand. “If it’s okay with you, could she also get a picture with you? My sister’s too awkward to ask, and it’s her first time at one of these things.”

“Hey! I told you not to tell anyone that! And I was gonna ask eventually!” The Rin groans, kicking her brother’s shin. When you and Gojo both laugh at their exchange, she turns red and awkwardly laughs. “Sorry about that! But, uh, it’s totally okay if not!”

“No, no, please!” You beckon her to come in for a picture, and after she hands the camera to her brother, she rushes in. At the same time, Gojo moves over to where the camera is, and he smiles and gives two enthusiastic thumbs-ups from behind the Len cosplayer.

You take a few pictures posing together, a couple casual ones with peace signs, and one making a joint heart. Before the Len can lower the camera, Gojo gestures over to where you are and tips his head. “Do you want a picture with them, too? I don’t mind taking it.”

“Oh! Are you sure?”

Gojo scoffs playfully. “Uh, duh!” The Len cosplayer hands him the camera and instructs him on how to take the picture, and Gojo nods dutifully as he pushes up his glasses and takes the camera. After the two Kagamine siblings are posed on both sides of you, Gojo closes one eye as he holds it up to his face, and he leans back to get everyone in the frame. “Okay, one, two, three!”

You don’t know why he even bothered counting down because you already hear clicks before he gets to three, but you can’t afford to roll your eyes at him and ruin the picture.

“Okay, now a silly one!” Gojo encourages, now squatting so he can get new angles. The three of you do several, and after Gojo stands upright again, he beams, giving another thumbs-up. “Alright, awesome!”

All four of you rush to move forward in the line, which has moved considerably while you’ve been taking pictures. Gojo comes back over to the three of you to hand back the camera, and the Rin cosplayer stays next to you.

“Could I ask you for Instagram or something so I could send you the pictures later?”

You nod. “Yeah, I was gonna offer it to you anyway. I can type it in.”

She pulls out her phone from her pocket and hands it to you after opening it up to the Instagram search bar, and you send yourself a follow request. You give the device back to her, and you both watch as Gojo and the Len cosplayer go through the pictures together. They’re talking about something you can’t really hear over all the noise, so you start up a conversation with her, exchanging names properly.

“So, this is your first con?”

“Yep! My brother’s been to a few, but I’ve never been before because I’m, uh, broke.”

“It’s okay, me too,” you offer with a sympathetic smile. “It’ll be fun, though!”

“Yes, waiting in lines and standing around while everyone stinks up the room is so much fun,” she says sarcastically.

You awkwardly laugh. “It’ll be fun once you get inside.”

“It better be, I saved up for months to come,” she grumbles. “But, I mean, I’m still excited! The line’s moving faster now.” She ushers all four of you forward again, and you peer over the people in front of you to see that the line is, indeed, moving along nicely. Instead of standing still, you can now walk slowly.

“Finally,” you sigh. “So, are you guys planning on attending every day of the con?”

She shakes her head. “Nah, just today. You?”

“Yeah, I think so. We have badges for the entire weekend, but we might skip Sunday if we’re too tired. All the panels we wanna go to are today and Saturday, anyway.”

“Lucky, I wish I could stay longer. My brother has work and I have an exam I have to study for, so we have to head back tonight,” she groans. “Are you planning to cosplay the other days, then?”

“Nah, too much work. This was already enough of a hassle to deal with,” you gesture vaguely at yourself.

“You look great, though, it’s totally worth it!”

You bashfully smile. “Thank you, I appreciate that.” You’ve been recognized in cosplay before and have had plenty of interactions like this, but it’s the first time today and in this cosplay.

“Oh, who’s your boyfriend cosplaying, anyway? Are you guys matching?”

“Huh?” You raise a brow. “Boyfriend?”

“Yeah, the guy with the white hair.” She points over to Gojo, who’s now laughing with his hand on the back of his neck. The two of them talk animatedly, and when Gojo catches you staring, he waves cutely before resuming their conversation.

“Oh!” You turn pink, and your hand goes to where Gojo’d adjusted your hairpin earlier. “He’s Cool Boy from Digimon Liberator. We didn’t plan to match, it just kinda happened that we both cosplayed as Digimon characters.”

“Really? Wasn’t planned?” She sighs wistfully with her hands on her cheeks, looking between you and Gojo. “You look so good together, I’m so jealous. My brother is, too. He’s been grumbling about how cute you guys have been in line, saying he’s gonna, like, ‘change the trajectory of your lives’ or something if you kiss in front of us.”

“I see,” you start, then biting your lip.

Should you correct her and tell her that Gojo isn’t your boyfriend? She seems convinced he is, and you can’t really blame her for the assumption. Just a few minutes ago, you were leaning against him as he asked you what your first impression of him was—which was that he was really, really cute and that you’d never think you’d be able to be this close to him, but he obviously can’t know that so you just told him that you thought he was a huge nerd and that you still feel that way—, and he was so soft re-clipping your hairpin for you, holding onto your things for you.

At the same time, as much as you want Gojo to be your boyfriend—not that you’d ever admit that to anyone, or yourself, even—he isn’t, and pretending he is probably isn’t great for your heart. You’d felt it earlier when you were back at the hotel and you were killing time before getting ready, daydreaming about him and sulking to yourself that you were too much of a coward to do anything about it.

You choose to be selfish and lie. You’ll deal with your feelings later.

“We’ll be sure to not… kiss in front of you guys, then.”

She waves you off, shaking her head. “It’s too late, him fixing your hair earlier for the picture was more intimate than kissing.” You blush, now full-on red, and she laughs, seeing you get so shy. “But, seriously, the two of you are really cute. How long have you been together?”

“Uh,” before you can come up with an answer, Gojo comes back to you, his hand finding its way to the small of your back.

Not possessive, not domineering. Just… gentle. With his other hand, Gojo holds out your phone. “Your mom called. Sorry, I couldn’t pick up before it went to voicemail.”

“Oh, thank you,” you sigh in relief, leaning into his touch and taking your phone. “No worries, I’ll text her back. It’s too loud to talk over the phone here, anyway, and she probably just wants pictures of us together.”

“Oh, really, Princess? I’ll be sure to take plenty today, then,” he chuckles.

The Rin cosplayer gives you a look, one that you recognize after having seen it so many times on other people’s faces when Gojo pulls out his nickname for you like that, and she clears her throat before waving one last time.

“I’m gonna get back to my brother now, but thank you again for the pictures! I’ll make sure to send them later!”

“Thank you, and you’re welcome! Have a good time at the con, hope we run into you again.” You wave goodbye to her and her brother, and they drift away as the line continues moving forward. Nearly at security, now.

You unlock your phone, and Gojo gently presses with his hand on your back to guide you as you look down to text your mom to ask what she wants. She tells you what you already knew to do—send pictures of yourself with “that handsome boy you brought home during spring break that likes that digimon show you like”—and you swear you’ve never turned down your screen brightness faster.

Gojo hands your purse back to you when you’ve turned your phone off, and as you’re putting it away, he speaks up.

“So, what’d you two talk about? You and the Rin cosplayer?”

“We just chatted about the con, nothing special, really.” Can’t exactly tell him that she swooned over you and your not-boyfriend. “What’d you and her brother talk about?”

“Uh,” he pauses, pulling away slightly to look ahead of yourselves, “same thing, pretty much.”

The line splits off into several lanes for bag screening, and because Gojo’s wearing a backpack and you’ve only got a purse, you’re separated. Getting through security is painless, probably because the workers have gotten into the groove of it by now, and you wait before the ticket check area as Gojo waits for his bag to be properly checked.

He jogs up to you, putting his backpack on properly. “Sorry, did you wait long? You could’ve gone through, I would’ve found you after.”

“I didn’t have to wait long, I don’t mind either way,” you shrug, leading the two of you over to the shortest queue to get inside. The two of you wait quietly, and after you both get checked in, you’re given your badges.

Before following the crowd towards the entrance to the first convention hall, Gojo veers off to the side. You follow him, trying to put on your badge without it getting tangled in your horns as you walk, but Gojo stops you. Once in a clear enough area, he gently takes your badge from you and carefully puts it on for you.

You look down at it, too shy to look up at him. “Thank you, Gojo.”

“You’re welcome! You ready to go in?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Looking over at the entrance, he holds out his hand to you, prompting you to take it. “So you don’t get lost.”

You do, but you apologize as his fingers can wrap around yours. “Sorry, I’m kinda nervous.”

“It’s okay, me too. Can’t you feel my hand shaking?” Gojo laughs.

“Nope.” Well, actually, you figured that was your hand shaking.

Before he can make any kind of comment about it, you tug him along, his grip getting tighter to not lose you as you blend into the crowd.

And, you swear, you think you’re going to die when you feel his thumb rub circles into yours.

☆

“Just get both of them! It’s not like you’re going to ever get the chance again!”

“Yeah, but I already told myself I wouldn’t spend too much on prints!”

“Oh, come on, you’re not gonna find merch for your niche indie horror JRPG anywhere else, probably! Just get it!”

“He’s right, you know,” the artist laughs, having kept up with all your bickering in front of their booth for the last five minutes. “I took a lap earlier, couldn’t find anything.”

Gojo gestures vaguely towards them, nodding frantically. “See!?”

You sigh, pulling out your wallet from your purse. “I’m gonna regret this so fucking hard later.”

“I know you won’t, but whatever you say, sweetheart,” Gojo chuckles.

You tell the artist which prints you want, and they have you pay before disappearing behind their display to pack them up for you. While you wait, Gojo mindlessly looks through their pin bin next to where the artist has their business cards. The artist comes back, your prints now in a shiny plastic sleeve, and you thank them before stepping off to the side to put it into the bag that’s been steadily getting heavier with other prints.

And keychains.

And pins.

And stickers.

And plushies.

And accessories.

And apparel.

. . .

Once it’s securely away (and before the realization hits that you’ve already spent way too much money in this specific artist alley alone), you hear Gojo thank the artist before joining you in the open space off to the side. Looking up, you see that he has a pin with one of your favorite characters in his hand.

“Oh, that’s so cute! Did you see another one in the bin?”

“I thought you were trying to be smart with your money,” he chuckles.

“I am! I was just wondering,” you huff. You probably wouldn’t get another pin (...probably). “This is your fault, too, Cool Boy. Stop enabling my irresponsible purchases!”

He takes off his glasses to glare at you properly. “Hey, you’re enabling mine, too! I didn’t have to buy the whole set of Digi peeker stickers at that one booth, but you peer pressured me!”

“What’re we, five? I didn’t peer pressure you! I just, uh,” you kiss your teeth, “strongly encouraged you to get them. And you were gonna get them anyway!”

(You’re both wrong.)

(Both of you are to blame.)

“I don’t even have any more space on my car to put them anywhere!”

“Which is why I so graciously offered to split the price with you and take anything you don’t want off your hands,” you roll your eyes. “And you have space on your back windows, put them there.”

“What do you mean, ‘put them on your back windows?’ That’s where the blind spots are!” Gojo exclaims.

“You don’t need the whole window, but I guess you can’t take any chances,” you grumble, taking a jab at his driving.

“You’re so cute when you’re being a hater,” he teases, leaning down to be eye level with you. “Lighten up, I’m just messing with you.”

He pulls your hands up, poking at them until your palms are open, and he puts the pin in them before looking away, standing up straight again. Whatever he’s looking at, you can’t really tell because his glasses are back on, but nevermind that!

“Gojo,” you swoon, looking between him and the pin, “is this for me?”

“No, I’m just letting you hold it,” he says sarcastically. “Of course it’s for you.”

You know he’s in tune with your fandom interests, but it’s tugging on your heartstrings extra hard today to be reminded of how much he pays attention when you’re telling him about the things you like. Obviously, you know he’s listening, but it’s another thing to be reminded of it like this. He’s already grabbed a few stickers for you to put on your suitcase later, too, extra careful to choose ones that fit well with the ones you’ve already got on there.

You beam, and you slip the pin into your bag before reaching up to pull him down for a hug. “Aw, you didn’t have to, thank you! Sorry I’m being so annoying, you know I don’t mean it!”

“Don’t worry, I know,” he muses.

You can’t really hug him in earnest because Lilithmon’s claw is in the way, but Gojo still melts into you all the same. He rocks you back and forth, shifting your forms from side-to-side, and he gives your body a big squeeze before letting you go. When you pull away from him, though, you feel an uncomfortable tug on your head from your purse strap getting caught on your horns.

You exhale through your nose in annoyance as you try to untangle it with your one functional hand, but before you can really stress much more about it, Gojo stops you.

“Here, let me do it.”

As he carefully lifts and pulls your purse strap, you keep your eyes to the side. “Thank you,” you say under your breath.

“Would it be easier for you to just keep your purse in my backpack? I don’t mind.”

“Really? You sure?”

“‘Course! Here,” Gojo turns around and squats down just enough for you to be able to put your things into his backpack at your height.

“Gojo, I love you,” you say wistfully, unzipping the biggest pocket and carefully placing your purse inside, then taking your phone and wallet out to keep it on-hand. “Thank you!”

After you zip it back closed, Gojo stands up straight again, hands on his hips as he stretches side to side. “So, you ready to keep going?”

“Yeah, let’s.” You smile up at him, taking his hand to lead him in the direction you were taking before your little squabble.

“Are you sure this is the right way?”

“Respectfully, Gojo, you have no directional awareness, so I’m not listening to you.”

“I’m rolling my eyes right now, if you couldn’t tell.”

You pinch the skin on his hand, just enough for him to yelp and let go of you, and you laugh as you get settled into the next booth.

As you rifle through this next artist’s stickers and Gojo stands comfortably behind a small group of friends next to you and looks over the prints posted at the back wall, time goes back to flying by.

A few hours have already passed since the two of you have properly gotten through security, and it’s been… great. Really, really great.

For as much grief you and Gojo have been giving each other about it, you’re both incredibly happy with all the fan and official merch you’ve gotten throughout the early afternoon, and there’s a fair amount of freebies that’ve also been nice to get. You haven’t reached the exhibition halls that show off all the new content for the upcoming year yet—that's saved for tomorrow's itinerary—, but you’re sure to find more things being given away for free there, too, either by other con-goers or companies trying to advertise.

You’ve already run into a few people who brought their own Digimon stickers and charms to give out to other people cosplaying from the franchise, and while Gojo still hasn’t properly been recognized yet as Cool Boy, the DTCG card he has works as a way to ID him, and he’s received all the same freebies you have.

Earlier, you were given a Koromon phone charm and him a Botamon one, and once the sweet girl who was handing them out left after talking to you both about the new upcoming Digimon game and asking for directions to get to that panel room later, you both looked at each other and silently switched. Gojo had no idea how to put it on his phone case, though, so you did that for him while he texted your mom (and himself) some more pictures of the two of you around the convention from your phone.

Damn your mother for liking him so much.

Between all the starts and stops, you and him are whisked by the wind towards all the things you love together. Wide-eyed through artist alleys, cheering for miscellaneous singing and dancing groups in concert halls, waiting in lines that are too long to grab signatures from your favorite VAs and authors. There’s plenty to do, plenty to see.

Along the way, you’re frequently asked for permission to take photos of and with you in your cosplay, you’re pulled away from the calming hurricane. And, every time, Gojo’s there with you, smiling brightly and offering to take pictures from a million different angles. He’ll strike up conversation as he’s crouched down and trying to make sure he’s got the best lighting possible, and when you’re far enough away after the interaction, he’ll ask if you’re alright. Thankfully, nobody’s been weird or overly touchy, but you’re touched that he’s still asking anyway.

On that note, you can’t help but feel sad that he hasn’t gotten the same recognition you have. You know that Cool Boy isn’t as recognizable a character, especially with as little promotional material he gets, but every time you’re approached by someone who’s calling for Lilithmon, you wish to yourself that they could also acknowledge Gojo in his cosplay.

You can’t really tell how he feels about it—you know he’s happy for you, so jealousy wouldn’t be the right way to describe the brief shift in energy as he’s helping you open and close your lip gloss or asks to reach behind your ear to brush away a piece of confetti that’s landed in your hair—but you don’t know how to ask when he spins you around so quickly that you can’t see his face that much longer before you have to go pose in front of the camera.

You don’t have the time to dwell on these thoughts, though. There’s too much to do, too much to see.

As of right now, you aren’t all that interested in buying anything from this booth, so you move aside so that other people can look at the display. Gojo’s pulling out his wallet to pay for the prints he’s getting from here, though, so you watch from the side as he tells the artist how glad he is to have found them before he’s officially run out of money to spend.

When he’s finished, the two of you make your way down the lane, walking slowly so as to scan everything you see. It’s quieter now, probably because most people are gathered at one of the panels for a more popular game series in another exhibit hall, so the two of you relish in the silence as you peruse the last few sections of the alley before finding something else to do.

Then, Gojo spots it before you do—a booth selling primarily Digimon-themed items in another lane, closer towards the exit for this hall. “Wanna look over there?” You nod, and the two of you weave through the thinning crowd to get there.

At some point, your hand finds itself in his again, but neither of you say anything about it, even after you get there together. In fact, he doesn’t seem to pay any mind to your touch at all, leaning down to look at all the keychains hanging on the gridwall with his fingers still laced with yours.

You try to do the same, pretend that his touch doesn’t make your heart beat out of your chest, but even all the cute keychains in front of you aren’t enough of a distraction.

Pull it together. You’ve held hands before, and you didn’t think about it then.

Thankfully, though, the artist behind the display is quick to greet you, and you take the opportunity to let go of Gojo’s hand to wave hello. Again, he doesn’t seem to really pay attention, also waving hello with the hand that was just holding yours.

“Let me know if you have any questions at all! And, just so you know, anything in here,” she gestures to the small bin at the end of the front table, “is B-grade, so it’ll be a bit cheaper.”

You and Gojo both wordlessly gravitate towards the bin full of bagged charms and keychains, knowing that whatever bargain either of you can get, you’ll be taking. The small scratches and discolorations don’t really bother you, anyway, and Gojo’s the same way.

You know you really don’t I anymore Digimon merch, but before you can pull away and let yourself get dissuaded from buying anything else, Gojo’s already picking up a keychain of your favorite mon and dangling it in front of you. “Hey, you should get this!”

“Gojo, you can’t keep doing this to me,” you let out a little sob, pulling your hand away to wipe at fake tears. He doesn’t say anything when you hold out your palm for him to give it to you, only smiles as he drops it into your hand, the metal keyrings clinking as they fall into each other.

Space willing, your hand brushes against the velvet of his glove, but you don’t have the energy to care about that when you’re on the search for some glassy boots.

A few moments later, you snicker to yourself when you see a SkullGreymon charm, and you’re quick to grab it (and another keychain) before Gojo can see them. The abrupt movement catches his attention, and he pales when he sees the Dark Digivolved mon in your hand. “Get that… thing away from me.”

You know he isn’t going to do anything about it, so you playfully hold it up and jingle it on its loop. “Aw, c’mon! I think he’s super cute.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Gojo’s face falls, and he leans back while wincing.

You are kidding, but you know Gojo’s still afraid of SkullGreymon as an adult (at least, if his reaction to Greymon’s Dark Digivolve during your, like, fifth rewatch of Adventure together is anything to go by), so you don’t mind lying to scare him a tiny bit.

“Nope,” you say nonchalantly. “You know, he’s actually been growing on me a lot, I might get this for myself.”

“Uh,” he awkwardly chuckles, smiling with his teeth. “Yeah! Go ahead, he’s all yours.”

“You sure you don’t want him?” You get on your tippy-toes to hold it even closer to him. “He’d fit with your Agumon pins.”

“Yes, yes! I’m very sure!” He leans back as far as his body lets him, eyes closed tight as he looks away. “Please, get it away!”

“Or what?”

“I don’t know!” Gojo scutters away to the other end of the booth, holding out his hands to put distance between the two of you. “Stay away from me!”

“Okay, okay,” you laugh as you carefully place the SkullGreymon back in the B-grade bin. “I’m sorry, couldn’t resist.”

“You should be sorry, you’re so mean to me,” he huffs, heaving with a hand over his chest now to recover his breath. You try going over to him, but, instead, he dodges you by going around your body entirely and ignoring you.

“Gojo?”

No response as he flips over some of the keychains on the display rack, looking at their backsides.

A minute or so later, you try again from your spot at the jewelry.

“Gojo?”

Again, no response as he looks at the themed lanyards hanging from a different part of the display.

You try again after another minute, this time from the car accessories.

“...Are you mad at me?”

After a brief pause, he nods, and he moves further away from you before pushing his glasses up to sit on the top of his head to get a better look at the variety of card sleeves available for sale on the table.

You can’t help but roll your eyes. You know he’s not actually mad—you can literally see the self-satisfied smile on his face when he steals glances at you, thinking you’re distraught and grovelling for his forgiveness—, but you’ll let him have his fun.

You already know what you’re getting, so you go to pay for the two B-grade keychains you have in your hand. It’s a bit of work, though, opening your wallet with your one properly functional hand, so you nervously laugh, trying to ease the awkwardness of the situation. “Sorry, I haven’t quite gotten the hang of this yet.”

“No worries, take your time!” She chirps. “Also, I love your cosplay! Did you put it together yourself?”

“Oh! Thank you, and, yes, I did.”

“Nice, nice! I’ve seen a couple other Digimon cosplayers today, but no Lilithmons yet, so you’re the first!” After a brief pause, she peers over the divider separating herself from the front of her booth, and she looks over at Gojo. “...Say, does your boyfriend really hate SkullGreymon that much?”

This time, when Gojo being your boyfriend is implied, you’re too focused on getting the proper amount of cash to correct her, so you just nod, not bothering to make sure Gojo is out of earshot. He’s supposedly mad at you right now, anyway, so you figure he’s going to try to act all aloof and keep ignoring you.

“Yeah, something like that,” you answer.

You smile at the memory as it comes back to mind—that of him hiding beneath your blankets and spilling his popcorn on the couch during the very first rewatch you did with him when SkullGreymon dark digivolves for the first time. The two of you weren’t close enough at the time for you to poke fun at him for it, but, thankfully, you’re long past that point by now.

And, I mean, you get it. You’re also deathly afraid of SkullGreymon, just not enough for it to get in the way of your teasing. Any other situation, you’d be sobbing hysterically at the sight of that damn skeleton.

“Sorry about that, by the way. We were probably being a nuisance.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” she waves you off. “It was funny, my girlfriend reacts the same way when I show her pictures of Piedmon.”

You shudder. “Ugh, I hate him, too, I don’t blame her.”

You finally gather the exact payment, and after you hand it to her, the artist counts it and gives you a thumbs-up. “Alright, awesome! Sit tight, I’ll get these bagged up for you.”

“Thank you!”

You wait patiently, looking off somewhere else to give her some privacy, and Gojo sneaks up next to you to ask the artist a question.

“Hi! Sorry to interrupt you, but do you have anything for Cendrillmon?”

“Uh,” she pauses to think over the question, “I think I only have B-grades left of her keychains. If they’re not there, then I’m out, sorry.”

Gojo lets out a disappointed sigh, looking off with a frown. “I didn’t see any, did you?”

“Oh, so now you wanna acknowledge me?” You tease, looking up at him.

He freezes for a second before crossing his arms with a nonchalant huff. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t,” you wave him off. You notice that the artist has gotten your things all together, so you take them from her with an earnest smile. “Thank you!”

“No, thank you!”

Gojo’s grabbed a business card, presumably to check for any future products he’d want to order later, but it doesn’t seem like he’s going to buy anything right now, so the two of you start to leave for the hall exit.

Before you can get too far, though, the artist calls after you. “Oh, hey! Just so you know, I put in some freebies for you two, I hope you like them!”

“Oh, thank you again!”

Gojo gives her an enthusiastic double thumbs-up, and the two of you are on your way out, for real this time.

Out in the more open hallways of the convention center, you lead Gojo and yourself to a more clear area that’s out of the way of people walking around.

You beckon him to come closer as you open the parchment bag she put your items in, and you look up at him expectantly. “Hold out your hand.”

“Huh?” Immediately, he senses something’s wrong. “No way.”

You tug on the sleeve of his coat to try and get him to do as you say, and when he doesn’t immediately fold, you forcefully open the palm of his hand, and you make him take the keychain you got for him.

He tenses and closes his fist around it, probably thinking it’s that SkullGreymon you scared him with earlier, and he tries giving it back to you. You both push and pull, trying to force the other to take it, but he’s stronger than you, and you’re having to push pretty hard to even try matching his effort.

“Come on, just take it,” you sigh. “I’m trying to say ‘sorry.’”

“Apology accepted! Please, no more scary digimon!”

“Gojo,” you say firmly, “do you trust me?”

“Well…” he chuckles breathlessly.

“Oh my god,” you whine, taking the acrylic back from him and holding it out in the palm of your own hand. “Just look.”

Gojo leans away for good measure before opening his eyes, and he sighs in relief when he sees that there isn’t a mini SkullGreymon in your hand.

Then, he promptly squeals and leans down to get a closer look when he sees what mon you’d actually got for him. “No way!” He takes it from you and holds it up to his eyes, watching as the reflective pieces on Cendrillmon’s boots bend in the light. “For me?!”

“No, I’m just letting you hold it,” you parrot playfully, smiling as you watch him inspect it. “‘Course it’s for you.”

“You’re too good to me, Princess,” he sighs wistfully. Gojo then breaks out a grin, and he covers his mouth with his hand as he snickers. “I guess you’re forgiven.”

“You already said I was, but sure.”

Gojo takes out his phone to take a picture of the chibi Cendrillmon, probably to send to the group chat as a badge of your favor, but before he puts the device away, he points to the parchment parcel. “Get yours out, too, I wanna take a picture with both of them!”

You take out the keychain of your own favorite mon, and you hold it up next to his in the palm of your hand. He takes the picture, and he holds his phone closer to his face to look at it.

He flips the screen back over to you with a smile. “Look, they’re best friends, just like us!”

At the back of your mind, you can hear your friends sighing in exasperation at you right now. Something about how you shouldn’t be happy Gojo just called you his friend, but your heart swells at the sentiment anyway.

There is no pang of sadness that you should probably feel when the person you like acknowledges you as a friend. You’d be a hypocrite to be upset about it—you consider him your best friend, too—, and you’re happy that regard is shared.

And, besides.

What greater blessing is there than having someone know you?

Whatever’s out there that is, you don’t care enough to trade this closeness for it.

You lean in to see the picture on his phone, and, squinting, you see that underneath your keychain, there’s something that resembles a face-down sticker.

Gojo sees it, too. “Oh! I didn’t notice that earlier. I didn’t know you got a sticker.”

“I didn’t, must be one of the freebies she mentioned.” You flip it over, and your eyes immediately light up. “Aw, wait, that’s so sweet!”

The artist at that booth gifted you a Lilithmon sticker to match with your cosplay!

You and Gojo both marvel at it like it’s a piece of treasure (because it is), and you hold out your things for him to carry while you take a selfie of the sticker up to your cheek. You snap a few pictures, making sure to check to make sure they’re cute enough to send over to your friends later when they ask for them (and maybe because Gojo will probably ask you to send them to him later), and when you put your phone away, you see Gojo looking expectantly looking at the parchment slip, the faint outline through the paper promising him a sticker match of his own.

He carefully slips his fingers inside to grab the sticker, and you watch as he giggles to himself, excited to flip it over and see. He takes a few deep breaths in, breaths out, and he exhales sharply as he looks down at it.

And, when he flips it over, the two of you are absolutely taken aback.

. . .

“Is that…?”

“I… I think it is…”

“I… wow.”

“...Yep.��

There’s a long pause as you both stare at it. Once that passes, Gojo takes off his glasses and lifts the sticker higher up to both your faces, and you rub your eyes (minding your makeup!) to make sure you’re not seeing things wrong.

Because, instead of Cool Boy, in between Gojo’s fingers is a sticker of Professor Oak, Pokémon extraordinaire.

Gojo wails dramatically, his free hand over his chest as he clenches his eyes. “This can’t be happening. Tell me this isn’t happening.”

You try to stifle your giggles behind your hand, but you’re sure your eyes give your amusement away. “Gojo, I am so sorry.”

“I don’t even look like him!” Gojo exclaims, holding up the sticker next to him. “Clearly, I’m not cosplaying Professor Oak!”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Well, you are wearing a red shirt and a white coat, so I can see where she might’ve gotten confused.”

“Great, just great,” he whines, putting his glasses back on. He takes one last look at the sticker before putting it back into its packaging with a huff. “You get recognized and stolen away from me for pictures like, every five minutes, and I get mistaken for Professor Oak by someone running a Digimon merch booth.”

Reflexively, your expression falls, and you put a hand on his shoulder to try and comfort him. “I’m sorry, Gojo. I’m sure you’ll get recognized soon, we’ve got the Digimon panel soon, someone’s bound to know Cool Boy there.”

“It’s okay, it doesn’t bother me that much,” he says, but he still leans into your touch.

“If it’d make you feel better, we don’t have to keep stopping for people to take pictures of me,” you offer. You’re getting kind of tired of it, anyway, so if Gojo’s uncomfortable with it, you really don’t mind turning people down for his peace of mind.

“Huh?” Gojo says, his mouth now open in a half-gape. “Where’d you get that idea from?”

“I mean, it must be annoying for only one of us to be approached about our cosplays, right?” You say as a question. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize that sooner.”

“Stop that,” he says. Gojo takes off his glasses, this time keeping them in his hand to fidget with them, and he frowns down at you. “I have no problem with you getting compliments on your cosplay, you deserve them.”

“Really?”

“I think you should get more, actually.”

“Not what I was referring to,” you mutter under your breath. “Sure, if you say so, but you must still be sad that—”

“I meant it, it really doesn’t bother me,” he says more firmly. “You recognized me, didn’t you?”

You blink up at him, confused. “Well, yeah, of course I did. We’ve been reading Liberator together every other Thursday for, like, the whole time we’ve been friends.”

Gojo smiles in that reassuring way he always knows how to, and he hovers his hand over your head because he can’t really pat it directly when your hairpieces are in the way. “Then it doesn’t matter to me if nobody else knows who I am.”

The frown on your face eases, but it’s still there. “I still feel bad about it anyway.”

“Don’t.”

“You can’t make me.”

“You’re too sweet on me,” he says through a chuckle. “Lucky you, I love desserts.”

The teasing flip in his voice makes you more conscious of how close he is to you. His wrist rests gently on your shoulder, and his hand is playing with the tips of your wings as he looks straight through you. If you were brave enough, you could’ve pulled him down by the collar and kissed him.

You blush, averting your eyes. “You’re so…”

“So what, huh?” He leans down even closer to you, his ear close to your lips to catch your words.

“I…”

You don’t even know what word you were going to use. Not that it really matters, because any word you could’ve used, Gojo’s heard it from you before. Maybe not the ones you keep close to your heart like they’re your initial draw in a match with your most prized deck, but you’re not sure he’d catch on even if you did show them, always in his own world.

That scares you, too.

Just not enough to do anything about it.

Gojo laughs to break the tension, and he repositions himself to be standing next to you, his arm remaining where it is and staying loosely draped over your shoulder. “So, where to next?”

You check your phone for the time, and you’ve got another two hours before that’s the Digimon presentation is scheduled to start. There’s nothing else that’s time-sensitive to do beforehand, so you’re listless until then.

You remember what Gojo’d suggested earlier before leaving the hotel earlier. “Wanna head to the food truck? I remember you promising me a Terriermon parfait this morning.”

He enthusiastically nods, his eyes glittering. “Well, what’re we waiting for? Let’s head out!”

His legs start moving, following the flow of foot traffic out towards the outdoor areas, and you’re naturally pulled along with the tide. The two of you fall into the natural rhythm that’s always there, side-by-side, shoulder-to-shoulder. Every so often, Gojo will fall back to “sneak” candid shots of you, but you pretend not to notice because you’re just so used to him doing it, even back home.

It’s not hard to find the correct food truck once you’re outside—there’s a few cardboard cutouts of different digimon characters nearby, and there’s someone in a Calumon mascot suit passing out paper menus to people in a line. You’ve got no idea how they’ve survived this heat in that costume, but you hope they’re being paid handsomely for it.

You and Gojo find the end of the line after being handed a paper menu. It’s pretty far from the front, but that’s not too surprising considering that there’s no shortage of people at the convention. At least the line seems to move quickly, but that’s probably because there’s a separate wait after your order is taken.

There’s chatter all around, either from other people in the line trying to decide what to order or large groups of friends figuring out how they’re going to fit in their cars for the ride home, but the two of you are quiet for the most part, just holding the menu between the two of you and trying to read all the finer print. You already know what you want, and you know Gojo does, too, but there’s no reason not to look for the sake of it.

That Terriermon parfait has been calling your name ever since you first saw it on a forum post somewhere talking about different anime food collaborations. A refreshing mint-chocolate ice cream parfait with Terriermon-shaped wafer cookies and a white chocolate horn. There’s also a Lopmon sundae, nearly identical to the Terriermon dessert apart from it being chocolate-strawberry flavored, but you’re hearing whispers around you that it’s already sold out.

Gojo pokes at your shoulder, trying to get your attention. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

You already know what he’s going to ask, so you don’t bother looking up from the menu. “Yes, you can have some of my parfait.”

“Thank you,” he chuckles. “I was going to steal a few bites, regardless, but now I don’t have to be sneaky about it! We can share my Guilmon bread, too.” Gojo points to where that is on the menu, and your eyes zero in on the description of the treat below it.

“A Guilmon-shaped brioche bread bun with peanut butter filling and a powdered sugar Digital Hazard symbol,” you read aloud. In the anime, Guilmon specifically asks Takato’s dad for the Guilmon bread to have a peanut butter filling, and you’re pleasantly surprised this pop-up got that detail correct instead of just choosing a more convenient red jam center. “Wow, they really did their homework.”

“I know, right!?” You look over at Gojo to see his eyes closed in bliss, probably already tasting the flavors on his tongue before he’s even ordered. “I can’t wait!”

“Don’t eat it all in one bite, leave some for me,” you scold gently, punching his shoulder without any bite. “Oh, hey! Look!”

Now that you’ve gotten further in the queue, you can see a small set-up where there's three Digimon Analyzers from the D-Ark in season three of the anime, each one’s color matching one of the three main Digidestined. The display screen is cut out so that people can stand behind it for photos, and there’s a few other cosplayers nearby who look like they’re reviewing their own shots with their respective photographers.

“Could we take some pictures over there later?”

“You know I’ll be your photographer all day, every day, no need to ask!” Gojo replies, already taking out his phone and making a show out of exhaling on and rubbing the camera lens to get it clear.

“You’re so dramatic,” you sigh breathlessly. “But, thank you.”

“‘Course!” Gojo looks between you and the Analyzers, and he ponders to himself. “Which D-Ark are you thinking of taking a picture with?”

“Probably Takato’s, the red matches my card,” you pat down where your EX-6 is secured. “What about you?”

“Huh?” Gojo’s head tilts to the side. “What about me?”

“What D-Ark would you take a picture in?”

“Uh,” he chuckles, looking down at himself. “I’m not a digimon, though. Doesn’t make sense for me to appear on an Analyzer.”

“As if Lilithmon was ever even in Tamers,” you point out, rolling your eyes. “Who cares?”

“I do!”

“You could just be your own digimon, then.”

“Oh, yeah? What’d my name be? Nerdramon? Physicsmon?” He scoffs at his own joke. 

You shudder. “Don’t even start with that.”

“What? It could be a whole thing, my dark digivolve would be, like, Thermodynamicsmon.”

“As if you’d even have a dark digivolve as an evolution option, you cry when Evil Rings are used in Adventure 02.”

“Okay, you’ve got a point there,” he sighs playfully, and he gently nudges you forward as the line continues moving. “For the record, you cry, too.”

“Not as much as you do.”

“Do not!”

(Again, you’re both wrong.)

(Neither of you can keep it together.)

“You still didn’t answer my question. What would my name be, hm?”

You shrug. “I dunno. Just get in for the picture, no one’s going to bug you about it just because you’re not cosplaying a mon.”

“Nope, I’m curious now.” He claps his hands together to ask nicely. “Please, Princess? I’ll step in for a picture if you do.”

There’s a pause as you think to yourself (and you become increasingly aware of how his hands have stayed on you, moving you along through the line). He probably thinks you’re brushing him off completely, but you speak up when you realize he’s still waiting for an answer anyway.

“I guess you’d be…

“Satorumon.”

You hold your breath, looking over at him to gauge his reaction. 

You don’t know if it’s crossing a boundary to use his first name when the both of you don’t ever call each other by them, only ever using surnames and other dumb nicknames, but the combination of words come out before you can stop them because the Digimon fan inside you insists that “Gojomon” is too phonetically similar to “Gomamon” (and the lovergirl in you wants an excuse to use his given name).

“I’d be… Satorumon?”

“Yeah,” you say it more firmly this time. “Satorumon.”

Before either of you can say anything further on the matter, it’s your turn at the register. “Good afternoon, what can I get for you today?”

“Hi! Sorry, just one second,” you excuse yourselves quickly. “Did you want to order together so our things come out at the same time?” You ask Gojo.

He blinks a few times, seemingly processing your words before he chuckles and takes out his wallet. “That was always the plan, dummy. I’m paying for the both of us.” He smiles as he glances over at you, eyes still down. “You go ahead.”

“I’ll have a Terriermon parfait, please,” you say to the worker. You step aside so Gojo can order, and bashfully, you smile at him in thanks.

“One Guilmon bread, too, please,” he says.

“Alright,” they take a second to input it into the register, “anything else?”

“No, that’s all.”

As the worker reads aloud the total price, Gojo’s already swiping his card through the reader to pay, the blue and yellow sticker on it gleaming in the sunlight. He’s handed a receipt and a ticket number, and the two of you rush out of the way so that the people behind you can place their orders.

“Let’s get those pictures now, yeah?”

“Oh!” Is he just not going to say anything about it? “Uh, there’s no rush, but okay.”

“Nonsense,” he reassures with a gentle smile. “Might as well while we’re here waiting.”

The two of you head over to where the Digimon Analyzers props are, and you carefully maneuver around to be standing behind the red D-Ark. You stand there awkwardly, unsure of how to stand for a picture even after having done so all throughout the day.

In the distance, you can hear Gojo laughing at you, phone in one hand and the other waving his hand in one direction. “Move to the left!”

You take a few hops to the left.

“Too much, go back!”

You side-step back to the right, slower this time, and Gojo holds out his hand. “Right there!”

He crouches down and steps back for a better angle, and he pushes his glasses to sit on the top of his head as he looks intensely at the screen. He’s furiously pressing the button to take pictures, so you just try your best to hit the poses you’re meant to. He’s smiling and enthusiastically pumping his fist to get you to keep going, and once he’s happy with what he’s got, he stands up straight and jogs over to you, a bright smile on his face.

“Wanna see? You look really great!”

Your heart flutters, but you ignore it and hide your reaction to his comment by holding out your hand expectantly. “I’ll take a look later. It’s your turn now, Satorumon.”

He happily hands you his phone, and he rushes to go stand behind Rika’s blue D-Ark while you back away to get the full prop in frame. You wave your hand to nudge him slightly to the right, and he whistles to himself as he follows your command. Once he’s in the proper spot, he puts down his backpack and other things before quickly smoothing down his front and running his fingers through his hair to get it back to form, then poses with his right hand over his collar.

“Okay,” he uses his left hand to bring down his glasses, “I’m ready!”

You spam the shutter button as he poses, all serious and straight-faced, and you keep going even when he breaks character to smile at a butterfly that’s landed on his shoulder. It flies away soon thereafter, likely sensing that Gojo’s got too much energy, but he’s still light personified as he leans down to grab his things and run back to you, eager to see how the pictures turned out.

You swipe through them as Gojo stands next to you, his cheek pressed against your shoulder as you’re using your other clawed hand to block the sun. Gojo “oohs” and “aahs,” pointing enthusiastically when there’s any detail he especially likes.

Eventually, pictures of Gojo swipe into pictures of you, and you briefly forget he’s right next to you as you look through them.

He did a great job, you really do look good. You can’t really believe you look like that.

As you’re flicking your thumb to move onto one of the next pictures, Gojo stops you, awkwardly reaching with his further hand to try and press something on the screen. You hold out his phone closer to him, unsure of what he wants to do, but he just scrolls back to where a different shot of you was, one where you’re smiling straight at the camera, and he favorites the picture without saying anything.

Glancing over at him at your side, you see a soft smile on his face, looking down at that picture of you.

You know that look in his eyes—it’s the same one that’s there when you’re laughing too hard at a stupid reference he makes during the most inappropriate situations, or when you’ve just finished a problem set without any of his help for the first time after weeks of him drilling formulas into your head.

You’re caught off guard, but Gojo perks up at the sound of a number being called from the pick-up station. He tips his head in the direction you’ll need to pick up your desserts, and you stumble as you try to step out of your trance.

He catches you, of course, and he steadies your forearms as you find your footing again. “You good?” You see the flutter of his eyelashes through the top of his glasses, and his look of genuine concern is enough to make you want to just have your fractal code digitized.

You nod hastily, clearing your throat. “Y-Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Let’s go get our sweets, yeah?”

Gojo smiles, and he pulls you along, completely oblivious to the way your hand instinctively tries to cover a Vital Bracelet you’re not even wearing right now to hide how fast your heart rate has gotten.

Slow down, damn it, you’re begging your heart.

As Gojo approaches the counter and grabs both of your treats, and after confirming the order number, he turns around, Guilmon bread in his right hand and your parfait with one spoon in his left.

His smile's bright as the sun, and he moves to stand next to you as your eyes scan for somewhere to eat away from all the noise, all the people that aren't each other. There's an unoccupied table towards the west, and you lead the way over there, glancing at Gojo often to make sure he isn't having too much trouble carrying an absurdly large piece of Guilmon bread and an ice cream parfait in the middle of summer.

Instead, all that you find, each and every time you look, is him already staring at you. He averts his eyes when you catch him, but it'll still happen again a few seconds later.

You're sure that, by now, your fluster has finally shown itself on your face, and you've got to do something about it, quick.

Breathe. Breathe!

Okay, calm down.

Everything’s going to be fine.

You’ll have your parfait, and Gojo will probably just lean forward to steal bites of it off your spoon because he’s your stupid, nerdy, sugar-addicted best friend. He'll be hesitant to eat the little shortbread pieces making up Terriermon's face, but he's not going to mind it that much when he tastes how heavenly it is.

He’ll tear off pieces of his bread to share with you, make you rate everything on a scale of 1-10 in order to catalogue your likes and dislikes for all the times you're going to force him to choose where to eat dinners after playing DTCG. You’ll thank him for his considerate nature by making sure all the figurines on his shelves haven't gotten too dusty since the last time you'd come over and by offering him that cozy spot on your couch and half your blankets to keep him warm while Digimon reruns play on the TV.

After you're both finished and finally have the energy to go back into the convention for your last event of the day, you'll spend about twenty minutes running around, trying to find the panel room for the exclusive Digimon announcements for the year, only to end up being the first ones there because nobody else is as paranoid about finding seats as the two of you are.

You'll both sit quietly in the center of the front side and you stare up at all the decorations around the room, themed perfectly and with graphics that will be explained by the franchise's biggest names, and you and Gojo’ll take a selfie with toothy smiles and your eyes closed to send to your mom.

When the room becomes full and the presentation begins, neither of you will care that you're forced so close together, smushed by a crowd that doesn’t know how your hand will tap his knee when there's an announcement you know he's been waiting years for.

He'll lean forward to watch your reaction to news that they'll be handing out an event-exclusive DTCG card for all the people in attendance today, and he doesn't need to point out how well it'll fit with your primary winning deck because he knows you're already trying to figure out what to swap out for it.

The Adventure-01 VAs will take their spots at the front of the room on the stage, and they’ll do a table read of the very first episode before taking questions from the audience. Gojo's hand will shoot up and stay up for the entire time they're answering, but he won't get picked from the crowd of hundreds. You’ll try to cheer him up, saying there's just too many people in the room for him to get called, but he doesn't really mind it anyway so long as he gets to be there and have fun.

The presentation, panel, and Q&A will go past its allotted three hours, but it won’t be cut off early because it’s the last event being held in this specific room. Nobody will mind it, either, because it’s not very often that BANDAI puts together such large gatherings for their fans, and everyone’s actually dragging their feet out the doors afterwards.

And, all of that does happen.

You don't think you could've wished for a better day spent with someone who's your other half in every meaningless sense of it. Your smile never fades, and you give up on trying to hide it when you see the way Gojo's perfectly there with you, just as himself.

Which leads you to right now, engaged in a small group conversation while you wait for someone to put their Daemon headpiece back on so they take a group picture with you and the rest of the Seven Great Demon Lords of the Digital World. Amongst yourselves, you talk about the troubles of putting together your cosplays and what parts of the presentation were your favorites.

In the distance, Gojo’s talking in a slightly bigger group, laughing loudly and full of light as people compliment him on his cosplay and ask him questions about the Cendrillmon deck he’s brought with him and kept in his backpack.

The two of you lock eyes across the large pavilion, and your eyes soften when he sends you an obnoxiously big wave to show you how happy he is.

After the panel and people were given their event-exclusives, everyone moved into the hallway just outside of the presentation room to meet other Digimon fans and grab pictures with who they wanted them with. A group of other female humanoid digimon found you fairly quickly and stole you away from Gojo for an all-girls photoshoot at a nearby stairwell, but you aren’t the only one whisked away when he’s also taken by someone in an Omekamon cosplay who wants a picture with their in-verse partner.

The Daemon’s got their cosplay altogether now, so the seven of you are ushered together by a few photographers and some kind strangers who volunteered to take pictures on the phones for those of you who didn’t have a designated photographer. After a few minutes of posing and giggling through random people accidentally through the shots, you’re freed and promised to be sent all the pictures after they’re edited.

The crowd slowly thins out, and you walk back over to where Gojo is to wait for him to start heading back to the hotel. The Digimon presentation was the last event for today for the two of you, and with all the independent artists’ areas already closed for the day, you might as well leave and grab something for dinner.

Gojo spots you as he’s finishing up a flashy shuffle of his deck, and he waves at you again as you come closer. You fully intended on staying out the circle to let him have the limelight, but he pulls you in with him anyway, introducing you to the group with an arm slung over your shoulder.

“You ready to leave?” He asks you quietly, hand rubbing your shoulder.

“Yeah, but take your time.”

“Nah, I’m done. We can go.”

“You sure?”

“Yep!” Gojo looks up at the people he’s in conversation with, and he excuses the two of you with a grin. “Lilithmon and I are gonna head out now, but it was great meeting all of you! Get home safe, yeah?”

The other people give their goodbyes, and the two of you are on your way out of the convention center for the day. You walk in silence, the sparks of joy still there in the air, and Gojo spots a noodle spot across the street that’s about midway between the con and the hotel. He points, you nod, and he grabs your hand to pull you through the traffic, laughing as you both run across it.

Your food comes quickly and you’re both starving, so there’s no room for talking as you scarf it down. You’re both careful to not spill anything on your clothes, of course, but it’s not long before your stomachs are full, the check is paid, and you’re both leaned back in your seats with your eyes closed.

As you’re gathering the willpower to get up and end the day, you feel a light kick underneath the table, and you crack one eye open to see Gojo looking at you with his stupid smile. “Hm?”

“Hi.”

“...Hi.”

He leans forward to wave, and he rests his arms on the table afterwards. “Ready to go?”

You nod, stretching your arms above your head with a sigh. “Yeah, let’s.”

Gojo swaps Cool Boy’s shades for his usual eyeglasses before he gets up, and he pulls you up to standing, helping you readjust your outfit so you’re as comfortable as possible. He keeps your hand in his, just like he has throughout the day, and he leads the way back to the hotel.

To get there, you have to pass through a park lined with trees and benches.

"Hey."

Gojo swings your hands together as he happily strolls along. "Hm?"

"Could we sit down for a bit? I wanna watch the sun set."

He lifts your joined hands, prompting you to spin and face him.

Gojo’s hair has come undone from its styled form, and he’s long-since let his more quiet, gentle nature come out of hiding with you. He’s normally so loud and boisterous, which you still love about him, but when he lets his eyes speak for him, you swear you’ve never been more enamored. Silent flickers of blue and white chase you in your daydreams, sending static through your veins.

For once, it doesn’t seem like either of you need words. Instead, it’s enough that you’re both right in front of each other with the zephyr swirling around you and picking up fallen summer petals.

He nods, and that's enough for you to gently pull him in the direction of a nearby bench, sitting both him and yourself down. Neither of you leave any space between you, and your hands stay connected on the wooden bench, fingers laced securely.

There’s not too many people around, but the summer sun is still glowing in the west, lighting the path with gold and the sky in a swirl of pinks and blues. Your head is in the clouds, watching the world pass you both by.

You start to lean your head to rest it on Gojo's left shoulder, just like you always do when you're next to each other, but he yelps before you can really do that. "Ouch!"

"Oh my god, I totally forgot about my horns!" You scoot away immediately, turning to face him and letting go of his hand to put one of yours on his cheek to massage where there's a faint red mark. "Are you hurt?"

Gojo lets out an open-mouthed laugh, shaking his head. "No, no, I'm fine."

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to!"

"Yeah, I know," he muses with a smile.

You pull your hand away from his face to rest it on your knee, slightly embarrassed, and you look back over at the setting sun, the sky slowly swirling with oranges and reds.

“So,” he starts, breaking the quiet again and turning over at you instead of straight ahead, his left arm now resting on the back panel of the bench. “was today everything you ever wanted?”

You nod absentmindedly, enjoying the gentle breeze that cools your rosy cheeks. "Yeah, it was."

"I'm glad we're on the same page," he says sincerely. "Thanks for being with me today. I wouldn't have wanted to be here with anyone else."

Your heart melts, and you turn away for a second to gather yourself together. You exhale slowly through your nose, and you shake your head. "No, thank you, Gojo. You're the reason I'm here."

You can sense Gojo stiffening next to you, and when he doesn't say anything, you turn back to look at him.

"Gojo?"

His face hardens, and his eyes shift to the right, still not saying anything.

"Gojo? Is something wrong?"

"You called me 'Satorumon' earlier."

"That, I did."

You're confused.

What's he getting at?

He purses his lips, still looking anywhere but you. "So why are you calling me 'Gojo' now?"

"Huh?" You lean forward to try and force him to meet your gaze, eyebrows furrowed. "What?"

"Why can't you again? Call me 'Satoru?'" He slowly brings himself to look you in the eye. He seems nervous to be asking.

"Oh, uh," you pause, leaning away slightly to give him some space. "I didn't know if you were okay with me using your given name."

"Well, I am." His left hand picks off a fallen petal from the nearby trees that's landed in your hair, and he looks there instead.

And, someone can pinch you if you're wrong. Please, someone, pinch you.

Matter of fact, someone can just punch you in the face as hard as they can.

But… is he...

Blushing?

"Are you sure?"

Gojo turns even more pink, but he nods. "Call me by my first name," he says, more sure of himself.

"Okay," you smile bashfully. "I can do that."

. . .

"So, can you?"

You stifle a giggle, biting the inside of your cheek. "Are you always so impatient?"

"You know I am, Princess."

"You are so annoying." You deliberately give pause, smiling to yourself as you watch him slowly grow more restless. When he looks like he's about to stop breathing, you let up. "But, I guess I still love you anyway, Satoru."

Gojo stills, taking in the sound of his name off your tongue, and he laughs, letting the stray petal fall from his fingers, his left hand now brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "See? That wasn't so hard, was it?"

You let yourself lean into his touch, rolling your eyes anyway. "No."

"Then, I'm glad."

He continues playing with your hair, your fingers run over the threads that hold the buttons of his coat in place. You swing your feet underneath the bench, and you accidentally bump knees with him all the while. He doesn't say anything out loud, just pinches your cheek in retaliation with his right hand. The two of you sit there in the same position, watching the sunset through its reflection in each other's eyes.

And, maybe it's that.

Maybe it's his hand in your hair, careful not to undo any of the accessories still securely woven through it.

Maybe it's your fingers, trying to etch yourself into him.

Maybe it's your feet, eager to walk you somewhere where you can be with him forever.

Maybe it's his thumb, rubbing gently the pink on your cheeks to soothe a sore that isn't there.

Gojo looks at you, really looks at you, with his right hand cradling your face and a strand of your hair twirled around his left pointer finger.

And it doesn't seem like there's any hesitation to his next words.

"Can I kiss you?"

And, suddenly, the world stills around you. All you can see is him.

You should be scared, but you're not.

You've never kissed anyone before. You know Gojo hasn't either, all those nights playing Truth or Date at Shoko and Utahime's apartment revealing that ages ago.

But, if nothing else, you're sure what you're feeling right now isn't fear.

If anything, you're sure you've felt this exact same way before in your dreams, and maybe he has, too.

You should be surprised, but you're not.

He's been looking at you like this for a while. Thinking about it now, probably a lot longer than just "a while."

You should've figured it out when he doodled pictures of your favorite digimon on napkins in that one diner where the food always takes too long.

You should've figured it out when he fell asleep on the phone with you during some random announcement stream and showed up at your apartment the next morning with breakfast to apologize.

You should've figured it out when he let you into his world.

You should say 'yes,' but you don't.

Instead, you loop your arms around the back of his neck, and you pull his lips to yours, closing your eyes to try and savor the feeling. He wasn't able to take a proper inhale before you pulled him closer, and he lets out a surprised hum, but he still eases into you as best he can.

And, honestly, you have no idea what you're doing.

You have no idea if you're meant to open your mouth, if you're meant to make noise, if you're meant to even breathe. He doesn't really seem to know either, just trying to express his fervor through something he's never done before. Your hair is in the way, he has no idea what to do with his hands, and you're pretty sure you've both accidentally bumped teeth a few times already. You taste the frosting from the cake slice you shared at dinner, and you know he can taste the strawberry he let you have from the top of it. 

But, one thing's for sure.

This feels right. Like something so familiar that you're relieved to have finally found it again, or something so faraway that you'll always want more.

Gojo pulls away first, breathing heavy and with glasses fogged up.

You frown, trying to catch your breath just as much as he is. "Why'd... why'd you stop?"

Gojo smirks, taking his hand off your cheek to brush his hair back.

God, you fucking hate him.

Teasingly, he takes his glasses off and puts them in his coat pocket, and he leans in close again.

"Stop smiling so much, Princess. It's getting harder to kiss you."

He presses his lips to yours again, his fingers now lacing themselves into your hair. Your heart is in your throat, trying to escape, but you don't pay any mind to it, your mind too focused on trying to follow Gojo's direction. You're lost in him completely—in his hands, in his touch, in his soul—but you don't think you'd rather be anywhere else.

You know you wouldn't rather be anywhere else.

Abruptly, the sound of one of the Vital Bracelets Gojo’s wearing blasts in your ear, and you flinch, reflexively pulling away from the source of the noise, and, in turn, his lips. You’re breathless, both from the kiss and from being startled, and, with no strength to do anything else, you lean forward and rest with your forehead on his shoulder.

Gojo seems to register the loss of your warmth before the sound, but once he realizes what’s happening, he purses his lips, and you feel him take his hand off your cheek and position it lower to see what’s happening on the tiny screen.

You’re dizzy, your mind filled with questions and answers and all the things that demand your attention.

Did he like this?

(You think so.)

Did you like this?

(Yes.)

(Definitely.)

What does this mean?

(You don’t know.)

Will this change things?

(You know it will. You don’t know how, or if you even want them to, but it will.)

Will this change Gojo?

(You have no idea.)

Will this change you?

(Well, you already know the answer to that.)

But through the haze, you can see it, and you know Gojo does, too.

Gojo’s Greymon is digivolving, the screen of his Vital Bracelet barren apart from the digimon sprite and a lifeline. The beeps are still going, still loud and piercing in the silence that’s filled with both of your heavy breathing as you try to find air. The screen goes black, EVOLUTION! flashing in neon green, and, from the top-down, a graphic of MetalGreymon appears. Immediately thereafter, the new digital sprite appears in front of a white beam, and the device goes back to its home screen as if nothing ever changed.

And, because you don’t know what else to do, you laugh.

Laugh at the fact that this is how your first kiss went. Nothing at like all the tales you’ve never spun, but everything you’ve ever wanted.

Laugh at the realization that you’ve definitely gotten your makeup all over his coat by now, and that you’ll see lip gloss stains on his mouth when he inevitably talks himself out of his thoughts. He’ll talk about anything, everything, and nothing at all, and you’ll still listen because you know that when you talk about nonsense, he’ll be right there with you.

Laugh at the irony of his Greymon digivolving in the middle of your kiss, as if the crest of courage has lit up somewhere else in the world. You can’t even be all that mad that it interrupted the moment—there’s no way either of you were going to pull away for air on your own, and this was the only way it would’ve ended without you both passed out on the pavement.

When you’re finished laughing, you breathe slowly, pulling back to see his face. He looks confused, but when he sees that you’re all smiles, he relaxes. The corners of his eyes crinkle where his smile reaches them, and his hands rest on the curves of your hips.

Gently, you pull his wrist up towards yourself, undoing the strap of your Bracelet on him to wear it yourself. He knows what you’re doing, so he hastily goes to help put it on for you with shaky hands. His fingers linger on your wrist, desperate for your touch, and you give it to him, gently pressing your forehead to his.

You don’t say anything, just nodding as the “thank you” you always give. You already know he’s looking at you how you never realized he always has, stars in his eyes as if he hasn’t already hung them in the sky for you, so you don't need the words right now.

Gojo doesn’t say anything either, but his Vital Bracelet is betraying his silence. Between your bodies, his MetalGreymon sprite is happily running in place as it mistakes his increased heart rate as him exercising.

Gojo doesn’t pull away to try and hide it. Just holds his wrist steady, smiling as he watches the armored digimon obliviously matches his vitals.

And, you know…

Maybe that alone is an answer to a question you’re too afraid to ask.

Does Gojo like you?

(Yes.)

(You’re sure of it.)

And, to that, another question you’ve always known the answer to.

You tap the SELECT button twice to bring your Bracelet to the STATUS section, and after landing on the Heartbeat confirmation screen, you hold SELECT again to recalibrate the watch to your current vitals. You click back to the home screen, and you smile as you look down at your sprite.

You bring up your wrist so that Gojo can see for himself the status that shows up, and you hear his breath hitch next to your ear when he sees it.

Your digital pet is running, your vitals increased enough to trigger the sprite animation.

Do you feel the same way?

(Yes.)

(And you’re sure he knows it, too.)

☆

thank you for your patience, and thank you for reading! comments are appreciated, so considering leaving one (and joining the taglist). have a good rest of your day! next update in 2-ish weeks ( 〃．．)

[gleamingtempest]

CHAPTER THREE death prospects -- Danganronpa Despair Time

Hi. These are my feelings on how likely it is for the remaining students to die in Chapter Three of DRDT alongside accompanying explanations for each student. There is no objective metric for this because things can change drastically between one chapter to the next but I do have some personal thoughts regardless. Enjoy.

#12 -- Teruko Tawaki

I believe somewhat intuitively Teruko will not die before the finale. The entire narrative is centered around her character both diagetically and non-diagetically so she certainly won't die prematurely IMO. There isn't much else to be said in this regard.

#11 -- Whit Young

Whit has only very recently been getting set up for the second step in his character arc so I sincerely doubt he'll be dying in chapter three. I do believe his relationship with Charles will be developed to include more nuance in Chapter Three though and his backstory will be teased a bit.

The spotlight put on him at the very end of chapter two will probably continue as well in the sense that we will be led to feel more uneasy / distrustful towards his character as a whole going forward. Regardless of his final role in the story I do believe he's bound to be centered as a later game antagonist eventually.

He has too many undeveloped emotional threads to die this early though IMO.

#10 -- Eden Tobisa

With some confidence, I'll say Eden won't die until at least Chapter Five. She's been set up and centered as a deuteragonist too much to die before the later stages of the story. Additionally we're coming in hot off of a chapter where she received very intensive focus, so I don't believe she's primed to retake that spotlight in Chapter Three quite yet.

I do believe she's primed to have some very interesting interactions with Levi, Nico, and David in Chapter Three though. There's a lot of unresolved threads regarding Arei now not to talk about it and Ace is now deeply intertwined with Arei so Levi and Nico are natural bridges to that gap going forward. Levi and David are already primed to have a dynamic with Eden in any case.

#09 -- Charles Cuevas

Charles is a remarkably popular choice for one of the two chapter three victims amongst the fandom. Admittedly I don't really get why. The most common points people state in favor of it aren't very compelling to me, unfortunately. Not that there's anything with this prediction, I'm just intimidated by how robust the enthusiasm for this prediction is.

Fans sometimes discuss it as a foregone conclusion and that is very scary to me.

Regardless I don't really agree. Charles is IMO the main deuteragonist for Teruko and also an otherwise very important character for the progression of this show. He has an abundance of plot points tied to major aspects of the genre itself and there's an underlying expectation that those plot points will absolutely be paid off in the finale. I do occasionally see the rebuttal to this that those points can be resolved after his death but the points I find most compelling about his character in relation to the genre are his intelligence, his blood phobia, and his relation to memory loss.

All three of these plot points are incredibly significant to Danganronpa specifically and I don't believe we've explored them in nearly enough detail for Charles to be cut from the narrative yet. Charles' fear of blood makes it so that he has a very unique relationship to investigations, which he additionally is very useful during because he is in the most conventional terms the most intelligent or "learned" living character by far. Rose and Teruko are both very helpful but they don't have the staunch commitment to rigorous or "scientific learning" which Charles does, something which is very significant to investigations as a whole.

In order for that unique dynamic between being handicapped in trials and being useful in trials to continue to be paid off, Charles would have to make it to at least one more trial and I find it incredibly unlikely that it will only be one more trial as well.

The memory loss plot thread also leads me to believe that he will have some relation to the broader memory loss plot point of Despair Time, something which we would traditionally not see getting pulled away at until Chapter Four-Five. We might get pieces of this during Chapter Three but it seems remarkably unlikely to me that it will be fully opened up until at least Chapter Four and it certainly won't resolve until Chapter Six.

Granted, Charles does not have to be ALIVE in order to resolve this plot point but it would be most compelling for him to at least be alive while it is first being put into the spotlight, something that won't happen at the same time it is resolved.

Considering all this, I do believe that there is a tremendous excess of plot points for Charles to connect to which are genre specific that make it very unlikely to me that he will die during Chapter Three. It is also sometimes asserted that his emotional arc has already completed or progressed so much in Chapters One-Two that he could be considered a nearly complete character, but I believe this may be somewhat presumptuous given how little we actual know about Charles' past.

At the least, I don't really think Charles' callousness was the most pressing flaw of his character and his struggles with memory loss, avoidance, and the underlying themes of generational trauma embedded in his character are all very compelling points which we have barely even scratched the surface of as of now.

I know that characters CAN be resolved within one chapter but the amount of plot points which would have to be resolved in a compelling in one chapter which are attached to Charles is quite a bit bigger than a lot of the other characters still living. While he can die, it just seems pretty unlikely when there are other much easier to pay off candidates still living.

That's just my perspective though -- in conclusion, I'm pretty sure Charles is safe at least until Chapter Five.

#08 -- David Chiem

I know I just gave a huge dissertation on why Charles isn't likely to die in Chapter Three so I should do even more to justify putting David here since there is actually literal tangible text which HEAVILY implies something is happening to him in Chapter Three but I can't be bothered. I really honestly don't know what that means and I can only really justify this placement by saying a lot of the points I had for Charles also apply to David and also I think there are alternatives to 'Disappear' that don't straight up kill him.

I haven't pondered that or David's character enough to elaborate though honestly. He's just kind of a lot.

He probably won't die! But if he does I guess I won't be too surprised because the story will have kind of just straight up told me that's happening. We will see.

#07 -- Levi Fontana

I know he's like on his death bed literally but come on, he's the big character and if we're paying off or subverting the DR "tropes" like people think we are kind of widely then I think it's pretty reasonable to say Levi will probably have more to do with Chapter Four. Additionally Chapter Four is often centered around self sacrifice and the will to live, both things I think are more interesting to explore with Levi anyways.

It's also kind of hard to develop and explore a character who is asleep and he will probably not be up and mobile for a lot of the daily life, making it kind of unlikely that he'll die. Having a character out of commission who can't quite be a reliable witness is also more interesting during a trial than someone who didn't talk or move the whole time dying anyways.

He definitely can though. Like I could just be wrong and he could be mobile. So I don't really know. Oh well

#06 -- Nico Hakobyan

I wouldn't be too surprised if they died in Chapter Three honestly. They have been pretty well set up all considered and their isn't really any reason any of their plot points can't be resolved after they die.

Shy / socially unconventional characters who "crash out" dying during chapter three also isn't super uncommon so I wouldn't exactly be super duper shocked or anything. I just don't think the other candidates are wayyy more compelling than them for the time being.

I also think their potential death being more tied to Levi would probably be more satisfying.

#05 -- Rose Lacroix

Okay. Complicated feelings here.

Rose is logistically entirely reasonable to have die here and has been very well set up to complete her arc. She is tied to a lot of the themes you could expect to anticipated with a money related motive and also the story has been primed to explore her in Chapter Three anyways, so I don't really see why she can't die here.

My only tangible rebuttal is her memory, which I do think would be a very useful and difficult to replicate plot device during the later stages of the story when solving the broader mystery of the killing game. She's kind of a cheat code honestly if they ever get their memories back.

That is also why I think it's entirely possible she dies before then though.

She's so incredibly helpful that it's kind of an issue for any future killers and the mastermind if she's alive. Both narratively and diagetically she's under a lot of pressure. If a killer was smart they'd aim to take her out and if the mastermind was smart they'd know she could ruin the whole operation by getting literally any memories back.

So reasonably I have to put her in High Danger.

On a less rational, more subjective / emotional tangent though I don't want her to die because she's a darker skinned black woman in a Danganronpa game and I want her to survive sooo bad like god I want her to survive. Whatever. If she dies I won't be surprised but I do just really want her to live.

Crossing my fingers. Moving on.

#04 -- Arturo Giles

Arturo fits the archetype of a Chapter Three killer a littleee too well for him to not be up here. Additionally, Ace literally pulling him down by the collar and more or less breathing the theme of redemption from Chapter Two into Arturo's character very explicitly pretty flagrantly sets him up to begin his arc in Chapter Three I would say.

I don't personally believe he'll die because of that but I also fully acknowledge that redemption story lines can be resolved in ways that aren't them being redeemed or surviving. I don't believe he will regress or die before he can be redeemed because we kind of already did that with Arei and Ace but I do believe he could very well die as an act OF redemption rather than survive.

In spite of this, I do sort of think that might be more compelling for a Chapter Four death than a Chapter Three one. He is intensely linked to Veronika though and if you know anything about Chapter Three tropes and believe DRDT is playing with DR tropes -- you know for an undeniable fact that dying or not Veronika Grebenshchikova is going to take the spotlight in Chapter Three, in one way or another.

So chances are Arturo will at least be pretty tied into Chapter Three's trial.

#03 -- J Rosales

I don't actually want to justify why I think J is dying Chapter Three honestly. So I won't.

She's the lowest candidate of the three in my predictions because I do think there's a lot of routes for her going forward if she lives. I just also think she's a good unexpected but set up and compelling character to kill off in Chapter Three. She's tied to a lot of characters who seem like they'll be important to Chapter Three and we basically already know her backstory.

Idk. Sue me but she's dead.

#02 -- Veronika Grebenshchikova

Okay. Hey. So Veronika is definitely getting someone killed in Chapter Three.

I don't really know if she'll be the killer, kill and then be killed, or simply orchestrate a murder but she is going to get SOMEONE killed SOMEHOW during the hours of that chapter. This much I know.

My personal take is that she'll be the killer though I do know this is regarded as too obvious by a lot of the fandom. Personally I don't really care about that and think that makes it more likely. If DRDT is doing DR tropes then the Chapter Three killer will be the most obvious candidate -- which is Veronika.

She has all the hallmarks of a really compelling Chapter Three killer and I think that there is a really obvious simple but compelling execution concept for her which is very in line with how executions have been written so far which would lead me to believe she is a really satisfying killer candidate.

Veronika just kind of fits. I don't really know what else to say. The only reason she's not at the top spot is because I think it's possible she lives. Regardless of that though, she's getting someone killed.

#01 -- Hu Jing

Person she's getting killed.

I don't feel like I have time to explain the many many many many reasons Hu is marked for death in Chapter Three but at the least I need to emphasize just how doomed she is. She's doomed. The doomed one. She is doom.

Hu is gonna die in Chapter Three I don't really know how else to say it.

Bye

I hope that this is insightful, helpful or engaging. Thanks for reading. ^^

[moody-alcoholic]

Cross My Heart

Chapter 7 - Meet Me In Volgograd

Summary: poly141 x reader. Enemies to lovers. WC: 6.6k Original abridged version HERE

CW: +18 content MDNI, Death, use of weapons, mention of injuries, war, sex, PiV sex, oral (M receiving), cum play.

Previous - masterlist - next AO3

Enjoy <3

Johnny wakes you after what feels like only a few minutes of sleep. When he’s shaking you awake in the uncomfortable bed it finally hits you how tired you are. You haven’t had a proper sleep since leaving the safehouse the second time. 

“So who’s Nikolai?” You ask as you drag yourself out the bed. You don’t really care but you’ll do anything to keep yourself awake, even asking dumb questions. 

“Old friend of John’s.” 

“John?” You ask pulling your clothes on.

“Price.” You frown at him. 

“You’re both called John? Doesn’t that get confusing?” You ask pulling your boots on. 

“Na, not really. Most of the time people call him Price, Cap or dickhead.” 

“Really?” You say raising an eyebrow. He shakes his head chuckling.

“C’mon wanna get some breakfast?” You shake your head sighing. 

“I want to get a few hours rest on the plane, it feels like I haven’t slept in days.” You say pulling your jacket on. He nods, throwing a bag over his shoulder and picking up the AR standing in the corner of the room. 

“Alright, let's go then.” He stops at the door without opening it. He turns to you, you can see colour rushing to his cheeks.

“Are you- I mean last night.” He grips the barrel of his weapon tighter. “Are you, you know… safe?” 

“Christ. Are you this awkward with every girl you sleep with?” You ask, raising an eyebrow. 

“I have the injection thing.” You say pointing at your arm. Now he frowns. “And yeah I’m clean.” 

“Do you have a boyfriend or something?” You shake your head. 

“Me and Ivan, we had a business arrangement. It wouldn’t exactly be good for anyone if the smuggler got pregnant with the handler. He made sure it wouldn’t happen.” Johnny looks a little taken aback by the admission. He nods and turns back to the door opening it.

…

You sleep almost the whole journey to Russia. Nikolai seems nice, you just didn’t have the energy to be friendly with him. Russian, that you expected, you’re surprised Price had allies in Russia, maybe he’s the type of person who has allies everywhere. Johnny shakes you awake again handing you a headset.

“We’re touching down a few kilometres outside of Volgograd. They’ve sent us coordinates of the place they’re hiding out in.” Johnny shouts over the sound of the tiny plane's engine. 

“Are they in the town?” You shout back. 

“Yeah, it should take us a few hours to reach them. They’re keeping tabs on Makarov.” 

“Do they know where he is?” You ask back. 

“Maybe, there’s a Konni stronghold just outside the city. Price thinks that’s where we can get some answers.” Johnny says. You nod looking out the window at the ground below and fields upon fields of Russian countryside.

“Volgograd is pretty, and close to the border. Good Place for Konni to set up shop.” Nikolai says. You can't see him from the seat you picked and Johnny is blocking the door to the cockpit.

“Ever been?” Johnny asks, turning back to look at him. 

“No, it’s a big place, you should try their local cheese.” Nikolai says. Johnny smiles, you yawn and turn to look back out the window as a massive lake come into view. 

…

You landed in a field. Nikolai handed you a massive duffle bag of supplies Price had requested then said his goodbyes. You ran across to a crooked fence surrounding the field as Nikoli took off again. The sun was high in the sky but it’s still cold.

“What are we going to do? Steal a car again?” You ask as you watch Nikolai fly off.

“Na, let’s just walk. We could use the exercise.” He says winking at you.

“What didn't you get enough last night?” You tease him. The thought of a 5 kilometer walk was not exactly on your list of things you wanted to do today. Johnny seems enthusiastic about it even with his wounded arm. 

It looks better, it’s wrapped in compression bandages but with the cream and anti-inflammatory medication the doctors had him taking he doesn’t complain. Your stomach wound on the other hand has been giving you nothing but trouble and last night’s antics just meant you’d pulled on the stitches and now it’s irritated. Nothing a good fistful of painkillers can’t keep on top of. 

The walk turned out to be not as bad as you thought. Johnny talked the whole way, talking about missions they’ve done in Russia, more about why they’re after Makarov. You’re glad he’s talking again, yesterday he was too quiet, it was weird. When you make it to the town it already feels like it’s getting dark, clouds have moved in making the whole place feel moody. 

The town is busy even as you make your way into the outskirts. You’re both dressed in civilian clothes but with the massive duffle bags you have thrown over your shoulders people's eyes still follow you. They know you’re outsiders here, at least you can speak Russian. 

It doesn’t take you long to find the place based on the info Price sent to Johnny. When you make it to the townhouse you feel even more out of place than ever, down the street there is an old woman with no teeth drilling her eyes into you. The quicker you can get inside the better, you already feel like you’ve drawn enough attention to yourself. 

It’s Ghost who opens the door, dressed all in black with that skull mask he wears all the time. It makes goosebumps rise on your body. 

“ Privet .” Johnny says with a little salute before Ghost moves to the side letting you both come in. The building is worn out, it looks abandoned. The stairs up to the second floor are bowing in and the windows are boarded up, although from the outside it just looked like the curtains were drawn.

You follow Ghost into what would have been a dining room although now the place is just a table with some chairs, the kitchen is in a similar state of disrepair. You dump the bag down at the foot of the table. 

“Survived the flight with Nikolai then?” Gaz asks, coming over. He places his hand on your back smiling before reaching down and unzipping it. You see it crammed full of gear, weapons and some electronics. 

“I slept the whole way.” You say. You move over to the table sitting down on one of the chairs looking at the papers on the table. Some are maps, with markers.

“Joh- Soap said you think there's a place nearby where Makarov is hiding?” You say swallowing hard, you’ll have to get used to calling him Soap again. At least while you’re around the others.

“Konni compound, we don’t know if Makarov will be there but we will be able to find answers.” Price says. 

“We’ve seen Al-Qatala and Konni moving in and out the building.” Gaz says putting the laptop on the table. Price pulls it over to him and sits down. 

“No Makarov?” Soap asks as he comes over with a bottle of water in his hand. 

“Not yet.” Ghost says coming over to the table and crossing his arms.

“But we know he’s here, Laswell has been keeping track of him.” Gaz says.

“Sorry to be the sceptic here but are you sure you haven’t missed him?” You say raising an eyebrow. 

“There’s a chance, that's why if he's gone we know we will find intel in the building as to where he is.” Price says.

“Okay, when do we get moving?” Soap asks. 

“Few hours, as soon as it’s dark and the day shift has left. It’ll leave us with only Al-Qatala in the building.” Price says. You nod, getting up out of the chair. 

“I’m going to take a nap then.” You say stretching and looking over at Soap. He smiles at you. “Bedrooms are upstairs I assume?” 

“Yeah, help yourself.” Gaz says and you walk out the dining room and up the creaking steps. As soon as you see a bed you make a b-line for it, closing the door behind you, kicking your boots off and flopping down. You don’t get a chance to close your eyes before there’s a knock at the door. You look over huffing and sitting up in bed.

“Yeah?” You call, a few seconds later Soap opens the door. He steps in closing it behind him. 

“You okay?” He asks coming over to the bed. You move your legs so he can sit down. He hums his hand coming up to your face. You’re already leaning in to kiss him, it’s automatic at this point. His kiss is nice, familiar. So deep it leaves you breathless. 

“I wanna try something.” He says breaking from the kiss. “Do you trust me?”

You nod not sure what to say or what he’s planning. You suddenly don’t want to sleep, your heart hammering in your chest. He gets up heading back to the door.

“I’ll be right back.” He says smiling. You do trust him, you remember last night how different it felt, how good it feels. You want to believe it's more than just a fling, more than just a transaction. Sex has always felt like that to you, something you have to give to get something in return. It didn’t feel like that with Johnny. 

At least not yet. You pull your shirt off over your head flinging it to the side, the thought of having sex again makes the exhaustion fall away. You shuffle your pants off too, kicking them out of the end of the bed. 

There’s another knock at the door, you frown not expecting it but call Johnny in anyway. Only it’s not Johnny who enters the room, it's Ghost. You immediately reach down pulling the blanket over your exposed top. 

“Ghost!” You shout, turning away feeling heat rush to your cheeks. You feel embarrassed, stupid. You should never have trusted Johnny. You threw your shirt in the middle of the room. 

“Is this what you’ve been up to Johnny?” Ghost asks, you hear the door close. Johnny comes back over to the bed, his hand lands on your back.

“Sorry, I didn’t think you would be, you know. So eager.” You turn to look at him. 

“Could have fucking warned me.” You spit at him. He smiles, leaning forward and kissing you. It relaxes you, you forget Ghost is in the room. When he’s finished his hand comes up to cup your chin. “You look cute when you get flustered.”  

Him saying that just makes you blush more. You look over at Ghost stood by the door, Johnny’s hand lands on yours gripping the blanket. It’s reassuring, it’s what you need. 

“I can ask him to leave.” Johnny says. You sigh looking back at him, you do trust him. 

“I guess you really weren't joking when you said you were close.” You sigh. He smiles getting up off the bed and going over to Ghost. He wraps his arm around his waist, his other hand pushing up under his shirt. 

“I know you’ve been looking, you all have.” Johnny says. Ghost’s eyes look dark, the mask makes him look like such an intimidating person too. He’s big, broad shoulders, definitely the tallest out of all of them. It doesn’t help making him feel any less intimidating. You watch as Johnny presses up against him, his face just reaches his neck, he presses his face into it.

Suddenly the embarrassment fades and you swing your legs out the side of the bed. You flick your eyes between Ghost and Johnny. 

“Let me tell you, she’s as good as you think she is.” Johnny is whispering, or at least trying to. You feel yourself blushing again as Johnny turns his body, his hand slips out from Ghost’s shirt to the front of his pants. Ghost turns to look at Johnny and you let the blanket drop from your chest. 

“You’re playing a dangerous game, MacTavish.” Ghost says, his voice low, rumbling in the room. 

“Maybe, but I know you want to play it too.” Johnny says reaching up to grip the bottom of Ghost’s mask pulling it up to reveal his lips. He steps up on his toes to kiss him. It does something to you, the sight of them both attacking each other's lips. Johnny slips his hand down into Ghost’s pants, you watch as he turns to face Johnny better, his hands running up to grip his arms.

You wet your lips, you press your thighs together feeling a throb travel through you. Your mouth fills with saliva as you watch Johnny fiddle with the front of Ghost's pants, unclipping his belt and reaching in to pull out his cock. He's bigger than Johnny, you can tell that already. You watch as Ghost breaks from the kiss pulling his gloves off and flinging them to the side before gripping Johnny’s face pulling him back into a kiss. 

Your hand wanders down your body, finding your already soaked pussy and coating your fingers in slick. You hear Johnny moan his hand pumping Ghost’s cock in his fist. You bite the inside of your cheek as you move your hand to rub your clit. 

You watch as Ghost breaks from the kiss, his hands dropping down Johnny’s arms. He turns to look at you, you freeze. Johnny smiles, walking over to you pulling his shirt over his head. When he reaches you he hums, smiling before pulling the blanket off you to reveal your hand rubbing yourself. 

He reaches down, picking up your hand bringing it to his mouth. He presses his lips to your soaked fingers, taking them in his mouth and licking them clean. 

“Johnny.” You breathe, he chuckles, pulling your hand out and turning to Ghost. 

“C’mon Simon, let's show her how great you are.” You look past Johnny to hear Ghost coming towards you. Simon, that's his name, he comes over to you, his mask resting on his nose. He leans down and kisses you. 

His kiss is rougher than Johnny, his lips not as soft, he presses his tongue into your mouth and you crane your neck up so he doesn’t have to lean down as much. Johnny’s hands have made their way over to your breasts. His fingers brush over your nipples, cupping them as his face presses into your neck. 

“Christ, didn’t tell me she had pretty lips.” Simon says his thumb coming up to brush your cheek. 

“Didn’t tell you a lot of things.” Johnny says smiling. 

“Simon.” You say looking up at him. He has brown eyes, dark eyes, but they don’t look as scary now. You’re seeing them in a different light, it’s like he’s a different person. 

“I had my fun last night, it’s your turn now LT.” Johnny reaches over, pulling your chin to look at him. “Isn’t that right love, you're going to show Simon how good you are.” You nod up at him, he leans over and kisses you. 

You let them move you, their hands running over the different parts of your body. You end up laid flat on your back with a naked Johnny kneeling down by your head. You look up to the end of the bed seeing Simon getting into position between your legs. He kicked his boots off to take his trousers off but left the shirt and mask. 

Maybe he’s not ready for you to see his face, maybe he doesn’t trust you yet. He’s about to fuck you though, his thick cock is laid on your stomach while he hooks his arms under your knees. You look over at Johnny stroking himself right by your face. Before he even needs to ask you, you open your mouth. 

He winks at you before pressing the tip of his cock to your lips. You let him press into your mouth, you smile as you watch his head tip back. You can’t move your head to look at Simon but you can feel him, pushing fingers inside you before replacing them with his cock. 

He’s thicker than Johnny too causing you to moan round Johnny’s cock, it just makes him push into you harder hitting the back of your throat and making your eyes water. 

“Holy shit, perfect sweetheart.” Johnny says his hand, coming to brush through your hair. 

“You’re making her look so pretty over there Johnny.” You hear Simon say as he thrusts into you. 

“Yeah, you should hear her when she moans. Got a pretty little mouth on her too.” Johnny says as he pulls his cock out your mouth. “Go on love, show him how pretty you sound.” 

You moan through gritted teeth as Simon drives into you harder, pinning your legs out the way with his massive hands. 

“Simon.” You call looking over at him, his mouth is tipped open, his eyes almost glowing in the dim light of the room. You turn your head to look back over at Johnny who smiles down at you and winks. You turn your head and open your mouth again. 

“Christ love, I can’t tell what's better, your mouth or that pretty pussy of yours.” Johnny says as his hand reaches down to play with one of your breasts. 

“You don’t have to pick Johnny.” You hear Simon pant. You smile up at Johnny, your eyes being blurred by the tears streaming down your face. One of Simon’s hands drops your leg so his thumb can rub your clit. You moan around Johnny again which makes him twitch in your mouth. 

Johnny brushes your tears away with his free hand. You close your eyes letting yourself get lost in the pleasure of Simon pumping into you like it’s the first cunt he’s had in years and Johnny hitting the back of your throat with each thrust. 

You moan again, you’re getting close, the stretch of Simon’s cock feels too good, he’s moaning now too, he sounds just as pretty as Johnny. You open your eyes again, Johnny’s fingers pinch your nipple playing with your breast making vibrations pulse down to your pussy. 

“Don’t stop Johnny. She’s clenching around me so tight.” Simon says as his thumb pressing down on your clit causing you to squirm under him. You close your eyes again, your body tensing as you cum. Johnny cums too, you barely react trying not to bite down on his cock. All you feel is his hot seed hitting the back of your throat. 

“Fuck love, fuck me.” Johnny pants pulling out of your mouth letting you breathe. Simon pulls out of you when he cums thick ropes squirting over your chest. You look over at him, his eyes closed, hand wrapped around his cock. 

“Look at you.” Johnny coos, his fingers brushing over your chest scooping up some of the cum leaking down to your stomach. He presses the fingers into his mouth, Simon hums and you feel him step off the bed. 

He walks over to your head and Johnny steps back. Simon looks down at you as you prop yourself up on your elbows. He bends down to kiss you. A second later he breaks away pressing his nose against yours. 

“Riley.” He whispers. You open your eyes as he stands back up pulling his mask down. You watch him reach down to pick his clothes up and Johnny bends down by your head. 

Simon Riley. You smile at Johnny. 

“Not as scary as he seems right?” Johnny says stroking your face. 

“I was never scared of him.” You smile. 

“Good.” Johnny says. 

…

You make it down the stairs last. Johnny came to wake after what felt like no time at all. You really need to get a good night's sleep soon. You have a feeling that won’t be happening though. When you make it to the dining room things feel different. Johnny is standing next to Gaz and Ghost looks almost like he’s sulking in the corner of the room. 

Price is leaning over the table looking at images of a compound. “We split into 2 teams, you three go round the back me and Ghost will go in the front.” He says before looking over at you. He frowns before standing up straight and crossing his arms. 

“The building should be running with the night staff. Al-Qatala only, we’ll need to disable the alarms, you should be able to cut the power directly from a room at the back of the building.” Price says pointing at one of the photos. “After that make your way up to the top floor, that's where the main control room is, if Makarov is anywhere he’ll be there. If not, it's where we’ll find out where he is.” 

“Makarov will know we’re here as soon as we take the place.” Johnny says. 

“That's why we have to act fast, as soon as we know where he is we move.” Price says.

“Unless he’s there.” Gaz says.

“He won’t be there.” you say. Price’s head snaps over to you. “I’ll be the pessimist.” You shrug. 

“We plan for the possibility he is there.” Price says.

“And the possibility he’s not.” Simon says. Looking at him now looming in the shadows. The person you saw in the bedroom just a few hours ago seems like a completely different person then the one hiding in the shadows right now. Ghost is a fitting name.

“Capture or kill?” Johnny asks, stepping forward. 

“Kill. He’s not getting away again.” Price says. Johnny likes that nodding at him and turning back to Gaz. You look round the room, they've been after this guy for a while. 

“Get ready, we’ll be leaving soon.” Price says, crossing his arms. Everyone starts to move and he looks over at you. “A word?” You swallow hard, nodding and walking round the table to him while everyone leaves the room. You’re nervous all of a sudden.

“Are you ready for this?” He asks quietly, bending down to speak to you closer. 

“Yes.” You say holding your ground. 

“It’s going to be dangerous, you could get hurt.”

“Are you trying to talk me out of this?” 

“No. I just need to know you’re ready.” he asks, you look up in his eyes.

“I’m ready.” You nod. He smiles for a second and you move to walk past him. He grabs your arm tight. “You do anything to hurt them and I swear to God I'll put a bullet in your head myself.” You look back digging your eyes into him. Why is he saying this now? Does he know? You pull your arm out his grip. 

“You wouldn’t be taking me if you didn’t trust me.” You say.

He nods. “Yeah, you’re right about that.” 

…

There’s thunder in the distance, a chill in the air. You’re all laid on a hill looking down at the back of the compound, there are lights on but no personnel. 

“Soap, we’re in position. How’s it looking on your end?” Price’s voice calls in your ear. 

“All clear Cap, we’re ready to move in.” Soap replies. The comps still sound strangely formal to you. 

“Okay, keep coms open, let us know when you’ve cut the security.” Price says as you all get to your feet. 

“Copy.” Soap says. You have an AR again, you’re still not used to the bigger weapons. Price’s warning is still ringing loud in your head. Why did he choose to say that now? Does he know what happened between you all? He is the captain, maybe he does. You follow 

Gaz and Soap down the hill to the back door. Gaz's foot slams into the door and it swings open. Soap goes in first and you follow behind him, you’re almost good at this now following his movements clearing rooms like you’ve done it a hundred times before. 

Soap opens a door to another room, it’s warm you follow him inside. It looks like a maintenance room. Gaz comes back and stands in the doorway as Soap walks over to a control panel. You watch as he opens what looks like a fuzebox, he takes wire cutters off his vest and gets to work.

“Price, security systems are offline.” Soap’s voice comes into your ears as he closes the box.

“Copy, we’re moving in. Make your way to the control room.” Price says. You follow Gaz who leads, Soap following behind you. You run into people on the way but Gaz takes them down, the smell of gunpowder and blood is just something you need to get used to. You make it to the next floor, Gaz calls out your location as you move through the building. 

Each floor you go through you find more people. Gaz and Soap take them down, they’re way more confident firing off at people compared to your hesitation. You all turn the corner and run into Price and Ghost. They stack up on the door, this is the last place you need to check, if Makarov is going to be here he’s behind the door. 

Price nods and Ghost kicks the door open, it all happens quickly, voices ring out, shots ring out too. There's a pained groan as everyone goes into the room. You go over to the computer in the room, as soon as you move the mouse you see how corrupted it is.

“The whole thing’s been wiped.” You say. You turn to see Ghost and Price pull the man to his feet and throw him down in a chair. The man is shouting in Arabic through gritted teeth. You turn to start looking through papers with Soap trying to find anything you can to help. 

“Where’s Makarov?” Price asks. 

“Go to hell!” He shouts in English. You hear zip ties as Ghost ties him to the chair. 

“Where is Makarov?” Price asks again. The man spits blood out on the floor, you see the wound on his shoulder. 

“I’ll never say!” Price sighs and Ghosts fist meets his face. It’s all starting to feel a little deja vu. You stick to what you’re doing, looking through the papers for anything useful.

“This was dated today. What does it mean?” Soap asks handing you a piece of paper. 

“It’s a termination order. They’re storing something here, it’s in the garage. Whatever it is, is being picked up tomorrow then the post will be shut down.” You say turning to look over at Price and Ghost. 

“What’s being stored?” Price asks. 

“It doesn’t say.” You reply, putting the paper down on the table.

“Okay, the three of you go check the garages.” Price says. Gaz leaves the room first and you follow him back through the building. Now it feels weird walking back through this place and over bodies, there weren't that many Al-Qatala and now you know why, they probably got sent home days ago. 

“I thought you guys were keeping an eye on this place? You didn’t see them moving anything into the garages?” You ask Kyle ahead of you.

“No, only people moving in and out.” He replies. When you make it outside it’s starting to rain and the thunder sounds closer. 

“When did the message say they were coming?” Soap asks as tests the handle on the door, it’s locked.

“Tomorrow morning, it didn't have time.” You say.

“Strange.” Soap says, you frown looking over at him as Gaz kicks the door. 

“Why? There could have been multiple messages, we only found one.” You say shrugging. 

“Why though? They did such a good job at wiping the computer, shredding everything else why leave that one message?” Soap says. A pit forms in your stomach. You turn to look at him. 

“Probably just didn’t have time before we got there.” You swallow it away looking back at Gaz who gives the door one last kick and it swings open. Maybe he’s right, maybe you’re overthinking about the whole thing, they are more experienced with this kind of stuff. 

You watch Gaz walk in and you move to follow him. 

“Holy shit.” You say when you walk in the room, the wall separating the two garages has been knocked through, there’s 2 trucks both of the beds look full and have been covered with tarp. It’s the ones you recognise from the CCTV footage Gaz showed Farah, the ones that came over the border a few days ago. 

Gaz walks over to one and pulls the tarp off to reveal missiles. 

“Holy shit.” Soap says. His hand runs over the American flag stamped on the metal. 

“American? These are ULF missiles.” You say.

“Were.” Gaz corrects you. 

“Price, we’ve got trucks full of American missiles here.” Soap says over the radio. There’s no reply, Gaz looks over frowning. 

“Price. Come in Price.” Soap says, you’re all already moving to the door before Soap even has a reply. 

“Ghost, Price come in.” Soap calls as you all jog back over to the main building. Now the pit in your stomach is back. What if they’re hurt? Fuck what if they’re dead? Soap and Gaz keep trying to call them as you sprint up the steps.  

“Price!” Gaz shouts as he sprints into the room. You make it in just after him, Price is rubbing his head using the chair to get back to his feet. The place looks like even more of a mess than before, stuff thrown everywhere a lamp knocked off the desk flashing on the floor. There had clearly been a struggle. 

“Where's Ghost?” Soap asks. 

“He went after him.” Price says, Soap rushes out the door.

“Go with him.” Gaz says, you nod following Soap down the hall. You have no idea where he could be but you follow Soap back down to the ground floor. You both freeze for a moment. Soap putting his hand up to stop you. You’re listening for noise. Soap is scanning down the corridors looking out the windows. 

You hear a gunshot.

“This way!” Soap shouts and sprints down a hall. It’s dark and there are no lights on. When you turn a corner you see an open door. The rain is coming down hard now, the thunder sounds like it’s right on top of you. 

You make it out and see Ghost wrestling with the guy on the floor. Soap slowly walks towards him with his weapon trained on them. You follow what he’s doing, keeping your distance, they’re rolling around on the floor, you can’t tell who has the upper hand. The man is clearly putting up a good fight. 

Soap looks like he wants to intervene. You hear a rumbling sound and the almost deafening sound of the rain on the garage roof. You’re not sure what to do, Ghost manages to push the guy off him and they end up on their sides. You think that's it. Soap steps up to them until you see the glint off a knife. You don’t get a chance to call it out the sound of crashing metal distracts you, you turn to the source of the noise seeing a truck barreling towards you. 

“Move!” Soap shouts as he grabs your vest pulling you out its path. You both fall to the ground as the car drives past, it stops just before crashing into the garages. Soap is firing at it before he’s even stood up. You get to your feet and click the safety off your weapon as people jump out the car. You see the weapons in their hands, you don’t care about shooting them now. It’s kill or be killed. 

Your shots are not great, you can see some of them hitting the car instead of people, you’ve only ever shot an AR once in basic training. It comes back to you though surprisingly, like riding a bike. You see someone fall to the floor, you hear shouting behind you and turn quickly to see Price and Gaz coming out the building. 

You breathe a sigh of relief at least it’s not all just down to you and your shit aim. You fire off another shot, this one actually hits one of their shoulders and he falls to the ground. You look over to where Ghost was fighting that man they’re not there anymore. There can’t be many more guys left, the car only has 5 seats. 

The shots stop, you follow behind Soap as he moves closer to the car. Its engine is still running, the doors swung open. You make it over, Soap kicks the bodies of the people on the floor. You make it round to the other side of the truck and Soap leans in, turning the engine off.

“Where’s Ghost?” Price asks. You look around, maybe he got up and hid from the gunfight. You don’t see the guy he was wrestling with either. There’s another gunshot. You all turn, raising your weapons towards the source. Price and Gaz sprint off in the direction first and you follow behind them. 

You rush round the corner of the garages and see Ghost stood there over a body putting his pistol back in its holster. 

“You solid?” Price asks as Ghost turns. He nods, you see him reach down pulling a knife out the man's shoulder, he wipes it on the grass before putting it back in his vest.

“What do we do now?” Soap asks.

“They know we were here, they will have told Makarov already.” Price says. You can hear the frustration in his voice. 

“They probably still want those missiles though.” Gaz says. You shiver, the adrenaline has worn off and you’re drenched. There’s a crack of thunder and the rain seems to pick up even harder. 

“Gaz is right. Even if they managed to get word out to Makarov, it’s a big stash he has just sitting here. He wouldn't want us taking it back to the ULF.” Soap says. 

“Okay. We’ll stay here tonight, follow them in the morning.” Price says. “Chances are they lead us straight to Makarov.” 

“And if they don’t come?” You ask. 

“They’ll come. They’ll want those missiles.” Price says. He sounds sure about it as he walks past you back to the building. You look over and see Ghost reaching down to pick the body up off the floor. Price orders you all to clear the place up. In case they didn’t manage to get the word out to Makarov, you don’t want to spook whoever is coming in the morning. 

It feels kind of pointless but you follow the orders nonetheless. When you’re done you wish you could take a shower and dry your sodden clothes. You’re not that lucky though, everyone seems to fall into a routine when you’re back inside and somewhat dry. Ghost collects everyone's weapons, he takes his time taking them apart and cleaning them like he’s done it a million times. He probably has. 

Gaz and Soap end up on clothes drying duty laying everything on radiators and cranking the heat up in the building to an almost uncomfortable level. You decide to go back up to the main control room and search the place for anything useful. It’s a longshot but you would rather be doing something then nothing. 

You end up trying to organise things, for some reason it makes you feel better. Most of the paperwork is out of date or they have done their best to censor or destroy everything. It’s probably fruitless until you come across a locked drawer. Now you want to get it open. There has to be a way to brute force it open. You take your knife out and jam it between the draws. You kneel down on the floor angling the knife down then pulling it towards you. 

It doesn’t seem to be doing anything. You try again, using more strength crying out and pulling until it hurts. You let go of the knife now stuck in the drawer huffing and letting out a breath. 

“What are you doing?” Price asks. You look up over the desk at him. 

“There’s a locked drawer here.” You say pointing even though you know he can’t see. He comes in walking round the desk to see what you’ve been up to. You hear him chuckle when he sees the knife sticking out the drawer. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small key.

“What you just had that this whole time.” You say tutting and reaching up to take it out his hand. 

“Ghost found it on his body.” He shrugs. You open the drawer pulling your knife out. You see the laptop straight away. You stand up, putting it on the desk and opening it. It turns on and there is no login. 

“What is it with all these people and never using passwords?” You say out loud. 

“Makes our job easier.” Price says. 

“Yeah also probably means there’s probably nothing important on it.” You say opening the documents folder. You sort them by most recent and open it. 

“What is it?” He asks as you scan over the document.

“Something about new orders. They’re moving, they know you’re after them.” You say as you continue reading. “They’re planning something too, something big.” 

“In Urzikstan?” He asks. You shake your head opening another document.

“It doesn’t say, this is a shipping manifest by the look of it. Sent from Moscow.” You close it down looking at the list. “There’s a lot here, it could take hours to sift through all this.”

“Can’t you do a keyword search or something?” He asks. 

“I don’t really know much about computers.” You sigh. 

“Gaz does, c’mon.” He says. You close the laptop lid, you expected him to have moved but he’s just stood there looking at you. You feel your heart pick up speed, he’s frowning at you for a second then his expression goes soft. 

“You did good today.” He says. You swallow the nerves.

“You don’t have to tell me that every time.” You say trying to lighten the mood. He hums, pressing his lips together and angling his body closer to you. 

“How was your time with Soap at the ULF base?” He asks, raising an eyebrow. He knows, he definitely knows and this is a test. Or maybe he doesn’t and he wants you to confess so he can send you back home. 

“Good.” You manage to say. You won’t say anything, you don’t want to get them into trouble. 

“I heard it went more than good.” He says in a low voice, his hand lands on your hip. You freeze in place, his touch is nice, his eyes are blue like Johnny’s, a deeper blue though. Maybe Johnny had already talked about what happened, he did say they were all together. You don’t know if you’re upset or relieved he maybe spoke about you. Price doesn’t seem mad, his eyes scanning round your face is body inching closer to you. 

“I’m only slightly annoyed,” he says. Great, here it comes, this is it, this is where he tells you to leave. You open your mouth ready for the string of apologies to come out. You don’t get a chance though as he leans down to kiss you. 

He takes your breath away, literally . His kiss is deep, his hands gripping your hips and pulling you close to him. You almost can’t believe it’s happening, his kiss is soft like Johnny, he’s slow too letting you control the speed. His beard tickles your face, you don’t mind though. Before you can help yourself your hand runs up his arm. 

He breaks from the kiss first, your heart is still pounding in your chest. He smiles at you. 

“You said you were annoyed.” You say swallowing, he chuckles, his hand coming up to cup your cheek.

“Yeah, that MacTavish got to you first.” He smiles.

Banners by plum98

[orkauh]

[Pre-lude]

Please, Mr. Kento… Your Wife Really, Really Needs You.

Synopsis.

It started with one protective, bratty remark — the kind you thought was harmless. You just had to remind her whose husband she was lusting after. Now you’re trapped in a cold war of denied orgasms and torturously slow edging, courtesy of Mr. Nanami: your devoted, composed, maddeningly restrained husband… and a pediatric neurosurgeon with the patience of a saint. He says it’s about intimacy. You say it’s cruel. And maybe you are a bit of a brat. But you're also a very slow learner. Unfortunatly for you — he has all the time in the world to make sure you learn your lesson...

Pairing. Kento Nanami X Reader

MDNI — 17+ ONLY. This work is intended for mature audiences. It features adult themes and is not suitable for minors. Do not interact if you’re underage. While this chapter is relatively tame, the series will contain explicit content, including bratty reader behavior, soft-dom Nanami, slow burn tension, and a whole lot of torturous edging. Expect power dynamics, emotional intimacy, pregnant sex, and a husband who is obsessively in love — but maddeningly restrained. No pathetic women here — only messy, real ones who push buttons and learn lessons the hard way. A happy ending is promised, but not without a very long, very frustrating road there. Reader is a slow learner. Fortunately (or not), Mr. Nanami has all the time in the world.

Word count. 569

A/N. im not sorry :)

Series Masterlist Next Chapter

 “Come on, Nanami,” Gojo drawls, already halfway through his second glass of something suspiciously pink. “Don’t act like you’re not a beast behind closed doors. I’ve known you too long.”

He’s doing it again.

You shoot your brother a narrow-eyed glare across the table, but he just grins wider — clearly enjoying the way Nanami’s expression stays perfectly calm. Perfectly blank.

Nanami sets his glass down with quiet precision.

“Need I remind you, Gojo… you’re talking about your sister.”

The table chuckles.

Gojo shrugs. “Exactly why it’s funny.”

And then she speaks — Akutami. The woman across from you, with too much gloss and too little shame. Her voice is syrupy. Her smile — a shade too sharp. And her eyes? Locked on your husband.

“You know what?” she hums, lazily twirling her earring. “I think Gojo might be right. There’s just… something about a man like Nanami. All that quiet? It usually means trouble. God only knows I’d like some for myself.”

But it’s not just the words.

It’s the way her gaze drags — from his loosened collar to the subtle flex of his forearms beneath cotton sleeves. She lingers there, eyes shamelessly glued to the fabric stretched over his broad chest — like she’s imagining her hands there instead. Like she’s already peeling him apart in her head.

She looks at him like he’s the main course. Like she’d lick the plate clean if given half the chance.

Someone lets out a low “ooh.”

Because everyone at the table knows: She and Nanami used to date. Briefly. Quietly. Until he met you — and never looked back.

That “ooh” isn’t just at the flirtation. It’s at the history.

Earlier, she’d smiled too wide and said too little. Like you weren’t worth mentioning. Like bratty you wasn’t the best option. Like you were a placeholder in heels.

And now — she’s testing the waters. Right in front of you.

It’s a joke. A harmless one, maybe. But it lands like lipstick on a collar that isn’t yours.

Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s that woman. Maybe it’s Gojo.

Whatever it is, you smile. You shouldn’t. You do anyway.

You raise your glass — tilting it toward your husband — and the ring on your finger catches the light like a weapon.

Brilliant-cut. Impossible to ignore. A bold, glittering promise Nanami insisted on. You’d teased him about it once — that it was too much. But he’d only shrugged and said, “If it’s going to be on you, it should be the best.” You reminded him he didn’t have to compete.

He reminded you you’d be wearing it forever.

Diamond. Clarity. Weight. A statement — and a reminder: he’s not available.

“Please,” you purr, swirling your champagne. “If you knew what he was like behind closed doors…”

You pause — grin slow and wicked.

“You’d know he’s the one on his knees.”

A beat. Then —

“For me.”

Silence.

Gojo wheezes — choking on a laugh like he just won a bet. Akutami freezes, blinking like she didn’t expect to be outplayed. Someone drops a fork.

And Nanami?

He looks at you. Pointedly. Just one glance — heavy, steady. A quiet promise of consequences.

He raises a brow. Slow. Sharp.

Then he reaches for his cuff — unclasps one. Then the other. Rolls his sleeves up to his forearms, smooth and deliberate. Still watching you.

He lifts his wine glass. Takes a sip. Doesn’t say a word.

—

That should have been your first warning...

A/N. are you ready? cause im NOT. im not even a big NANAMI stan but i have a friend who is this is for you Beefy. the next chapter has me. Also gege is the villin in all my stories. after go/jo hes dead to me. DED!

Buy me a Ko-Fi :)

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