#but 7.5k of it exists now so

[wisteriagoesvroom]

uhhhh does anyone want a tag when the lando gets railed in a dress by ojp fic goes up? (feel free to dm or comment if so)

i talked about it here before and it only took me like 7 months to write it but. we ball

[kaiyunsim]

serendipity —

pairing : spider-man!jake x gn!reader

summary : a late night studying session with shinyu results in a weird stalker following you home… but wait, he’s webbed to the wall..? by… SPIDER-MAN? what’s even weirder is that you find yourself running yourself running into the hero more often and begin to see some similarities with… jake sim?

warnings : FLUFF, very very oblivious reader, jake is SUCH a loser here (i crave a loser bf guys… he’s just a nerd), jake is popular, shinyu as a friend of the reader

a/n : omg everyone thank @writhyv for getting me back to writing for jake ! ALSO for getting me to write a hot loser jake (i love it very much) GIFT FOR HIM !! thank u pook ilysm.

queueing… : serendipity - laufey, sweet - cigarettes after sex, safety zone - leehi, blue - kai (not yung kai)

— wc : 7.5k — not proof read —

jake sim is the kind of guy who could ruin your entire life without even trying.

he’s the hottest person you’ve ever seen in real life. like, actually hot. perfect hair, perfect smile, broad shoulders under whatever hoodie he always throws on like he didn't just accidentally win the genetic lottery. he’s popular in the way that feels effortless, always surrounded by people who seem to orbit around him like he’s some kind of sun.

the whole school loves him. teachers, athletes, the kids who sit in the back of class and never talk. jake sim could probably trip and faceplant in the middle of the hallway and people would still clap for him.

the only weird part is that he’s also… kind of a loser.

you don’t really know him, just know of him. he’s in a few of your classes, close enough to be a familiar face but not close enough for either of you to actually talk. if anything, he’s just background noise in your life, one of those people who exists on the edge of your universe without ever really crossing into it.

except sometimes, every now and then, you feel like he’s acting a little… strange around you.

not that you think too hard about it. probably nothing.

the first time it happens, you don’t even clock it as anything weird.

it’s in english class, some group discussion where nobody’s actually talking, just pretending to think really hard about the book none of you actually read. you’re flipping through the pages when you feel someone staring.

you glance up, and there he is. jake sim.

he’s sitting diagonally across from you, elbow propped on the desk, eyes locked on you like he’s trying to figure out the meaning of life or something.

you blink at him.

he blinks back.

and then, like he just got caught committing a crime, he whips his head down, pretending to scribble something in his notebook with the intensity of someone writing their final will and testament.

...okay. weird, but whatever.

the second time, it’s in the hallway between classes.

you're digging through your locker, minding your own business, when you hear someone clear their throat behind you.

“uh—hi.”

you turn around.

jake sim is standing there, clutching his textbook like it's a lifeline. up close, he's even hotter, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, hair falling into his eyes.

he's also… kind of red in the face?

“hey?” you offer, confused.

he opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, then immediately shuts it again.

“never mind,” he mutters, spinning on his heel and walking away so fast you'd think the hallway was on fire.

...what the hell was that?

it keeps happening.

little moments that should probably add up to something if you actually paid attention, but you don’t, because jake sim is jake sim, and you’re just you.

he stumbles over his words when you ask to borrow a pencil. drops his entire water bottle when you accidentally brush past him in class. one time, you catch him fully tripping over absolutely nothing when you make eye contact with him across the cafeteria.

but for some reason, your brain just files it all away under wow, popular guys are weird sometimes and moves on.

if anyone ever asked you what you think of jake sim, you’d probably just shrug and say he’s nice.

you don't know that he’s been in love with you since sophomore year.

you don't know that every time he tries to talk to you, his brain completely shuts down.

and you definitely don’t know that the same guy who turns into a stammering mess around you spends his nights swinging across the city, cracking jokes and saving people as if confidence is something that comes built into the suit.

the third time you actually talk to him is in chemistry class.

the teacher pairs you up for some experiment, something involving measurements and burning stuff, and jake ends up at your table, tapping his pen against the notebook like he’s trying to act casual.

"can you pass me the beaker?" you ask.

he freezes.

his eyes flick to the beaker, then to you, then back to the beaker like it's a bomb he’s been assigned to defuse.

"...yeah," he says, voice cracking on the single syllable.

you don’t think anything of it, just reach for the beaker when he hands it over. your fingers brush against his, and he drops it.

it clatters against the table, rolling onto the floor with a loud clink.

"oh."

jake looks like he wants to melt through the floor.

"it's fine," you say, bending down to grab it. “at least it didn’t break” you joke to lighten to mood.

he doesn't move, just sits there gripping the edge of the table like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

you offer him a small smile when you straighten up, placing the beaker back on the table.

"chill," you joke. "it's not that serious."

jake visibly short-circuits.

"chill," he echoes, like it's the first time he's ever heard the word in his life.

if someone told you jake sim had a crush on you, you’d probably laugh.

guys like him don’t go for people like you.

guys like him date cheerleaders or instagram models or the kind of girls who know exactly how to flip their hair and laugh in that effortless, pretty way.

not people who half-ass their homework and accidentally fall asleep during history lectures.

definitely not people who would rather have deep conversations on rooftops than go to parties.

but what you don’t know is that those are all the exact reasons jake likes you.

he likes the way you always stick your tongue out a little when you’re concentrating. he likes how you always hum to yourself when you think nobody’s listening. he likes how you talk to everyone the same, never acting like anybody’s above or below you.

he likes you.

and it’s ruining his life.

—

"do you think jake sim is... weird?"

shinyu raises an eyebrow. "weird how?"

you frown, trying to find the right words.

"i don’t know. like... awkward? around me?"

he snorts. "he's awkward around everyone."

"not really."

shinyu pauses, eyes narrowing like he’s finally catching onto something you've been missing this whole time.

"...wait." he leans in. "do you seriously not realize he's into you?"

you blink.

"what?"

"oh my god." he gape at you like you're the dumbest person alive. "he's had a crush on you since, like, forever."

you genuinely laugh at that, because there's no way.

right?

meanwhile, across the cafeteria, jake sim is currently choking on his water because he saw you glance in his direction for half a second.

sunghoon pats his back, looking vaguely concerned.

"bro, you have superpowers, but you can't even talk to your crush?"

jake coughs harder. he’s so, so doomed.

—

you don’t try to stay out late. it just happens.

sometimes it’s because you lose track of time, caught up in the city’s glow. sometimes it’s because you’re walking home after a long study session, brain fried from trying to shove too much information into it at once.

tonight, it’s the latter.

shinyu yawns next to you, stretching his arms over his head as you both step out of the library. “i swear, if i have to look at one more page of notes, i’m throwing my entire textbook into the river.”

“you say that every time,” you point out.

“and one of these days, i’ll actually do it.”

you snort, tugging your hoodie closer around you. it’s late enough that the streets are quieter than usual, the hum of distant traffic the only real sound. most of the shops have already shut down, save for the 24-hour convenience store at the corner.

shinyu pulls out his phone. “should i call a cab?”

“nah,” you shake your head. “i’ll just walk.”

he frowns. “are you sure? it’s kinda late.”

“i always do this. i’ll be fine.”

he hesitates, clearly debating whether or not to argue, but eventually sighs. “alright. text me when you get home, though.”

“yes, mom.”

he rolls his eyes, flicking your forehead before heading off in the opposite direction.

you stuff your hands into your pockets and start walking.

your route home is familiar, same streets, same flickering streetlights, same little shop windows reflecting the glow of the city back at you. you don’t feel unsafe. if anything, you like walking at night. there’s something peaceful about it, something that makes the world feel a little softer around the edges.

but then—

you hear footsteps behind you.

at first, you don’t think much of it. there are always other people out and about. but as you keep walking, the sound stays steady, just far enough behind that you can’t tell if it’s a coincidence or something else.

your stomach twists. ‘who the fuck is walking around the same route as you at 2am..?’ you think to yourself.

you glance over your shoulder.

a man. mid-thirties, maybe. hood pulled up over his head.

the moment your eyes meet, he quickly looks away, pretending to check his phone.

your heart beats a little faster. you’re probably overreacting.

but then you turn the corner, and the footsteps turn with you.

you pick up your pace.

so do they.

your chest tightens. okay. okay. you’re not imagining it.

you scan the street for other people, but it’s mostly empty. the nearest open shop is too far ahead, and the alley you just passed is—

wait.

your stomach drops.

you didn’t even hear him move, but suddenly, he’s not behind you anymore.

he’s right there.

you barely have time to react before he grabs your wrist, grip too tight, breath too close. “hey—”

before you can even think to scream, something flies past you—fast, sharp.

and suddenly, the man is yanked backwards.

one second he’s gripping you, the next he’s pinned to the alley wall, struggling against thick strands of white webbing wrapped tight around his torso.

your breath catches in your throat.

what.

your brain barely has time to process it before—

“hey,” a voice calls.

you turn, heart still pounding.

and standing there, perched casually on the edge of a lamppost, is spider-man.

your mouth goes dry.

he hops down, landing lightly on the pavement, head tilting slightly as he glances at the guy still stuck to the wall. “yeah, i don’t think so,” he says.

the guy grunts, struggling uselessly against the webbing.

spider-man sighs. “not your best move.”

you just stare.

you know who he is, obviously. everyone does. but knowing about spider-man and actually seeing him in front of you are two entirely different things.

he turns to you. “you alright?”

you blink at him, mind still catching up. “uh.”

he tilts his head. “i’ll take that as a yes?”

“y-yeah,” you stammer, clearing your throat. “yeah. i’m fine.”

“good.” he gestures vaguely toward the guy. “i’ll leave him here for the cops. but, uh—maybe don’t walk alone this late?”

you exhale sharply. “yeah. got it. solid advice.”

spider-man lets out a soft chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck.

for some reason, that tiny, almost shy gesture is what actually makes your brain start working again.

because up until now, he seemed untouchable, fast, sharp, the kind of person who moves like he already knows the next ten steps ahead. but now, standing here, he’s shifting his weight slightly like he’s not sure what to do with his hands.

and for some reason, that makes him feel real.

“do you, uh,” he starts, then hesitates. “want me to walk you home?”

your stomach flips.

“oh,” you say. “you don’t have to—”

“i don’t mind,” he says quickly. “just to make sure you get there safe.”

you bite your lip. you really should say no. he’s probably busy, and you don’t want to take up more of his time.

but also.

spider-man just offered to walk you home.

what kind of idiot would turn that down?

“…okay,” you say finally.

you can hear the smile in his voice. “okay.”

—

when you finally get home, he hangs back by the streetlight, watching as you unlock the door.

“thanks again,” you say, turning back to him.

he nods. “anytime.”

you hesitate.

“…do you do handshakes?”

he lets out a soft laugh. “not usually.”

“oh.” you lower your hand, a little embarrassed.

but before you can pull it back completely, he reaches out and bumps his knuckles against yours.

it’s such a small thing. so stupidly small.

but for some reason, it makes your heart stutter.

you glance up at him, but he’s already moving, gripping the edge of the nearest rooftop, hoisting himself up with an easy strength that makes your stomach flip.

and then, just before he disappears—

“goodnight,” he says.

your breath catches.

and then he’s gone.

you collapse onto your bed the second you get inside, phone buzzing with a text from shinyu.

shinyu: you home yet? you: yeah shinyu: good

you hover over the keyboard for a second, debating.

and then—

you: hey. what do you think of spider-man?

his reply is instant.

shinyu: idk. kinda cool? you: ...yeah.

you stare at the screen. your heart is still racing.

and for some reason, all you can hear is his voice.

stupid voice with that stupid accent you recognize but look over.

—

it’s become a thing now.

you didn’t plan for it, but somehow it has.

spider-man keeps showing up.

at first, it’s just the occasional late-night save, that charming but awkward conversation at the end where you thank him profusely and he gives you a weird little knuckle bump before disappearing into the night.

but then...

you start seeing him more.

you start to notice that he seems to be where you are, just when you need him.

it happens AGAIN one night when you’re walking home after another late study session with shinyu.

you’re tired. drained. your brain feels like mush, and shinyu, though he’s usually the one full of energy, seems to be on the same wavelength.

"i swear," he mutters, "if i see one more page of equations, i’m going to just… yeet this textbook into the nearest river."

you snort, nudging him. "don’t tempt me. i’m kind of considering it myself."

you both chuckle, but it's tired. the kind of tired where you can’t even muster the energy to fake your usual enthusiasm.

the streets are quiet again, just the sound of your footsteps echoing in the night.

and, as usual, that familiar feeling creeps in, like you’re being watched.

you brush it off. it’s probably just a shadow, the way the streetlights flicker and make things seem closer than they are.

but then, in the distance, a small rustle.

you freeze for a second, but quickly continue walking, convincing yourself it’s nothing.

you turn another corner, and then, there he is.

spider-man.

you blink, more than a little surprised.

“oh, hey,” you say, trying to act casual. "what's up?"

he’s leaning against the side of a building, arms crossed, but when you notice the way he’s watching you, you can’t shake the feeling that maybe he’s been here for a while.

he straightens, suddenly looking a bit... embarrassed? "uh, nothing much. just making sure you're alright."

you blink, a little confused. "i’m fine? why wouldn’t i be?"

he gives a small shrug, like it’s no big deal. "you know, just being careful. you’re walking kinda late, and i’m... well, i’m always around."

you raise an eyebrow. "you just 'happen' to be around whenever i'm out late?"

he looks sheepish. "yep."

you stare at him for a second.

“are you stalking me?” you joke, but it comes out a little too serious.

his eyes widen, and he starts shaking his head quickly, scratching at the back of his neck. "no! no, of course not. just... making sure you're safe, y’know?"

you chuckle softly, rolling your eyes. "right. sure."

he seems to relax when you don’t push it further. “anyway, i could walk you home if you want. just in case, you know?”

you shrug. it’s not like you mind. "okay, but only because you’re weirdly persistent."

he grins, clearly relieved. "wouldn’t dream of letting you walk alone."

it’s an awkward, quiet walk. mostly because spider-man doesn’t seem to know how to start a normal conversation. his silence is comfortable, though, like there’s no need to fill the space. just walking with him feels nice.

by the time you’re at your front door, you’re laughing over something dumb that shinyu had said earlier. you feel strangely at ease.

"thanks for walking me home," you say.

he shrugs. “it’s nothing. just doing my part.”

you smile, heart skipping a beat. "goodnight, spider-man."

"goodnight," he replies, his voice soft. then, as usual, he’s gone before you can say anything else.

—

the routine builds quickly after that.

it becomes normal to see him around whenever you’re out at night.

he always seems to be around, sometimes just dropping in for a casual chat, other times swooping in to rescue you from the occasional shady character or two.

but it’s the quiet moments you start to cherish.

there’s one night where you and shinyu are hanging out on the rooftop of your building, talking about life as you always do. the sky is clear, the stars twinkling, and it feels like a moment frozen in time.

shinyu is sprawled across the floor, pretending to sleep, while you’re sitting with your legs dangling over the edge, arms resting on your knees.

“so,” he says suddenly, breaking the silence. “what’s the deal with spider-man, anyway? you two talk a lot now.”

you freeze for a second, eyes narrowing. “what do you mean ‘talk a lot?’”

he raises his hands in mock surrender. “i’m just saying. you two have some weird dynamic. are you, like, dating or something?”

you laugh it off. “what? no! it’s just... he’s, uh, nice. i don’t know, he’s just been around when i’ve needed him, that’s all.”

shinyu sits up, raising an eyebrow. “oh, really? just ‘happens’ to be there. that’s cute.”

you roll your eyes. “he’s cool, okay?”

he gives you a knowing look. “if you say so.”

before you can respond, you hear the familiar sound of whoosh above you.

spider-man drops down onto the roof, landing lightly beside you with an easy smile.

“hey, guys,” he says casually, like he hasn’t just flown in to join the conversation.

you smile at him, your heart fluttering a little. “hey, spider-man.”

shinyu squints at him, grinning. “so, we’re just hanging out, huh? that’s cool. do you want anything to drink?”

spider-man looks at him in confusion. “huh?”

“i mean, you’re here now. should we get drinks?” shinyu gestures to the corner store below. “i’ll go down and grab something. you want anything?”

spider-man glances at you first, and then back at shinyu, his expression unreadable for a moment.

“uh, sure,” he says, his voice a little uncertain. “i’ll just have whatever you’re getting.”

shinyu gives a little nod before standing up and heading down the stairs to the convenience store.

you and spider-man are left alone again.

the air feels different this time, like the space between you has changed. you both sit there in silence for a moment.

he clears his throat. “so, uh... how’s the studying going?”

you laugh softly. “honestly? i want to burn my textbooks.”

he chuckles. “yeah, i get that. same.”

you glance at him, curious. “you study too?”

he shrugs, looking awkward. “well... when i’m not being, you know, spider-man. i try to keep up.”

you nod, smiling. “cool. you seem smart.”

he looks away, rubbing the back of his neck. “yeah, well, it’s all kind of a... blur, y’know?”

you laugh again. "yeah, i know exactly what you mean."

and suddenly, you realize something.

you’re actually... comfortable with him.

not just the whole superhero thing, not just the awkwardness, but the person behind it. you don’t need to be on edge around him.

and somehow, that makes you feel both lighter and a little strange.

later, shinyu returns with drinks, and the conversation picks up again. spider-man relaxes a little more, though he still seems a bit fidgety.

you can’t help but notice how, even now, when he’s around shinyu, he still doesn’t seem to know how to act. there’s an ease to his awkwardness that’s almost endearing.

shinyu teases him a little, asking if he’s ever had to take his suit off after a long night of “saving people” and spider-man just shrugs awkwardly, mumbling something about the suit being “perfectly breathable” as if that’s the most casual thing in the world.

it’s a weird dynamic, but it works.

and for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel quite so... lonely.

—

when it’s time to leave, spider-man walks you home again, which is literally downstairs.

you’re still laughing from something shinyu said, but when you glance over at spider-man, you notice him looking at you more seriously than usual.

“you okay?” you ask, surprised by the shift in his mood.

“yeah,” he replies, his voice quiet. “just... it’s nothing. just wanted to check on you.”

you smile softly. “you do that a lot.”

he shrugs. “it’s my job, right?”

and even though he says that, you can see the hint of something more. something deeper.

you’re not sure what it is, but you feel it.

you smile to yourself, wondering if maybe you’re starting to understand him a little better.

when you get to your front door, you wave goodbye, but this time, he doesn’t leave immediately.

he lingers.

“goodnight, spider-man,” you say quietly.

“goodnight.”

he’s gone before you can blink.

and you can’t help but feel like there’s something he’s not saying. something important.

—

you’re at school, sitting with shinyu during lunch, lazily picking at your food as the two of you chat about the usual, homework, annoying teachers, and how much you’d rather be anywhere else.

and then, somehow, the conversation lands on him.

"so, spider-man," shinyu says, taking a sip of his drink. "you never really told me. what’s the deal with that?"

you blink, caught off guard. "what do you mean?"

shinyu shrugs. "i mean, you guys talk a lot. what’s he like?"

you pause, considering it. "well... he’s nice. kind of awkward, but in a cute way. and, i don’t know, i feel like i can actually talk to him, you know?"

shinyu raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. "so you like talking to him."

"obviously," you say, rolling your eyes. "he’s funny, easy to be around, and—"

you pause for half a second.

shinyu waits.

"... and?"

you shrug, acting like what you’re about to say is no big deal. "and he’s kinda hot."

it happens instantly.

a loud choking sound from the table next to you.

you both turn your heads.

jake sim, golden boy of the school, is currently dying.

he’s hunched over, violently coughing, his drink abandoned as he tries to catch his breath. his friends, some of the other popular kids, are just watching him, either concerned or mildly entertained.

"bro, what is wrong with you?" one of them asks, patting jake on the back.

jake wheezes.

you stare at him, blinking. "... you good?"

he looks up at you, eyes wide, mouth slightly open like he just realized he made a scene.

"uh—yeah! yes! i’m fine!" he blurts out, too loudly.

you and shinyu exchange a look.

"uh-huh," you say, unconvinced.

jake quickly grabs his drink again, pretending like nothing happened, but you can see it, how his ears are red, how he’s suddenly so focused on stirring his drink with his straw like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

weird.

shinyu, being shinyu, decides to push it.

"wait, you were listening to us?" he says, grinning.

"no!" jake says, way too fast. "i wasn’t listening! i just— i mean— i heard something, but it wasn’t on purpose—"

he stops himself, as if realizing he’s making it worse.

you stare at him, trying to figure out what his deal is.

jake sim is, objectively, very attractive. everyone at school knows it. he’s the kind of guy who could probably get away with murder just by looking at someone the right way.

but right now?

right now, he looks like a glitching NPC.

shinyu smirks. "so, which part made you choke? the part where spider-man is easy to talk to, or the part where he’s hot?"

jake makes a strangled sound, like he just swallowed his soul.

"i—" he starts, then stops, looking deeply uncomfortable.

you narrow your eyes at him.

"wait," you say suddenly, realization hitting. "do you know spider-man?"

jake freezes.

his eyes dart around the table, as if searching for an escape route.

"i—uh—no?" he tries, but it sounds more like a question than an answer.

"that was very convincing," you deadpan.

"thank you," he says automatically. then, realizing what he just did, he groans and drags a hand down his face.

you just stare at him.

what is up with this guy?

shinyu snickers. "dude, you’re acting real suspicious right now."

"i am not," jake says, still looking very much suspicious.

you and shinyu both just keep staring at him.

jake, unable to handle the attention, suddenly stands up. "gotta go!" he announces, grabbing his tray and practically sprinting away from the table.

... what.

you blink. "okay, what was that?"

shinyu just laughs. "no clue, but that was hilarious."

you shake your head, still baffled.

jake sim is weird.

—

that night, like clockwork, spider-man appears.

you’re outside, walking back from the convenience store, a bag of snacks in your hand when you hear the familiar thwip of a web.

you don’t even flinch anymore.

“oh, hey,” you say as he lands beside you. "you’re early tonight."

spider-man, who seems slightly fidgety for some reason, clears his throat. "uh, yeah. just happened to be around."

you nod. "right. as always."

there’s a beat of silence as the two of you start walking.

then, spider-man casually goes, "sooo... you think i’m hot?"

you freeze mid-step.

"what—"

he panics immediately. "i mean—! not that i heard you say that or anything, but like— well, let’s say hypothetically you did say that, and hypothetically i overheard—"

you narrow your eyes. "did you overhear?"

he hesitates for a full second before blurting, "no!"

"uh-huh."

he coughs. "but if you did think that— i mean, just out of curiosity, uh... what part exactly were you talking about?"

you stare at him.

he shifts, looking way too eager but also like he might die on the spot.

you decide to mess with him.

"i dunno," you say, pretending to think. "maybe the mask? keeps things mysterious."

"mysterious," he echoes.

"or maybe the whole... ‘hero of the city’ thing," you continue. "kind of hard not to find that attractive."

"oh," he says weakly.

you glance at him.

his shoulders are tense. he’s definitely blushing. even through the mask, you can tell.

you bite back a grin. "why do you ask, spider-man? you interested in what i think?"

"wh—no! i mean— i guess? maybe? i just—" he stops mid-sentence, suddenly frustrated with himself.

you laugh. "wow. you get flustered really easily."

"i do not," he lies.

you grin.

he’s so bad at this.

but... it’s kind of cute.

he clears his throat, clearly desperate to change the subject. "so! um! anyway! totally unrelated question—"

"uh-huh?"

"—but, like... have you ever thought that maybe you already know me?"

you blink. "what?"

he shrugs, trying to sound casual. "i mean, like, what if i wasn’t just spider-man? what if i was, i dunno... someone you see every day?"

you frown, confused.

"... but you’re not," you say simply. "i’d recognize your voice."

spider-man pauses.

"oh," he says.

like he just remembered that’s a thing.

you keep walking, completely missing the way his entire body slumps.

"why?" you ask, glancing at him. "are you secretly my math teacher or something?"

he lets out a weird, awkward laugh. "pfft. no! definitely not. that’d be, um. weird."

you snort. "right... mr. lee..?"

spider-man sighs, clearly realizing this isn’t going anywhere. "never mind," he mutters.

you just shrug. "okay. anyway, are we getting snacks or what?"

he perks up instantly. "yes! let’s do that."

he’s back to normal.

but inside, jake sim is screaming.

when you get home, you fall onto your bed, thinking about the conversation you just had.

weird.

he was acting weird.

but it’s probably nothing.

meanwhile, somewhere across the city, jake is lying face down on his bed, aggressively kicking his feet like a teenage girl in a romcom, absolutely mortified.

his friends are still roasting him for what happened at lunch.

he’s never going to live this down.

—

rooftops are underrated.

shinyu agrees.

“this is the best place to complain about life,” he says, stretching out on the rooftop ledge. “no teachers, no school stress, just the city and the stars.”

“and potential death if you slip,” you point out.

“adds to the thrill.”

you laugh, taking a deep breath as the cool night air brushes against your skin. it’s peaceful up here, the hum of the city below feeling distant, almost like background noise.

this is your favorite part of the night, escaping the weight of the day, letting yourself exist without expectations.

shinyu, lounging beside you, throws a crumpled snack wrapper at you. “so. be honest. do you think mr. lee is actually grading our essays or just randomly handing out scores?”

“random,” you say immediately. “there’s no way he read mine. i wrote a whole paragraph about how pigeons should have jobs and still got an A.”

shinyu nearly chokes on his drink. “what?”

“i was sleep-deprived, okay?”

“bro.”

you grin, nudging his shoulder. shinyu’s dramatic laughter echoes in the open air, and for a second, it feels like nothing else matters.

but then—

thwip.

a familiar sound.

you don’t even flinch.

shinyu, however, does. “bro,” he says, staring at the figure that just landed on the rooftop. “your weird little superhero friend is here again.”

spider-man straightens up. “hey,” he says, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his hoodie over his suit.

“oh, great,” shinyu mutters. “now i have to third-wheel whatever this weird thing is.”

you roll your eyes. “it’s not weird.”

spider-man, beside you, shifts. “wait. what’s not weird?”

shinyu smirks. “you and them.”

spider-man nearly trips over his own feet. “what?”

you laugh. “ignore him, he’s just being annoying.”

“i’m just saying,” shinyu teases, standing up and stretching, “i feel like a chaperone. anyway, i’m heading home before mr. lee assigns another test. try not to die.”

you wave him off, watching as he climbs down the fire escape.

the second he’s gone, spider-man sighs dramatically. “your friend is kind of scary.”

“he’d love to hear that.”

he chuckles, shaking his head. “so. you just hang out on rooftops for fun?”

“why not?” you shrug. “it’s peaceful. no school, no responsibilities, no—”

you shift slightly on the ledge—

and your foot slips.

for a split second, your stomach drops.

but before you can even process it—

strong hands grab your waist, pulling you back to safety.

your breath catches.

you don’t even have time to think before you’re pressed against him, his hands still firmly holding you, your faces way too close.

your brain short-circuits.

spider-man tenses.

his mask hides his expression, but you can feel the shift, the sudden awareness of just how close you are.

your hands are gripping his arms, his hands are still on your waist, and for a moment, neither of you move.

the air is thick.

his breathing is a little uneven.

he’s calm on the outside, but inside?

jake sim is losing his mind.

because oh my god.

he is touching you.

holding you.

you’re close enough that he can see every little detail, the way your lips part slightly in surprise, the way your eyes flicker down for a second before meeting his again.

he’s panicking.

but he cannot show it.

so he clears his throat, trying to sound casual. “you, uh. good?”

you blink, snapping out of it.

“oh. yeah. thanks for—” you gesture vaguely, still hyper-aware of his hands.

spider-man nods, though his brain is still buffering.

he should move.

but his hands don’t move.

why aren’t they moving?

he’s gripping your waist like you’re going to fall again, like he has to keep holding on, and it takes everything in him to not scream.

you tilt your head.

“... you okay?”

"me? oh! yeah! totally fine! absolutely not freaking out or anything!”

you squint at him.

"... you sure?"

"yep! totally! one hundred percent normal behavior happening right now!"

he still hasn’t let go.

you raise an eyebrow.

he realizes he still hasn’t let go.

"oh! right! my bad!"

he snatches his hands away like he just touched fire, stumbling back a step.

you blink at him.

he looks like he just had an out-of-body experience.

"... you’re acting weird," you say.

"no, i’m not!" he says, voice cracking.

you stare at him for another second before shrugging. "okay."

you sit back down like nothing happened.

spider-man stands there, physically trying to reboot.

—

the next day at school, jake sim is a mess.

he is so weird about it.

you don’t even notice at first, too busy going about your day, but then, little things start adding up.

like how he keeps running into walls.

or how he drops his books every time you walk by.

or how, when you pass him in the hallway, he does a 180-degree spin and walks the other direction like he just forgot where he was going.

it’s like he has no motor skills around you.

and the worst part?

everyone notices.

"bro, what is your deal?" one of his friends asks after jake nearly trips over thin air.

jake just groans, aggressively rubbing his face. "i don’t wanna talk about it."

his friends exchange a look.

"you’ve been acting weird since yesterday," one of them says. "what happened?"

"nothing!"

"are you sure?"

"yes!" jake says, too fast. "i’m totally fine! absolutely normal! definitely not thinking about anything that happened on a rooftop last night!"

his friends blink.

"... what?"

jake.exe has stopped working.

"i gotta go," he says, shoving his books into his bag and sprinting away before they can ask any more questions.

meanwhile, you, completely oblivious to his entire breakdown, sit down with shinyu at lunch, happily eating your food.

"hey," shinyu says, nudging you. "you notice how jake’s been acting extra weird today?"

you pause mid-bite. "huh?"

"he keeps running into things. i think you broke him."

"... what did i do?"

shinyu shrugs. "no clue. but it’s hilarious."

you glance across the cafeteria.

jake is at his table, looking stressed.

you don’t think much of it.

meanwhile, jake is sitting there, gripping his drink, replaying last night’s moment in his head like a broken record, absolutely suffering.

there’s something weird about jake sim.

not in an obvious way, he’s still the school’s golden boy, still effortlessly good-looking, still surrounded by people who seem drawn to him like he has his own gravitational pull.

but ever since you started talking to spider-man, something feels... off.

and the more you think about it, the more you realize...

jake and spider-man are kind of similar.

not in every way, obviously.

spider-man is cool in a nerdy, awkward way. jake is just awkward.

spider-man is confident until he’s flustered. jake is flustered until he’s more flustered.

but there are little things. things that stick in your mind and refuse to leave.

the way they both stutter when they’re flustered.

the way they both react too strongly when you mention something embarrassing.

the way spider-man somehow always reacts to things you say about jake sim a little too specifically.

you wouldn’t normally care.

except now you do so you decide to test him.

the opportunity presents itself in the middle of lunch.

shinyu is ranting about his math teacher, and you’re half-listening, half-watching as jake sits at his usual table across the cafeteria.

he looks tired.

his friends are talking, but he’s zoned out, poking at his food with a fork like it personally offended him.

for once, no one is paying attention to him.

so you turn to shinyu and casually say,

"hey. you ever think jake sim is kinda... spider-man-y?"

shinyu blinks. "what."

you shrug. "just saying. they kinda act the same sometimes."

"what kind of reach—"

you don’t get to respond.

because across the cafeteria, jake, mid-bite into his sandwich, freezes.

like, completely.

his jaw locks, his eyes widen slightly, and for a second, he just sits there, bread still between his teeth, looking like he’s buffering.

it’s only when one of his friends elbows him that he starts moving again, slowly, mechanically, chewing like he suddenly forgot how food works.

you watch this unfold with mild amusement.

shinyu squints. "okay, that was weird."

"right?"

you decide to take it further.

"also, if you really think about it, their voices are kind of similar," you add, casually sipping your drink.

jake, still trying to recover from his sandwich malfunction, visibly flinches.

his friend frowns. "dude, are you good?"

"mhm!" jake squeaks, before quickly stuffing more food into his mouth to avoid talking.

his ears are so red.

shinyu glances between you and him. "...did you just break jake sim?"

"interesting," you say, watching as jake forces himself to act normal, failing spectacularly.

very suspicious.

—

that night, spider-man shows up like always.

you’re sitting on your usual rooftop spot, legs dangling over the edge.

he lands beside you, slightly out of breath.

you tilt your head. “you good?”

"yep!" he says. "totally! just... busy day."

you hum.

"...sooo," you start, watching him closely, "something really funny happened today."

spider-man tenses. "oh? uh. what?"

you grin. "i was talking to shinyu about how jake sim kinda reminds me of you."

he flinches.

"oh?"

"yeah," you say, leaning in slightly. "you both get flustered really easily."

"what? no, i don’t!"

you raise an eyebrow. "you’re literally flustered right now."

"no, i’m not!"

you squint.

he shifts uncomfortably.

"also," you continue, "you have the same little mannerisms sometimes. like how you rub the back of your neck when you’re nervous."

his hand immediately drops from the back of his neck.

you stare.

he stares back.

"...okay, that was suspicious."

"what was?"

"that!"

"what?"

"you just—" you gesture vaguely. "you’re acting weird."

"i’m always weird!"

"true," you admit.

he sighs in relief.

but you’re not done.

"also, your voice kinda sounds like his."

"what?!"

"just a little," you say, watching him panic. "not enough for most people to notice, but still."

"n-no it doesn’t!"

"you sure?"

"positive!"

you hum.

"you definitely don’t have anything you wanna tell me?"

"nope! nothing at all! absolutely nothing weird happening here!*"

you squint.

he is sweating.

interesting.

—

jake sim has fought criminals, dodged gunfire, and swung through the city at terrifying speeds—

but this is the most nerve-wracking thing he’s ever done.

because tonight, he’s going to tell you.

he’s going to take off the mask, look you in the eye, and say it, 'i’m spider-man. i’m also jake sim. and i like you. a lot.'

he’s been rehearsing it in his head for days.

except now that he’s actually standing on the rooftop where you usually meet, waiting for you, his brain is short-circuiting.

what if you get mad? what if you feel betrayed? what if you never want to talk to him again?

he groans into his hands. this was a terrible idea.

but he can’t back out now.

not when he hears footsteps coming up the fire escape.

his heart nearly leaps out of his chest.

okay, okay. just act normal. wait, no—don't act normal, you’re always awkward. act... slightly less awkward. you can do this. you got this.

he takes a deep breath.

the door creaks open.

he turns around, already preparing himself—

and then immediately panics because—

oh god. that’s not you. that’s shinyu.

shinyu blinks. “oh.”

jake freezes.

shinyu squints. “what are you doing here?”

"nothing!" spider-man blurts out. "just—y’know. being spider-man. normal superhero things. ha ha."

shinyu looks so unimpressed. "right."

jake is internally screaming. where are you?? why is shinyu here instead?? he was so ready.

shinyu leans against the rooftop railing, arms crossed. "so. waiting for someone?"

spider-man stiffens. "uh—no! no, just... hanging out."

shinyu hums.

spider-man shifts uncomfortably.

there's a beat of silence before shinyu smirks. "you’re totally waiting for y/n, aren’t you?"

spider-man chokes on air.

"what?!"

shinyu laughs. "dude, relax. you guys seem close, that’s all."

spider-man doesn’t know what to say.

shinyu keeps going, teasing. "you like them or something?"

spider-man malfunctions.

because the answer is yes, so much yes, oh my god yes, but he cannot say that.

so he just stands there, absolutely flustered, failing to form a single coherent word.

shinyu raises an eyebrow. "wait. do you like them?"

"WHAT? NO. HAHAHA. HA." spider-man's voice cracks.

shinyu stares.

spider-man stares back.

the silence is deafening.

then shinyu grins.

"oh my god, you totally do."

spider-man groans and buries his face in his hands. this is a disaster.

shinyu laughs. "don’t worry, i won’t tell."

"thank you," spider-man mutters, still dying inside.

shinyu pats his shoulder. "good luck, loverboy."

and with that, he leaves, completely unaware that he just ruined the big reveal.

spider-man sighs so hard.

he’s going to scream into his pillow when he gets home.

—

jake sim has been so, so careful.

for months, he’s balanced both sides of his life perfectly, being the popular golden boy at school while keeping his very obvious crush on you a secret, and being the confident, quick-witted spider-man who gets to talk to you without turning into a human error message.

but all of that completely shatters in a matter of seconds.

and it’s entirely his fault.

it’s late, and you’re heading home from another study session with shinyu.

your backpack is slung lazily over one shoulder, and you’re lost in thought when suddenly—

"HEY!"

a voice yells from the alley beside you, and before you can react, a blur of red and blue drops down from above.

spider-man.

except something is off.

because he’s standing in front of you... maskless.

his wavy hair is messy, his expression is panicked, and his wide brown eyes lock onto yours in sheer horror.

… jake sim.

"JAKE?" you yelp.

"OH MY GOD." jake grabs his head like he just realized he left the stove on. "OH MY GOD, I FORGOT MY MASK. I—I THOUGHT I PUT IT ON BUT I DIDN’T. I JUST SWUNG DOWN WITHOUT IT—OH, THIS IS SO BAD—"

he starts pacing in frantic circles, muttering a meltdown under his breath. "stupid, stupid, stupid—how do you forget your MASK? how did i even think this was a good idea? i should just move to another country—"

you’re just standing there, staring at him, processing.

spider-man is jake sim.

jake sim is spider-man.

it all clicks.

the awkwardness. the stammering. the similarities you swore you noticed but ignored.

you slap a hand over your mouth, because instead of being shocked, instead of yelling or freaking out—

you start laughing.

"you’re kidding." you wheeze. "you’re actually kidding."

jake stops spiraling and looks at you like you just started speaking another language. "wait. why are you laughing?"

you’re losing it. "because this makes so much sense now. oh my god. jake."

he goes so red. "don’t say my name like that while i’m wearing the suit, that feels illegal."

but you can’t stop laughing. "i can’t believe i didn’t put this together sooner. you—oh my god, you were literally short-circuiting in front of me at school while having full-on conversations with me as spider-man."

"please," jake begs. "please let me live."

you wipe a tear from your eye, catching your breath. "wait—hold on—" you inhale, trying to compose yourself. "so… does that mean… you had a crush on me this whole time?"

jake freezes.

his entire body locks up like you just hit him with a paralyzing spell.

you raise an eyebrow. "jake."

he doesn’t move.

he doesn’t breathe.

"jake," you say again. "do you—"

"OKAY—" he blurts out, exploding into motion. "yes! yes. i like you. a lot. i have for a really long time. and i know this is probably the worst way for you to find out but—"

you take a step closer.

he shuts up immediately.

he’s still rambling in his head, though, oh my god, they’re looking at me, they’re getting closer, what does this mean, am i going to die—

and then—

you kiss him.

it’s soft, quick, and so unexpected that it completely short-circuits him.

his brain blue-screens.

by the time you pull away, his soul has left his body.

"you just—" he breathes, voice barely above a whisper.

you grin. "you like me."

"YOU JUST KISSED ME."

"yeah." you tilt your head. "you gonna do something about it, spider-man?"

jake.exe has stopped working.

he just stands there, mouth opening and closing, until finally—

he just groans into his hands. "oh my god, i am so in love with you."

~

ty for reading and enjoying !

enha taglist : @minoouz

perm taglist : @s0shroe @minoouz

[hencheri]

— dior girl

▸ 18+ mdni.

When Park Sunghoon wants something, he gets it no matter how hard it can be. He's not scared to get his hands dirty. If he had any morals, maybe he'd consider his obsession with you getting out of hands, but he has absolutely no morals.

| pairing. designer!sunghoon x fem!reader

| warnings. dark!sunghoon (he's not a good person lol), implied legal age gap, alcohol consumption & mention of drugs use, mention of gain weight, manipulation, corruption, violent sexual thoughts, unprotected sex, anal play, dacryphilia, aftercare because yes sunghoon's a sadist but he still has a heart.

| wc. 7.5k

| a.n.: repost from an old blog. pls forgive me for how lengthy the smut is (or thank me)!!

His studio is his sanctuary. It's the only place where he can spend hours without even noticing the moon setting or the sun rising. In his studio, it feels like time doesn't exist or that it's just a futile detail that doesn't have much importance.

When he's creating a piece, nothing around him matters. The only things he's willing to give attention to are the placements of the needles on the fabric, the little lines that form the pattern of the clothing, or the way his scissors cut through the satin material of the dress he's working on.

He's thought about this design for so long and he finally got the opportunity to make it. He's thought about the colours of the dress and of the seam, about the length of the hem and the sleeves, how deep the neckline should be and if lace would be suitable.

He doesn't even recall how many sketches he's made of that dress. At some point, it was consuming his entire mind, the only thing he could draw and think of.

Now that he's finally making it, he has the feeling that it's going to be the best piece he's ever created. He already sees everyone talking about it, saying how much of a genius Park Sunghoon is. It's going to be the design of the year—of the century.

He still misses something, though, and it might be the most important part of it all. He needs a model, the perfect body to wear his piece and present it to the fashion world.

It can't be anybody, it must be someone who's confident, who always has their head up and radiates elegance and sports a unique beauty.

Sunghoon still hasn't found this person. He constantly searches for them, but never finds them or when he thinks that he has, he discovers flaws he cannot unseen.

All the Dior models are great, but not enough. They don't spark anything in Sunghoon when he watches them strode down the catwalk. He's checked upon the apprentices and the newer models the company has hired, but he saw no one extraordinary.

Until today.

He hears steps against the wooden floor of his studio, entering the place without knocking. 

"Ah, there he is!" A manly voice exclaims and Sunghoon immediately recognizes it as his friend's, Soobin. "I have someone to introduce you."

Sunghoon raises his gaze up from his working table and looks at Soobin who's accompanied by a beautiful, young woman. He's then suddenly interested, contrary to usual where he never really cares about the many girls Soobin brings, claiming each one as the new phenomenon of the fashion industry.

When Sunghoon turns around, he eyes you up and down, barely glimpsing in Soobin's way. It's all it takes, one simple glance and he knows you're the one he needs—the one he wants and has to ruin.

Soobin introduces you both and when your name is pronounced by the man, sounding so charming and delicate, he's certain you're the model he had been waiting for since a long time.

You seem shy, arms locked behind your back, but you stand up straight and have a polite smile drawn on your face.

"I thought maybe you'd like to get to know each other, right?" Soobin raises his eyebrows in Sunghoon's direction. "Everyone's fond of her," he smiles and pats your back, encouraging you to speak up.

"Thanks," you smile back at Soobin before glancing at Sunghoon who still hasn't looked away from you. "I'm a big fan of your work, Mr. Park. You've inspired me to become a model."

The way you say his name has his cock twitching in his pants, filthy thoughts of him spanking your butt as you cry his name invading his mind.

He can sense your vulnerability, your willingness to submit. Who would he be to deny you that? Him, who is so eager to dominate the ones he's attracted to, so eager to break but also repair them.

He knows it when someone's fragile, hiding their weaknesses under fake confidence. He doesn't know you, but he recognizes the pattern almost instantly. What can be broken can also be repaired and you're asking him to break you.

"I'm glad to hear that," Sunghoon says politely, a slight smile tugging on his lips. He's not the type to smile—stretch the corner of his mouth upward to imitate the person in front of him, he finds it shallow. But for you, he'll do it, just so you trust him, so desperate to give yourself to the opposite sex. 

"Park, you were wondering who'd be part of the fall show this year," Soobin begins, looking at you like you're the most irradiant ruby in the world. "Well, you have her in front of you." 

You chuckle softly at the man's words, nodding your head at him and then looking at Sunghoon as if waiting for some praises.

Sunghoon faintly smiles, seeing your eyes glimmering and he curses himself for not finding you sooner. You'd have been his by now, his to praise, his to kiss and fuck. His to destroy. But he swears, if he happens to break you, he'll gratefully keep you safe close to him.

๑♡՞

"Careful," Sunghoon softly says as he catches you up before you can fall to the floor. You let out a high pitched laugh, as if all of this is a big joke, and push him back with a hand on his chest.

"I'm fine," you answer, shrugging him off with a flip of your hand. You stagger from left to right, leaning against the wall when you almost stumble. You laugh it off again, halting your steps.

Sunghoon looks at you with a cringe expression, eyeing the people behind, sporting worried looks on their faces.

You all went out after the show; models, designers, directors, stylists... everyone. It wasn't your plan to get drunk, Sunghoon knows that because you're not supposed to drink alcohol during your diet. A glass from time to time isn't so bad, but your consumption clearly surpassed just a glass tonight.

It's not really your fault, though. Technically yes, since you're the one who swallowed all of the wine, but you had a little help.

A little help from Sunghoon himself.

When you weren't looking, he poured more alcohol in your glass and to his satisfaction you noticed nothing and gulped everything down. Sure, you got a bit suspicious, wondering how you had only drank so little when you remembered swallowing more than that.

But Sunghoon assured you it was only your first glass, so you drank, and drank, and drank... 

Until you were more than tipsy.

You've received nasty looks from your colleagues, especially the other models who weren't drinking a single drop of wine, and yet, still weren't awarded with the status of the 'face of Dior'. How ironic that the drunkest girl in the room was the face of Dior and the little protégée of Mr. Park.

"I'll... I'll bring her to our room, you can go out without us," Sunghoon announces, watching you sit down on the floor in the middle of the corridor.

"Will she be okay?" 

"Of course. I'll take care of her."

He waits for everyone to be gone before he gets you up from the floor and leads you both to your hotel room. When you're in the room, he sits you down on the bed.

You don't say anything as he takes off his jacket and loosens his tie. He crouches down in front of you to remove your heels and he does the same with his shoes, leaving them by the entry.

When he comes back, he sees you quietly crying, the features of your face contorting into a sad expression. You've slightly sobered up, harshly coming back to reality, realizing how much you've embarrassed yourself tonight.

"What did I do?" You ask, looking up at him with teary eyes. "I fucked up, didn't I?"

Sunghoon sits down beside you, lifting your head up with his index under your chin and his thumb over it. "There's nothing that can't be repaired," he states in a soft voice, so low it sounds like a sweet whisper—a secret, a confession only you know. "Right?"

You sniff, wiping your tears away. You nod your head in agreement, slightly reassured, hoping Sunghoon will fix your mistakes. 

"Shh, baby, shh," he softly murmurs, cradling your head in his hands and gently laying your face against his chest. You wrap your arms around his waist, hugging him tighter.

He strokes your hair delicately, placing a sweet and warm kiss on the top of your head.

Someone as vulnerable as you contains a lot of emotions. He has to deal with them, which doesn't bother him at all. He wants you the way you are; sad and pitiful.

"Everything's going to be fine," he promises, but it's not entirely the truth. Not everything will be fine, though it'll be in the end, he thinks—he hopes.

You eventually pull away from his embrace, just enough to look at him. It seems like you're searching for something or maybe waiting for something, your eyes desperately staring at Sunghoon as if his simple presence will make all of your problems go away.

You throw yourself at him and kiss him on the lips, fingers pulling on the hair at the nape of his neck. He reciprocates it, knowing you like your kisses sloppy and messy, wanting Sunghoon everywhere on you to remind you that he's always there.

You bring him closer, wrinkling the material of his white shirt between your fists, moaning and whining as your teeth clash together at how roughly you kiss each other.

Sunghoon breaks your exchange first, both catching your breaths. His eyes observe you quietly as you look at him like you're still waiting for something.

"Did you do what I told you to?" He questions you, referring to your conversation of a few days earlier when you came to his studio to try on his dress.

You were a bit stressed out, putting on the clothing like you were scared you'd rip it. He still remembers the way the satin was sliding up your body, hugging your waist and ass perfectly. 

He was baffled at how incredibly well it suited you as if he had made it exactly for you.

And maybe it was made for you, after all.

Because when he saw his creation on you, he knew you had to wear it for the runway. It has to be you, he'll accept no one else.

Sunghoon will make you walk the runway wearing his dress—the last time you'll ever step on the catwalk. After that, he'll keep you away from the rest of the world. He'll refuse anyone to see you because you're going to be his.

His forever.

"Yes," you nod your head, trapping your bottom lip between your teeth.

"Tell me what you did," Sunghoon softly demands, holding your chin in his hand, mouths inches away from each other.

You're too shy to say it out loud and that's why he wants you to tell him. Also to be sure you did everything correctly, but mainly because he wants to see you embarrassed.

"I prepared myself for you..." you begin, holding eye contact even though you feel your face heating up just thinking about all the things you've done per his request. "I... I used lube both on me and... the toy," you continue in a shy tone, so low Sunghoon wouldn't hear you if he wasn't so close.

"Where on you, sweetheart?" He interrupts, wanting each detail, each little thing you normally wouldn't have done if it wasn't for him. 

You swallow, "On my ass, Sunghoon," you answer in a whisper. "I stretched it out for you, using the toy like you told me," you finally admit.

"Good girl," Sunghoon purrs. "Let me see it then."

You proceed to strip off of your dress, now used to be nude in front of him, and slide your panties down your thighs, discarding them away on the floor. 

You get back up on the mattress and position yourself on all fours close to the edge of the bed. Sunghoon stands up and goes behind you to have a closer look at your ass.

His veiny hands pull your cheeks apart, revealing your rim to his insatiable, sadistic eyes. You glance over your shoulder, curious of what he has in mind and what he has prepared for you. 

You softly gasp when he spits and lets the globe of spit drip down between your asscheeks, rolling over your puckered hole. You clench around nothing, relieved to have his attention, to finally feel his hands on you instead of the usual touch of yours. 

He sees that your ass is a bit more loose than the last time he saw it, but it still clearly needs more preparation to welcome his girthy cock—though it's not like he cares that much if you're prepped enough or not. 

He passes his thumb over your tight muscle, circling it and smearing his saliva over it. He wants to fuck it so bad, destroy it and do unbelievably violent things to you. Should he tonight? Should he show you his dark and evil side? 

He's choked you before—smacked your ass hard till you felt your skin stings, overstimulated you to the point your orgasms were just spasms passing through your body, fucked your throat while you were drooling all over yourself, and tied your legs and wrists together to restrict your movements. 

So fucking your ass can't be that bad, but the thing is Sunghoon wants it to be bad. He then wonders what would happen if the line is ever crossed. Would you endure it, would you defend yourself? Would you shut the fuck up and take it like you're asked to?

But you trust him so much—with all of your pathetic being—and he thinks you'd let him cross any lines he desires to. He probably already has crossed multiples, and being the poor girl that you are, you said nothing.

You truly are extraordinary. 

He gives a slight slap to one of your asscheeks, groping both of them after, feeling how soft and tender your flesh is. "You did good, sweetheart," he comments in a honeyed voice, "how about we play with it a little?" 

He lifts up a brow at you and you nod sheepishly, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip. "Yes..."

"Great," he says in a low tone, running his hands one last time over your ass before going to take something from his suitcase. 

"What is it?" You question, your curious eyes landing on the small object he's holding.

Sunghoon brings the object to you, something made of metal, the end having the shape of a cone and a pink gem placed on the top. "A gift for my princess," he replies, opening the bottle of lube he brought as well. 

He applies some lube around your tight hole and on the butt plug, and carefully pushes the head of the toy in your ass. You gasp softly, feeling it slowly stretch you, sinking in gradually as Sunghoon holds your cheeks apart.

"Feels good, Sir," you moan, arching your back and pushing your butt closer to Sunghoon. 

When the plug is all the way in, the pink gem peeking out between your two globes of flesh, he smacks your other cheek, leaving his stinging handprint on you. 

"Is that so, dirty girl?" He wonders, gripping your hips and colliding his hips with your butt, sensing his bulge pulsing under his pants. "You like it when your little ass gets stretched out?" 

"I like everything you do to me," you say with a content sigh, pussy clenching around nothing as your ass gets used to the small butt plug. 

Sunghoon genuinely thinks he can't find better than you. You were so shy in the beginning, looking like a lost puppy wherever you went. You just needed someone bigger and older to show you the way—though you were too dumb, and still are, to realize he was leading you to the wrong path.

It's not like you seem to mind, anyway. 

After all, you both got what you wanted; you, male attention, someone to rely on and be protected by, and him, a woman to break and keep with him forever. 

He lets go of your hips to unbuckle his belt, pulling the leather material out of the gold loop with the luxury Dior logo on it. He lets the two ends of the belt hang off, not bothering to remove it completely, and tucks the fly of his pants down.

He finally frees his cock from the confines of his boxers, springing up and slapping his stomach, the bit of pre-cum escaping from his tip dampening his shirt. 

"You're so good to me, princess," he praises as he wraps a hand around the base of his engorged cock, aching and begging to be nestled in your cute little pussy. 

His head pushes at your entrance, never fully entering, only teasing your hole and stimulating all of your sensitive nerves. He watches how his cock stretches your cunt, your walls expending to receive his bulbous tip and then closing down when he pulls out. 

"Sir, please, want more," you beg him, pushing your ass on him to have his dick back in you. You let out a little whimper when Sunghoon holds your hips in place, stopping you from wiggling your butt side to side against his thick cock. 

He hums and slaps your ass harshly, your skin burning after. "Want my cock in your needy little pussy, baby? Is that what you're crying for?" He asks, teasing even more by swiping the head between your pussy lips, a string of your arousal sticking to his angry tip. 

"Yes," you say back quickly and desperately, arching your back, literally presenting yourself to Sunghoon. "Been so good, don't I deserve it, Sir?" You softly murmur, still looking over your shoulder to see his gaze fixated on your quivering pussy, cock head sliding up and down over your sex. 

"You do..." He responds distractedly, licking his lips, his fingers touching the pink gem peeking out from your ass. You're always so good and obedient for him, he even wonders if you ever did something that genuinely pissed him off before. 

When he really sinks in, his head passing the barrier of your sweet pussy, he groans deeply, feeling your walls envelop him tightly. 

He bends his back over yours, running his hand up your spine, feeling all the little bumps of it until he reaches your neck and shoves your head against the mattress. 

You whine when he starts pounding into you, his girth stretching you out so well, leaving you panting and moaning loudly. His other hand holds your hip against his dick, fingers digging into your skin, leaving permanent marks on your body.

He already sets a hard and rapid pace—fucking is never soft or loving with Sunghoon, it's violent, long, and agonizing. It's a way to be himself, the real and dark version of himself he hides in public, and releases when he gets intimate with you. 

You surprisingly got accustomed to it, embracing it as if it was your destiny, the reason for your existence; to be his personal slut, the little toy he likes to play rough with. You've accepted it, like you had no other choice but to be fucked into oblivion by Sunghoon whenever he feels like it. 

"You like that, baby? Huh?" He growls, as if you're the disgusting one for liking the way he treats you, to be ravished and delighted to have his cock sliding against your walls. "You like it when I fuck you hard like this?" He repeats and grips your hair, pushing your head into the bed covers with more strength. 

You babble out something, voice caught in your throat, too out of breath to formulate a simple sentence. You then only nod, your cheek squished against the mattress, Sunghoon's hand still pushing down on your head. 

His mouth hangs open to let out heavy breaths and his eyes are focused on your face, watching the little translucent pearls fall on your face and onto the bed. Your pussy swallows all of him, clenching so tightly it has him groaning and saying profanities under his breath.

It's sick how it makes his cock so fucking hard, leaking so much pre-cum in you and twitching avidly by seeing you struggle to breathe. You hold the bed sheets between your fists, doing everything in your power to keep your ass up for Sunghoon and not slump down on the bed from the hard thrusts he's inflicting on you. 

He snaps his hips against your ass and the entirety of his length is covered in your wetness, a white ring made of your cream circling the base of his cock. 

His hand holding your head descends to your neck, enclosing it with his fingers. He squeezes a little, just a bit so you know who's in control, so you never forget Sunghoon controls you—controls your life and thoughts. 

With a grip on your hair, he brings your torso up, arched back against his chest. The material of his shirt sticks to your skin, covered in a thin layer of sweat. He continues to pound into you and as he holds you by the throat, he lewdly licks the side of your face in a long stripe. 

You shudder in desire, hair standing up on your arms. "You're my little whore, aren't you, baby?" His mouth is right beside your ear as he whispers the words to you, his lips touching your hair, damp at the nape of your neck. "So fucking compliant... You want to please me so badly like the slut that you are.”

His free hand that doesn't have a hold around your throat slides down your body, passing over your belly and reaching your puffy clit. The sharp zipper of his pants graces the flesh just under your ass, irritating your skin and making it itchy. You clench around him when his digits find your sensitive bud.

"Yes, want to please you, Sunghoon," you gasp, bucking your hips at the feeling of his rough fingertips on you. He grunts when you address him by his name, loving how it sounds on your tongue, so sweet and timid. 

He remembers the first time you moaned his name; you were sprawled across his expensive leather couch, blindfolded and hands attached together with his black tie. Intense for your first time with him, but it was also the last time he's ever been that gentle with you. 

It was when his cold fingertips graced the skin of your stomach that you let out a squeak followed by his name, said in the quietest moan. He had then stopped his movements and looked at your face, an expression of distress painted over your features. 

He had realized how frail and weak you actually were, needing your most important sense to be at ease. That's why he had blindfolded you, to show you how dependent you were on him, how impossible it was for you to live without someone to guide you. 

He pushes your jaw to the side so your lips can meet in a feverish kiss, wet tongues mingling together, drool dripping down from the corners of your mouth. He continues to ram his cock in your pussy, the sound of skin against skin resonating in the hotel room. 

He traps your bottom lip between his teeth, making you whimper and close your walls around him once again. Your hands grip the material of his trousers, keeping him close and holding on to something because the hard cadence of his hip thrusts push you forward, breasts bouncing up on your chest. 

"Fuck," he curses and he suddenly stops, steadying his hips against your butt. You let out a whiny moan as Sunghoon lets go of your face and hips. 

You're sad to have your pleasure ripped away from you so hastily, but you don't have the time to complain, Sunghoon slipping out of your cunt and pushing you down violently on the mattress. 

You turn around on your back to see him unbuttoning his dress shirt and throwing it on the floor, revealing to you his beautiful chest and milky skin. He gets rid of his pants and socks after, finally removing his boxers, the only thing remaining on him being the watch crowning his right wrist. 

His cock glistens in your juices, more pre-cum leaking from his swollen tip and twitching avidly against his stomach. Even though him fucking you while being all dressed and you completely bare is a way to humiliate and degrade you, he also likes to be naked sometimes. 

He loves skin to skin contact, how your bodies stick together because of all the sweat coating you. It's addicting, it's rougher and it creates more friction—more pain. 

He doesn't mind being naked because he knows how to dominate you either way. He doesn't find it embarrassing, on the contrary, it makes him scarier and hungrier. While you shiver without your clothes on, curled up on yourself, Sunghoon is imposing, his cock thick enough to split you in half. 

He crawls back to you, hovering over you like a predator that has caught his prey, boring his eyes into yours. You look at him in awe, always waiting patiently. You feel his cock against your thigh, your hole pathetically quivering—missing his size terribly. 

He sneaks a hand between your legs and reaches the little pink gem, ready to get it out. "Take a deep breath, sweetheart," Sunghoon instructs and you inhale deeply.

He doesn't waste a second, pulling out the butt plug out of your ass. You scrunch your eyes shut at the pain, exhaling when it's done. There's still a bit of lube left on it and around your ass. He carefully sets it on the nightstand, coming back to you after. 

He bends your legs over your stomach and looks at your ass, just begging him to fuck it, shining with lube and arousal that leaked from your pussy. His cock is so close to it and Sunghoon could slide right in with one movement of his hips. 

He lets go of one of your legs to grip his erection, a little gasp escaping your lips when he presses the head of his cock at your tight hole, threatening to sink in. 

"Sir," you sigh, not sure if you're ready for that. It always burns no matter how good you prepped before and he knows that. That's why he's so tempted, staring so obsessively at your rim. 

Will it hurt you? Will you grip his biceps in an attempt to dissuade him? He wants to see those tears falling from your eyes again, he wants to lick them and tastes your pain. He feels more blood rush down to his cock at the mere thought of hurting you. 

Give him all of your pain, he'll fucking take it whole and cherish it. He wants it—he needs it. Accuse him of having a sick and twisted mind, accuse him of everything you've ever been hurt by because he'll gladly take the blame. 

"I know you can take it," he says in a low tone, glancing up at your face as he applies just a bit more force. "Can you, baby?" Sunghoon asks, waiting for you to admit how much you want it, how badly you want him to destroy you. 

"Yes..." You whisper back, a long shiver running up your spine as his eyes pierce through you. 

"Yes what? Tell me, sweetheart," he demands, and it's as if he doesn't care about your response whatsoever because the next thing he does makes you yelp in pain. 

His tip has entered you, the burning sensation forcing you to scrunch your eyes shut. 

"Yes, I- I can..." you stutter and as expected, you dig your nails into the flesh of his biceps, only fair to hurt him in return. "I can take your cock in my ass."

You take a sharp breath, eyes slowly opening, all watery and painful. Sunghoon groans at that, stuffing more of himself into you. "Good girl," he praises.

He stretches you out completely, his dick in no comparison to the toys you've used on you. You open your mouth as he pushes himself in gradually, tears streaming down your face when you blink. 

The tears roll down the side of your face and Sunghoon can't help but love the sight, leaning in to kiss your face and collect one of your tears, tasting the saltiness of it on his tongue. 

"Sunghoon!" You look at him with the saddest and most hurtful eyes. "It burns," you add in a quiet voice, now scratching his back, leaving long red trails on his skin. 

"I know, baby, I know," he softly murmurs in your ear, a husky moan leaving his mouth when he's completely nestled in you, balls touching your ass. "You're so tight, fuck," he sucks a breath through his teeth, not moving until he estimates he's waited long enough. 

He gives warm and wet kisses to your neck, going down to your collarbones and pawing at your breasts, slowly starting to move his hips. You lock your legs behind his back, wanting him as close to you as possible despite the pain he's inflicting on you. 

He loves knowing it hurts you because it makes it more pleasurable to him somehow. The pain will go away soon anyway, that's why he doesn't bother to stop or slow down. You have to get used to the feeling first. 

The choking, the hair pulling, the smacks... He keeps it for the bedroom, but he won't lie that there's a part of him that wants to ruin your life, ruin everything you've accomplished so far just so he can see those sad eyes of yours and hear you ask him for help out of desperation. 

It's not even sexual, he just wants to break you, that's all he desires. Though your life is something he wants to destroy, it's more of a way to have you dependent on him after. If your career is no longer successful, your solution is Sunghoon because he's the only person in your life capable of taking care of you both emotionally and physically. 

His teeth chew on the tender skin of your neck while his hand travels all over your body, many veins popping out along his strong arm. His finger gently circles your clit to make the pain more bearable. 

His hand that was roaming over your body comes to close around your throat and he turns his head to your side, lips brushing over your temple. "Yeah, just like that, baby," he mutters under his breath, his nose pressing down on your hair as he murmurs the words to you. "Just like that..." 

A choked moan is all that escapes your mouth. His hot breath hits the side of your face, his chest heaving rapidly while you claw at his back, white scratches appearing on his shoulder blades.

He sweetly kisses your temple as he pounds into you, not tightening his hand around your throat, just holding you in place—making sure you know that he’s always in control. 

Your tits slightly bounce up and down on your chest, little whines coming out of you each time Sunghoon bottoms out. It starts to feel good for you—really good—and you think that this pleasure is totally worth a bit of pain at the beginning. 

You grip the hair at the nape of his neck and bring him in for a kiss. He accepts it, kissing you back as if he wants to possess your whole mouth, biting and licking your lips. You moan into his mouth, twisting his hair between your fingers.

He pulls away from you, his full lips glistening in both of your saliva, and places his two palms on your boobs. He feels your perky nipples under his hands, just loving how plushy your breasts are, fitting perfectly in his palms. 

He keeps thrusting in you as he gropes your tits and you bring your hands over his, looking into each other's eyes. He lets out a low groan, holding eye-contact with you. 

You feel his veins under your palms, your pussy clenching around nothing but air while you run your hands all over his arms. You love to feel his pulsing veins under your fingertips.

"Sunghoon..." You moan his name, throwing your head back and closing your eyes, just enjoying the feeling of his hard cock entering and exiting your tight hole. Sunghoon takes the opportunity to smooch over your neck again as you expose it to him, his lips pressing down on your throat. "I love it," you sigh pleasantly. 

He hums, the sound coming deep from his throat. He wants to hurt you, yes, but he likes it even more when you love the pain. He just knew you were exactly like him when he first saw you. He had the feeling that you needed someone like him, someone that'd push you to your limits and make you discover a new type of pleasure. 

And he was right because there's not one time where you told him to stop.

"My dirty girl," he purrs in response, bringing his lips up to your jaw. He slowly rolls your nipples between his fingertips, pinching and pulling on them. "You're stupid, but so, so good for me, baby.” 

He slowly halts his hip thrusts and he eventually pulls out of you. You gasp when he does so, already missing his cock stretching out your ass. 

Sunghoon raises himself up from you and gets out of the bed. His erection stands tall against his stomach, bouncing up as he walks to the front of the bed. 

You watch him getting away until he orders you to follow him. "Come here," he says softly and you don't make him wait. "On your knees," Sunghoon commands when you're facing him, sinking down to your knees. 

He places a hand behind your head and the other around the base of his dick, guiding the head of his cock toward your lips as he pushes down on your head. 

"Here, baby," he instructs in a low voice. "Take it in your mouth." You part your lips to welcome Sunghoon's length, his bulbous tip shining in pre-cum and your juices under the light of the room. 

He immediately moans when he enters the warmth of your mouth, his heavy cock sliding on your wet tongue. He doesn't let you have much control, pushing his dick in your mouth until your nose touches his pubic hair. 

You relax your jaw for Sunghoon, allowing him to stuff more of himself into your mouth. He looks down at you, watching at the way your lips wrap around him tightly, your eyes starting to water. 

He begins to fuck your mouth, forcing you to take him whole each time he bottoms out. He moves his hips back and forth, obsessed with the way his girth appears and reappears between your lips as he uses your mouth as he pleases. 

"Shit," he hisses when you hollow your cheeks, "you're a fucking cockslut, aren't you, baby?" He says breathily, his eyes not once leaving his cock penetrating your mouth over and over again. 

You whine around him, surely agreeing with what he said, sending vibrations throughout his entire body. He lets out a deep moan, your cheeks and eyelashes all wet because of your tears, eyes burning as Sunghoon fucks your throat roughly. 

"Stroke your clit," he manages to say between two heavy breaths. "You can get off by yourself, right? I know you're soaking wet just by letting me use that pretty mouth of yours," he mocks you, but he knows he's right. Whatever he does, your cunt is always dripping wet. 

You whimper again, doing what he told you to and sneaking a hand between your thighs to play with your pussy. You part your legs wider as you circle your clit with your finger, Sunghoon's hooded eyes lazily watching you playing with yourself. 

Your right hand is laying on his thigh while the other is operating between your legs, pleasuring yourself to the sounds of Sunghoon's moans and the feeling of his cock weighing down on your tongue. 

You do your best to breathe through your nose, swallowing around his length and flattening your tongue underneath him. Your juices drip down your inner thighs, your finger smoothly flickering over your sensitive bud.

The whole room is smelling like sex, an odour that Sunghoon can't ignore, loving it so much. Your lips glide so easily over his hard cock, completely covered in your spit and still some of your wetness, tasting yourself on him. 

"Ah, fuck," he curses, his head rolling back on his shoulders, eyes still strained down on you. He feels the familiar burning sensation at the pit of his stomach, indicating he's really close to his orgasm. "Go on the bed, baby."

You're taken aback, but you follow his order, pulling him out of your mouth and laying your back down on the mattress close to the edge. You beautifully moan when Sunghoon penetrates your pussy, bending your legs over your stomach. 

"Oh, god," you cry softly, being pounded onto the bed right away, tits moving up and down on your chest. 

His hands are positioned on each side of your shoulders, snapping his hips against yours so harshly it hurts. You keep doing circle motions on your clit, now faster and impatient to reach your high. 

You let out a high-pitched moan when Sunghoon suddenly steadies his hips over yours, dropping down to his elbows as he hides his face in the crook of your neck. "Holy fuck," he grunts, gripping the bed sheets tightly in his fists beside your head as his cock twitches in your cunt. 

"Yes, yes," you quietly exclaim, your orgasm passing through you, making you arch your back and buck your hips. 

Your pussy clenches repeatedly around him and he finally comes undone into you, shooting long, thick ropes of cum deep in you. When he slips out of you, more spurts out of his tip, landing on your pussy, covering you in his cum. 

He stays above you for some time, catching his breath and looking at the mess he made of you. 

Later, Sunghoon is in the shower, washing his hair and his body, passing a soft cloth soaked in soap over his chest. He lets the water fall over his head, wetting his black locks. He stays maybe a bit longer than normally, staring at the tiled wall. 

He thinks about you, about all the things he's planned. He revised everything in his head, imagining you walk on the podium wearing his dress, people looking at his piece with admiration in their eyes. 

He thinks about everything that will go down for you after the show, getting fired, losing your career and your fans. Many articles talking about your excessive use of alcohol and drugs, saying how tired and sad you look beside Sunghoon. 

You won't last long, you're too weak anyway. A downfall like this is unconquerable, nobody recovers from that, and surely not a model who will be thrown out of the industry as soon as you turn twenty-five. 

Sunghoon knows the industry, he's been in it for years now. He's aware of how cruel it is, how difficult and harsh it can be on fragile little girls like you. 

But that's why he's here, he'll take care of you once nobody will want you anymore. That's the goal, after all; you to be finally his—solely and completely. 

"Sunghoon?"

Your voice reaches him, turning his head in your direction, seeing you hesitantly entering the shower with him. He opens his arms, inviting you to come closer and you do, hugging him and laying your head down on his wet chest. 

"I love you, sweetheart," he softly murmurs against your hair. "I'll never leave you, you know that, right?" 

You nod your head, looking up at him and meeting his gaze. "I love you, too."

๑♡՞

The runway went incredibly well. Celebrities and journalists were all gathered for the fall show, totally amazed by every design and the models that were wearing them. 

But there was one specific piece that everyone was willing to say was the best. 

Sunghoon was satisfied to see that his name stood out amongst everyone else's, being mentioned more times than Dior itself. He predicted it; it was the creation that every guest remembered, the dress that the fans were only talking about. 

He'd take all the credit, he was the one who imagined it and then sewed it after all, but he has to admit that you contributed to the fame a lot. 

Being the beloved face of Dior only made people talk more about it and that was what Sunghoon needed. 

But every good story has an end, doesn't it? 

When Sunghoon comes back to his apartment, the place is silent except for the TV playing, as he thought it would be. You're looking through the window, the city draped in the dark, splotches of bright yellow light flashing in front of your eyes. You're sitting on the sofa, not even acknowledging his presence as he enters, getting rid of his shoes. 

You're not much of a talker since you've been fired from Dior a few days ago just after the fall show. He understands your wish of remaining silent, needing a bit of space to process everything that happened the past weeks in your head. 

It was going to happen soon or later anyway. You've been to your photoshoots completely drunk, sometimes just going in with a hangover, but of course it didn't help your case at all. 

Sunghoon was guilty for letting you drink alcohol so soon in the morning. No need to deny it, he was even the one dropping you off at work like that. Well, he had to do it if he wanted people to notice how far you've fallen. 

He doesn't feel bad, though. Your career wasn't going to last with or without Sunghoon's sabotage. He did you a favour. 

You can't handle being a model. If you could, none of that would have happened. You wouldn't have gained weight, you would have been suspicious of the amount of calories Sunghoon was feeding you. The bottles of wine wouldn't have been so tempting and smoking weed wouldn't have ever occurred to you as a good idea. 

You shouldn't be ashamed of it, sometimes things just don't work out like we would have wanted them to. 

"Did you see the article they wrote about me?" You ask, still looking outside. "You surely did, I bet that's all they're talking about..." 

He sits down beside you and you eventually turn around, facing him. You care so much about what others think of you. It must be so tiring having such a low self-esteem. He can only imagine it; seeing you look through the window like a sad puppy, your life finally making sense when Sunghoon comes home. 

"I did, but nothing of that matters to me," he answers, the most honest he's ever been. And even if he had to lie, it's not like you wouldn't have believed him. You always trust whatever he says. 

You don't reply, your head still filled with many thoughts. 

"Hey, come here," he softly tells you, patting his thigh. You straddle his lap, setting your hands on his shoulders. He cups your chin, forcing you to look at him as you keep avoiding his gaze. "Whatever they say, whatever their name is, nothing will ever be more important than you." 

Because who is he if he lets some article affect the way he sees you? He's known you since the beginning of your career and he stayed till the end of it. 

He knows you better than everyone else. He was with you during your highs and lows and he'll still be there for the next ones. There's nothing in the world that could make him leave you. After everything he's done to have you, there's no way he'll go away. 

How cowardly of him if he does. He can't leave when he's promised he'd heal you—close all of your past wounds and create other ones. He may be selfish, but there's one thing that he isn't and it's a fucking liar. He sticks to his words, and when he says he'll never leave you, that means he'll never, never abandon you—he'll never leave your side, not even once. He can't risk it.

[hxxsxxng]

Love Your Enemy y.jw

「Pairing」 : rival!jungwon x fem!reader

「Word Count」 : 7.5k

「Genre」 : smut, angst, highschool au (seniors 18+)

「Summary」 : jungwon is your rival in competition for class valedictorian. something unexpected happens when you pick up extra tutoring lessons

「Warnings」 : mentions of societal pressure, overworking, kissing, titty sucking, oral (m&f), overstimulation, unprotected sex, teasing, creampie, multiple orgasms, jungwons dick is large.... like abnormally large. probably more that i may have missed. NOT PROOFREAD

「Author's Note」 : this is my redebut after taking an almost year long break from writing. I am hoping to get back into it like i used to be <3 also, i wrote this in my notes app so if it is spaced weirdly im sorry lol

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Jungwon is just another popular boy in my senior class. He’s on the football team, he has a lot of friends, and I guess, if I had to say something nice about him, his face isn’t the worst-looking thing in the world. But none of those things are the reason I give him any of my attention. He is only relevant to me because we are in competition for valedictorian for my graduating class.

My school usually chooses valedictorian at the end of the fall semester, after final grades are put in. I have been working hard day and night with AP classes and extra study sessions scheduled on the weekends to make sure I am a contender for the top spot. It’s October now, so I only have a month and a few weeks to prepare for finals and perfect my AP scores.

Jungwon, on the other hand, makes the whole ‘top of the class thing’ seem so easy. He’s always at practice or at football games, always out with his friends on the weekends, and seemingly doesn’t seem like he has to put much effort into high exam grades and having a good image with the teachers. He is naturally gifted. I hate it.

——-

AP Calculus Tutoring Sessions Available

- Free for students

- Flexible session times

- Help Prepping for AP exam

Scan QR code below for details

I walk down the hall and see a flier on the school bulletin board. Free tutoring sessions? My ACT prep course just ended, so I might be able to set up some more tutoring? I ended up just taking a photo of the flier and continued walking towards 6th period, AP English IV.

I push open the door, the faint scent of dry-erase markers and overused textbooks lingering in the air. The lights hum softly overhead, casting a glow on the rows of desks already half-filled with my classmates. My only friend, Kazuha, is already seated near the window, idly doodling in the corner of her notebook. I slide into the seat beside her, dropping my bag with a thud. She glanced up, offering me a small smile.

“Hey," she says casually, nudging me with her elbow. “You wanna hang out this weekend? Maybe catch that new movie or just, you know, do something not related to school?"

I let out a soft sigh, already feeling the weight of my responsibilities pressing against my chest. “I’d love to, really," I start, fiddling with the edge of my notebook. “But I might be setting up extra tutoring sessions. I just found this flier about AP Calculus tutoring, and with finals coming up, I can’t afford to slack off."

Kazuha nods knowingly, the disappointment flickering briefly before it’s replaced with understanding. “Yeah, I get it. Valedictorian race and all. Just don’t forget to breathe, okay?"

I manage a small smile, grateful for her understanding, even though a part of me wishes I could say yes without the gnawing guilt of lost study hours. I just wish there was more time in the day so I could spend time with her and not worry about school, but there’s no room for distractions… not when Jungwon exists.

——

The rest of the school day goes by. I head out to my car, slowly packing my things into it. I look over to the football field in the distance. I hear the music playing while all of the sweaty boys practice. I lose my train of thought when I open my driver door and get into my seat. Hands on the steering wheel, I think to myself, maybe I could get a tutoring session set up for tomorrow?

I pull into the driveway, the crunch of gravel beneath my tires grounding me after another long day. The house is quiet, the soft hum of the refrigerator the only sound greeting me as I step inside. I drop my bag by the door, kick off my shoes, and collapse onto the worn-out couch, my body sinking into the cushions like it’s been waiting for this moment all day.

With a sigh, I pull out my phone, remembering the flier I snapped a photo of earlier. My thumb hovers for a second, debating if I really want to add more to my already overloaded schedule. But the thought of Jungwon’s effortless grades pushes me forward. I scan the QR code, and a simple form pops up: name, subject, preferred time. I type in my details, selecting a 5 p.m. slot for tomorrow, my fingers hesitating only briefly before I hit submit.

The exhaustion catches up with me, and I drift in and out of sleep on the couch, the soft glow of my phone screen the last thing I see. When I finally rouse again, groggy and disoriented, I notice a notification blinking. It’s been almost three hours.

Tutoring Session Confirmed: 5 p.m. Tomorrow.

The message is concise, followed by another asking for my contact information. I reply, exchanging quick details before receiving the tutor’s address. I glance at it, not recognizing the street name, but I plug it into my maps app anyway.

——-

The next day, after another grueling round of practice quizzes, I find myself driving to the address provided. The neighborhood is quiet, lined with neatly trimmed hedges and identical mailboxes. As I get closer and closer to the destination on the GPS, I notice a familiar car in the driveway. I park, double-checking the number on the house, and take a deep breath. This is it. Another step towards securing my spot as valedictorian.

I knock on the door, my heart pounding more from anticipation than nerves. The door swings open, and there he is.

Jungwon.

He’s dressed casually, no football jersey in sight, just a simple T-shirt and jeans. His expression mirrors my own shock for a split second before it shifts into that infuriatingly easy smile of his.

“Well,” he says, leaning casually against the doorframe, “This is unexpected.”

I blink, momentarily speechless, before managing to find my voice. “You’re the tutor?”

“Looks like it,” he replies, stepping aside to let me in. “Guess we’re not just competing in class anymore.”

I step inside, determined to make the most of this, even if it means learning from the very person I’m trying to beat.

——-

“I don’t know if I want to do this anymore,” I hesitate as I wait a second before taking my shoes off.

“Don’t be such a fucking baby, Y/N. I need these hours for my college application, and you need it for…. better grades… I guess,” he complained, rolling his eyes.

Whatever. I take my shoes off and follow him up the stairs to his room. He slowly opens the door to reveal the den he has been living in this whole time.

“Don’t mind the mess,” he blushed, rubbing the back of his neck. Mess? This room is cleaner than my room has ever been.

“I don’t mind,” I reassure him, and I set my bag down on his bed. I glance at his neat desk, textbooks stacked with precision, a single notebook open to a page covered in immaculate handwriting. I pull out my own materials, spreading them across the bed as I settle in, though my mind isn’t fully on calculus just yet.

“Hey,” I start, unable to suppress the question burning in the back of my throat. “Why are you even doing tutoring? You’re set. Everyone knows you’re getting into whatever school you apply to.”

Jungwon pauses, his pencil hovering above his notebook. He doesn’t answer right away, his jaw tightening slightly before he exhales, setting the pencil down.

“Because it looks good on applications,” he says flatly, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes, a crack in the perfect facade he wears so effortlessly.

“That’s it?” I press, arching an eyebrow.

He sighs, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. “No. Not really. It’s… expected. My parents think it shows leadership or whatever. Plus, if I don’t keep busy with something ‘productive,’ they think I’m slacking.” He lets out a humorless chuckle. “Can’t just be a kid, I guess.”

That catches me off guard. For a moment, the image I’ve built of Jungwon, the golden boy with the effortless charm, shifts. He’s not so different from me after all.

“Yeah, well,” I mutter, fiddling with my pen, “at least you have people expecting you to succeed. I put all this pressure on myself. No one would care if I wasn’t top of the class, but I’d hate myself for it.”

Silence stretches between us, heavy but not uncomfortable. He nods slowly, like he understands exactly what that feels like.

“Guess we’re both kind of screwed, huh?” he says with a crooked smile.

I can’t help but laugh softly. “Yeah. Guess so.”

We start the calculus work after that, the tension easing as we argue over derivatives and integration techniques. His explanations are sharp, concise, but I refuse to let him have the satisfaction of thinking he’s a better tutor than I am a student. Our bickering is light, almost playful, each sarcastic comment met with an eye-roll or a smirk. Maybe even a playful punch on the arm here and there.

Before I know it, the session is over. I pack my things slowly, feeling oddly reluctant to leave.

As I sling my bag over my shoulder, Jungwon clears his throat. “Hey,” he says, like the words are heavier than they should be, “you should come to the homecoming game next Friday.”

I blink, surprised. “What? Why?”

He shrugs, trying to seem casual, but there’s a hint of something genuine underneath. “I don’t know. Maybe for a break from all… this,” he gestures vaguely between us, “or maybe just to see me crush it on the field.”

I roll my eyes, but there’s a warmth spreading in my chest I can’t quite explain.

“I’ll think about it,” I reply, already knowing I probably will. “Are we set for another session next Saturday, same time?” I say while inching towards the door.

“Yes, that’s fine. I’ll text you if anything changes.”

——-

Monday dreadfully rolls back around. Going back to the same routine of class every day and studying every night. When I get to 6th period, I set my stuff down next to Kazuha and slide into my chair, the same as usual. As the bell rings, signaling the start of 6th period, she’s sketching absentmindedly in the margins of her notebook again, her pen gliding effortlessly. I steal a quick glance at her, my heart oddly racing.

The words are right there, teetering on the edge of my tongue: "Do you want to go to the homecoming game on Friday?" But they catch in my throat, refusing to come out.

I tap my pen against my notebook, pretending to focus on the lesson, but my mind’s a mess of overthinking. What if she thinks it’s weird? What if she says no? I chew the inside of my cheek, stealing another glance at her. She’s humming softly under her breath, completely unaware of the silent battle I’m waging beside her.

Finally, I muster a shaky breath. “Hey, Kazuha,” I start, my voice softer than I intended. She looks up, her eyes meeting mine, warm and curious.

“Yeah?” she says, smiling slightly.

I hesitate, gripping my pen tighter. “Uh, do you… um… want to—” My words falter, and I pretend to adjust the papers on my desk like that was what I meant to say all along. “—want to go watch the homecoming football game with me on Friday? You know, maybe school you could come to my place and we could get ready together? You’re the only person that I could have that would consider going with me.”

Kazuha’s pen halts mid-sketch, her eyes lifting slowly to meet mine. For a heartbeat, she just stares, as if processing whether she heard me correctly. The corners of her mouth twitch, not with amusement but genuine surprise.

“Wait what?” she finally blurts out, blinking rapidly. “You… want to go to the homecoming game? Like, the football game?”

I nod, feeling my face grow warm. “Yeah, I mean… if you’re free. Just thought it might be fun.”

Kazuha leans back in her chair, tapping the end of her pen against her chin, her expression a perfect blend of disbelief and delight. “Wow, okay. That’s… unexpected. You never want to do stuff like this.”

I shrug, trying to play it cool, though my heart’s thudding like a drum. “Yeah, well, maybe I wanted to switch it up for once.”

She grins, her surprise melting into something soft and genuine. “You know what? Sure. Let’s do it.”

A wave of relief washes over me, mingling with a spark of excitement I didn’t expect. “Really?”

“Yeah,” she says, nodding with a chuckle. “It’ll be fun. And honestly, I’m kind of flattered you asked.”

I smile, the weight of the question lifting off my shoulders. “Cool. Maybe we can hang out at my place before the game, figure out what to wear or whatever.”

“Sounds good,” Kazuha says, her grin wide and bright. She taps her notebook playfully. “Now look at you, pulling me into spontaneous plans. Who even are you?”

I laugh softly, my chest feeling lighter than it has in weeks. “I guess I’m full of surprises.”

That really wasn’t it though. I wanted to go to see Jungwon play, but I couldn’t actually tell her that.

——-

The week continues like normal, and it’s already Friday. I am anxious to get out of bed because I am scared about tonight. About going to my first school even since I’ve even started high school.

Message from: Jungwon

I hope to see you in the stands tonight ;)

??? Why is he texting me? I’ve only texted his number for things related to tutoring. I flash a quick smile as I put my phone back into my pocket, my cheeks a light tint of pink.

The rest of the school day unfolds with the usual lectures, note-taking, and the occasional group discussions that I only halfway participate in. My mind keeps drifting back to the text from Jungwon and the looming excitement of the game tonight. I find myself glancing at the clock more often than I care to admit, willing the hands to move faster.

By the time 6th period rolls around, I’m practically buzzing with anticipation. I slide into my seat next to Kazuha, the familiar squeak of the chair grounding me slightly. She looks up from her doodles, her eyes immediately narrowing in on my face.

“Okay, what’s up with you?” she asks, setting her pen down. “You’ve been weirdly fidgety all day.”

I chuckle, feeling my face warm. “I’m just… excited for the game tonight, I guess.”

Kazuha raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Excited? Now that’s a word I never thought I’d hear you use about a school event.”

Rolling my eyes, I nudge her playfully. “Well, it’s something different. Plus, I mean, it’ll be fun hanging out with you outside of school and not worrying about AP exams for a change.”

She grins, leaning closer. “You know, I’m starting to think this has less to do with AP burnout and more to do with a certain football player.”

I nearly choke on my own breath. “W-What? No! That’s ridiculous.”

Kazuha laughs, clearly enjoying my flustered reaction. “Relax, I’m just teasing. But seriously, it’ll be fun. We’ll cheer obnoxiously loud, eat overpriced snacks, and maybe even pretend to understand the game.”

I snort, the tension easing slightly.

The rest of the class passes in a blur, my mind already jumping ahead to tonight. As the final bell rings, Kazuha and I gather our things, chatting about what we should wear.

——-

When we get to my house, we rummage through our closets, trying on different outfits and laughing at how dramatic we’re being. Eventually, we settle on something comfortable yet spirited in school colors, of course.

As we head out the door, my heart races with a mix of excitement and nerves. I’m not sure if it’s the game, the change of routine, or the possibility of seeing Jungwon on the field. Maybe it’s all of it. We take Kazuha’s car.

“I don’t know if I told you, but Jungwon was the one who wanted me to come to the game.” I mention on the drive there.

“What? No, you don’t mention it! Are you crazy? This is insane news.” Kazuha exclaimed, eyes widening as she turned her whole body towards me.

“Really? I could have sworn I said something about it.” I chuckled in response to her dramatic reaction.

“Didn’t mention it, not once. Because trust me, I would remember if my best friend was invited to a football game by her ‘rival’. Who even knows if y’all are rivals anymore? Y’all could have eloped and have a baby on the way at the point.” She exaggerates.

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, you can 100% confidently believe that is not the case.” I let out a choked-up, airy laugh.

——-

We arrive at the football field. The school band is playing loudly as the stadium lights shine over the field. The crowd is getting loud as it is almost time for our team’s big entrance.

“Where do you want to sit?” Kazuha yells over the loud ruckus in the background. The stands are packed, and there are not many options for seating.

“I think I see an opening in the edge of the front row,” I say, directing my voice into her ear. We make our way through the crowd to get to our squished-together seats. We are seated right in front of the home team’s sideline.

The stadium lights glow down on the field, casting long shadows across the neatly painted white yard lines. The roar of the crowd swells as the announcer’s voice echoes through the speakers, hyping up the audience. I didn’t think it could get louder than it already was.

The marching band bursts into a triumphant tune, drums pounding in rhythm with the pounding of my heart. From the tunnel at the far end of the field, the football team charges out, breaking through a giant paper banner painted with bold, school-colored letters. The players sprint onto the field with a burst of energy, helmets gleaming under the floodlights.

My eyes scan the lineup, and that’s when I see him, Jungwon. He’s not just on the team; he’s in the starting lineup. The number on his jersey stands out against the dark fabric, and for a moment, I’m frozen. I had no idea he was a starter.

Kazuha nudges me, shouting over the cheers, “Is that Jungwon? He’s starting?!”

I nod, my mouth slightly open, unable to form words. He looks different out here. Focused, fierce, and completely in his element. I hate to admit that I found it attractive. The whistle blows, and the game begins.

The first few plays are fast and intense. Jungwon moves with quick precision, effortlessly dodging defenders, his agility making him stand out. His coordination is almost mesmerizing, and I find myself more invested in the game than I ever thought I’d be. Each touchdown, each tackle sends waves of excitement through the crowd.

Midway through the second quarter, after an impressive sprint that nearly led to a touchdown, Jungwon gets subbed out for a quick break. As he jogs off the field, his helmet tucked under his arm, he glances toward the stands.

Our eyes meet.

A lopsided grin spreads across his face, and then…he winks.

My heart does an unexpected flip. I blink, caught off guard, my face heating up. Kazuha catches the whole thing, of course.

“Oh my gosh,” she yells, laughing. “Did he just WINK at you?”

“Shut up,” I mutter, trying to focus on the game, but the warmth in my chest betrays me.

The game continues with fierce energy. The players clash with determination, the sound of pads hitting echoing above the crowd’s cheers. The band plays fight songs after big plays, and the cheerleaders lead chants that ripple through the stands. The night air feels electric with school spirit.

As the final quarter ticks down, our team scores the winning touchdown. The crowd erupts into deafening cheers, students jumping up and down, waving their hands in the air. I can’t help but get swept up in the excitement, shouting alongside Kazuha, my voice hoarse from cheering.

When the final whistle blows, signaling our victory, the players flood the field, celebrating with high-fives and hugs. I catch Jungwon glancing back at the stands once more, his eyes lingering just a little longer before he’s swept away by his teammates.

“Wow, that was actually more entertaining that I thought it was going to be” I admitted, still flustered about my interaction with Jungwon.

“Mhmm, are you sure that not because of a certain someone playing on the field?” she teased.

“Shut up”

——-

We are walking to Kazuha’s car in the jammed parking when we hear a faint voice in the distance. “Do you need a ride?” I look around to try and figure out where it was coming from. By the time I turned around again, Jungwon was walking towards us.

He looks at both of us and then just me, his eyes were mesmerizing, and his hair still wet from the sweat. “Do you need a ride?” he repeats.

I stop for a second and glance over at Kazuha. She gives me the ‘go ahead’ followed with a smirk. She slowly starts to walk away.

“Uhh…. yeah I guess..” I hesitate.

Jungwon's dark red Jeep glimmers faintly under the soft glow of the stadium lights, its sleek exterior a striking contrast to the bustling parking lot. I climb inside, immediately enveloped by the rich scent, a mix of clean leather, faint cologne, and something subtly sweet, maybe a lingering hint of vanilla. The interior is surprisingly nice: smooth leather seats, a tidy dashboard, and a faint hum from the radio playing softly in the background.

The hum of the tires against the road fills the comfortable silence before Jungwon breaks it.

"So… what did you think of the game?" he asks, glancing over with a quick smile, his hand relaxed on the steering wheel.

I chuckle, shaking my head slightly. "It was… better than I expected. You were pretty good out there, I have to admit"

He grins, his eyes crinkling slightly. "Glad you came. It was nice seeing you in the stands." His voice is light, but there's an undercurrent of sincerity that makes my heart skip just a little.

As we cruise down the quiet, dimly lit streets, the space between us feels charged with an unspoken tension. Our hands rest awkwardly close on the center console, fingers brushing occasionally with each turn of the car. Each accidental touch sends a jolt through me, and I catch him stealing quick glances, his lips twitching like he's fighting a smile.

Finally, without thinking too hard about it, my fingers inch closer until they lightly graze his. He hesitates for the briefest moment, then his hand slides over mine, lacing our fingers together. The warmth of his touch is comforting, grounding.

We don’t say anything about it. We don’t need to. The quiet hum of the Jeep, the soft music, and the steady rhythm of our joined hands say enough.

We pull up in front of my house. No porch light on. Pitch black outside beside his headlight gleaming over the road. “This is it, right?”

���Yes, thank you for the ride” I say before starting to grab my things. Before I am even able to undo our interlocking fingers, he pulls me closer by my hand and kisses me. Our fingers remain intertwined, the warmth of his touch still lingering as he gently pulls me closer. The suddenness of the kiss catches me completely off guard. My heart stumbles, racing with a mixture of surprise and something unspoken that’s been simmering between us.

I instinctively pull back, just enough to create a small space between us, my breath slightly uneven. My eyes find his in the dim glow of the dashboard lights, his gaze soft yet intense, searching mine for any hint of regret or hesitation. But there’s none, just the same bewildering mix of curiosity and something deeper reflecting back at me.

Neither of us speaks, words feeling unnecessary in the weight of the moment. His eyes flicker from mine to my lips and back again, his silent question hanging in the air. My heart pounds louder than the faint melody playing on the radio.

Without overthinking it, I close the space between us, leaning in with certainty. This time, the kiss is deeper, slower, filled with the unspoken emotions we’ve both been avoiding. His hand cups the side of my face gently, his thumb brushing over my cheek.

The world outside the car fades away, leaving just us, lost in the quiet intensity of the moment. Then my phone dings. It’s my Mom texting me.

“I should get going, thank you again for the ride” I say giving him one more peck before I get out of the car.

——-

I walked up to the front door, butterflies still in my stomach, I waved to Jungwon. I get inside and all I can think about is that damn kiss. I set my bag down next to the door and take my shoes off and go upstairs to lay down.

Message from: Jungwon

I can’t wait to see you tomorrow😘

Tomorrow? I completely forgot about the tutoring session booked for tomorrow. What am I gonna do? I have to sit in the same room with him while he talks about math equations with his gorgeous hair and unforgettable voice, his cute chuckles and his sweet scented cologne. I’ll have to fight the urge to kiss him… again. This is going to be a disaster.

The night stretched on, filled with the soft glow of my phone screen as Jungwon and I exchanged a flurry of cute texts. Each message made my cheeks warm with an involuntary blush, my heart skipping every time his name lit up. Our playful and sweet words were comforting, wrapping me in thoughts of him. Eventually, sleep claimed me, but even then, my dreams were painted with his easy smile and the memory of our kiss.

——-

Morning light filtered through my blinds, pulling me from a cozy slumber. I stretched lazily, my mind immediately drifting to Jungwon. A soft smile tugged at my lips as I rolled out of bed. It was Saturday, my favorite routine day. I went about my morning, brewing coffee, flipping through my study notes with half-hearted focus, and tidying up my room. However, the usual rhythm felt different, with excitement and anticipation.

When the clock hinted it was time to get ready for my tutoring session, I stood in front of my mirror longer than usual. I picked out my outfit with more care, opting for something effortlessly cute yet comfortable. A hint of gloss on my lips, a dash more mascara than usual, just enough to feel confident. My heart raced with a mix of nerves and excitement, the thought of seeing Jungwon again making my pulse quicken.

With one final glance in the mirror and a steadying breath, I grabbed my bag, ready to face the ‘disaster’ of sitting across from Jungwon. But deep down, I knew it was a disaster I couldn’t wait for.

——-

I get into my car and prepare for my trip to Jungwon’s house. Don’t over think it. Just go in like you would for any other tutoring session.

I repeat these words to myself, the souls of my thoughts overplaying the music in the car.

I pull into Jungwon’s driveway, the familiar sight of his dark red Jeep parked out front making my heart race faster than I’d like to admit. The nervous energy bubbling within me feels different this time, heavier, laced with anticipation. I take a few deep breaths, willing myself to focus. It’s just a tutoring session, like any other… right?

I step out of my car, smoothing down my clothes and adjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder. Approaching the door, I can’t help but replay every moment from last night in my head, the game, the ride, the kiss. My heart pounds in rhythm with each step.

Before I even have the chance to knock, the door swings open. Jungwon stands there, leaning casually against the frame, his smile easy and disarming. But this time, there’s something different in his eyes—a warmth that wasn’t there before.

“Wow,” he breathes out softly, his gaze sweeping over me with unmistakable admiration. “You look… beautiful.”

The compliment catches me off guard, sending a warm flush creeping up my neck to my cheeks. I manage a small smile, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “Thanks. Uh, you look good too,” I mumble, feeling shy under his gaze.

He chuckles softly, stepping aside to let me in. There’s a playful glint in his eyes that makes my heart flutter. I follow him inside, the familiar scent of his home wrapping around me like a cozy blanket. We climb the stairs to his room, and he pushes the door open with an exaggerated gesture.

I set my bag down on his bed, trying to shake off the lingering tension. He sits at his desk, motioning for me to join him. As we pull out our textbooks and notes, his knees brush against mine beneath the small desk, an innocent touch that sends a jolt straight to my heart.

We dive into derivatives, our usual dynamic slipping back into place. But this time, there’s something unspoken, I find it hard to focus entirely on the math with him sitting so close, his voice a soft, melodic distraction.

At one point, he leans over to correct a mistake in my notes, his hand brushing lightly against mine. He pauses, his fingers lingering for just a second longer than necessary. Our eyes meet, and for a heartbeat, the calculus problems blur into the background, replaced by the quiet pull between us.

But then he clears his throat, pulling back slightly with a small, sheepish smile. “Focus,” he says softly, tapping my notebook with his pencil. “You’ve got this.”

The scent of his cologne mixed with the sight of his collarbones being exposed from the way he is positioned made my mind drift to things… other than calculus.

When he turned his head away from my notes, I found my self instantly turning his face towards me, locking eyes with him again. His brown, cat-like eyes were heavenly. His pupils dilated as his eyes trailed down to my lips, then eventually down to my barely exposed chest, complimented to the design on my shirt. His eyes trail back up to mine and he stutters “I-“

Before he could even mutter a fraction of a sentence, my lips crashed into his. His lips melted into the kiss and he started to move to my rhythm immediately.

The kiss deepened almost instantly, all the tension from the tutoring session melting away into something electric and consuming. His hands found their way to my waist, fingers pressing gently against the fabric of my shirt as he pulled me closer. The calculus notebook slipped forgotten to the floor as I shifted in my chair, our bodies naturally gravitating toward each other.

His lips were soft and warm, moving against mine with a tenderness that made my heart race. I could taste the faint sweetness of mint on his breath, feel the slight tremor in his hands as they traced along my sides. Every nerve ending seemed to come alive under his touch.

When we finally broke apart, both of us breathing heavily, his forehead rested against mine. His eyes were darker now, pupils dilated with something that made my stomach flutter with anticipation. The room felt smaller, the air charged with an energy that hadn’t been there during our study session.

“I’ve been wanting to do that all morning,” he whispered, his voice husky and low. His thumb brushed across my cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear with such gentle care that it made my heart skip.

I could only manage a soft smile in response, still dizzy from the kiss. The way he was looking at me, like I was the only thing that mattered in the world, made me feel beautiful, desired, completely lost in the moment.

This time, the kiss was hungrier, more urgent. His hands slid up from my waist to cup my face, his thumbs tracing gentle circles on my cheekbones as our lips moved together. I could feel his heart beating rapidly against his chest where our bodies pressed closer.

Without breaking the kiss, he gently guided me up from my chair, his hands steady and reassuring on my waist. We moved together, until I felt the edge of his bed against the back of my legs. He pulled away just enough to look into my eyes, his gaze searching for any hesitation.

“Is this okay?” he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper, his hands still resting on my waist.

I nodded, unable to find words, my heart pounding so loud I was sure he could hear it. He smiled that gentle smile that had become so familiar, then leaned down to kiss me again, this time slower, more deliberate.

His kisses started to trail down the side of my face, down my neck, leaving all of my sensitive spots with a gentle peck. He then went down to my collar bones and traced them with kisses down to my sternum.

“Can I take this off?” he whispers when he reached to top of my shirt. I give him a quick nod and hum of approval.

He begins to unbutton my shirt and leans back in for a kiss. Underneath the first few buttons reveals a jade colored lace bra that complimented my tits perfectly. He grabs one of them in his hand and squishes it a little before continuing to unbutton my shirt, eventually taking it off.

He brings his body closer between my thighs and I can feel his cock already fighting to break through his pants. He grabs both of my breasts and moves my bra out of the way, exposing my nipples.

“Mmmmm, such perfect tits” he says, bringing my nipples between his pointer finger and thumb. I let out a small gasp in reaction to the stimulation. He leans down, his breath hot against my skin as he takes one nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it. I arch into him, a soft moan escaping my lips. He alternates between the two, sucking and nibbling until they're both hard and aching. I can feel the heat building between my legs, my body throbbing with need.

His hands roam over my body, exploring every curve, every inch of skin. He unbuttons my jeans, sliding them down slowly, his fingers grazing my thighs. I lift my hips to help him, and he tugs them off, along with my panties, leaving me completely bare in front of him.

He stands back for a moment, his eyes dark with desire as he takes in the sight of me. "You're so beautiful," he murmurs, his voice thick with want. He reaches out, tracing a finger along the inside of my thigh, making me shiver with anticipation.

I reach for him, pulling him down on top of me. Our bodies align perfectly, his hardness pressing against my softness. I can feel the heat of him,He kisses me deeply, his tongue exploring my mouth as his hands roam over my body.

I reach down to his waist and lift his shirt up a bit. He lifts up his arms so I could slide off his shirt on one smooth motion. His abdomen was stunning. He wasn’t insanely muscular, but just enough to faintly see the outline of his abs. His shoulders were broad and his arms were toned and glimmered slightly from the sweat.

He reaches around my back to unhook my bra, slid it off from around my arms, and throws it to the side. “God, I’ve been waiting to see you like this.” he admits.

He kisses down my chest, to my stomach, then my waist and inner thighs. My soaked heat right in front of his mouth. He leans in closer, his breath hot against my sensitive flesh. I can feel the anticipation building, my body aching with need. He starts with gentle kisses on my inner thighs, teasing me, making me squirm. He slides his fingers between my folds, collecting my slick.

“Damn baby, you’re already so wet” he’s amazed at the sight of my bare pussy.

When his tongue finally makes contact, I gasp, my back arching off the bed. He takes his time, exploring every fold, every inch of me. His tongue is soft and warm, moving in slow, deliberate circles. I can feel the pleasure building, coiling tight in my belly.

He finds my clit, his tongue flicking over it lightly, sending jolts of electricity through my body. I moan, my hands gripping the sheets as he continues his torturously slow exploration. He slides two fingers inside me, curling them to hit that perfect spot. I cry out, my hips bucking against his hand.

He picks up the pace, his tongue and fingers moving in sync, driving me closer and closer to the edge. I can feel my orgasm building, my body tensing as the pleasure becomes almost too much to bear.

Just as I'm about to tip over the edge, he pulls back, his fingers still inside me, his thumb taking over the task of circling my clit. He looks up at me, his eyes dark with desire, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Come for me," he whispers, his voice husky and low. "I want to feel you fall apart."

His words send me over the edge. I cry out, my body convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over me. He rides out my orgasm, his fingers and thumb never stopping their relentless assault on my senses.

As I come down from my high, he leans up, his lips finding mine in a deep, passionate kiss. I can taste myself on him, and it only serves to stoke the fires of my desire once more.

He breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against mine. "You're so beautiful when you come," he murmurs, his voice filled with wonder and desire.

I smile, still breathless from my orgasm. "Your turn," I manage to gasp out, my hands reaching for his pants.

He chuckles, a low, sexy sound. I unbutton his pants and slide them down with his boxers. His cock sprang free with the tip leaking of precum. It’s a lot bigger than I expected. I don’t know how i’m going to fit this inside of my mouth, let alone my pussy.

I grab the base and guide the tip toward my lips, circling it with my tongue before attempting to suck it. I only manage to get about an inch or two in my mouth because of his girth. I lick up and down the base, stroking it with both of my hands.

“Yes baby, just like that” he groans, grabbing a fish full of my hair. He gently guides my head up and down, without force, as he feels the inside of my mouth.

He gets off of the bed and lays me on my back. He rests my legs on his shoulders and he slides his tip thought my wet folds. “Are you. ute you want to do this?” He asks

“Yes please, I want this more than anything” I cry out in desperation

He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, stretching me, filling me. I gasp, my nails digging into his back as he moves deeper and deeper. He starts to move, his hips rolling in a slow, steady rhythm. I can feel every inch of him, every ridge, every vein.

He slowly bottoms out and stays still, making sure I get used to his size before he continues splitting me open like a watermelon.

He leans down, his lips finding mine in a deep, passionate kiss. Our tongues dance together as our bodies move as one. “You can move now” I whisper as we pull away from the kiss.

He begins to move, his hips rolling in a slow, steady rhythm. I can feel every inch of him stretching me, filling me completely. The sensation is intense, almost overwhelming, but it's a pleasure I've never experienced before. I wrap my legs around his waist, urging him deeper, wanting to feel him as close as possible.

His movements become more urgent, but he maintains a deliberate pace, drawing out the pleasure. I can feel the sweat slicking our skin, our bodies sliding against each other with each thrust. The room fills with the sounds of our pleasure, the wet slapping of skin, the harshness of our breaths, and the soft moans escaping our lips.

He reaches down, his hand finding my clit, his fingers circling it in time with his thrusts. The dual sensations are almost too much, my body tensing as another orgasm builds deep within me. I can feel my inner muscles clenching around him, trying to draw him in deeper.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he groans, his voice strained with effort. "I want to make this last."

I can feel his cock swelling inside me, but he pulls back slightly, slowing his pace, drawing out the pleasure. "Don't hold back," I whisper, my voice breathless and pleading.

"Yess grip that dick" he grains breathlessly as i grip tighter from the overstimulation.

He leans down, capturing my lips in a fierce, demanding kiss as he continues to move, his hips rolling in a slow, steady rhythm. He reaches down, his fingers finding my clit again, circling it with a gentle, teasing touch. The sensation is intense, my body tensing as another orgasm builds deep within me.

He pulls back slightly, his hips moving in a slow, deliberate pace, drawing out the pleasure.

He leans down, his lips finding mine in a deep, passionate kiss. Our tongues dance together as our bodies move as one. "You can move faster now," I whisper as we pull away from the kiss.

He increases his pace, his hips moving in a faster desperate manner. I can feel his cock swelling inside me, his movements becoming more erratic. I meet his thrusts, my hips lifting to match his rhythm, urging him on. "Come with me," I whisper, my voice breathless and pleading. "I want to feel you come inside me."

His eyes meet mine, dark with desire and something more, something deeper. He leans down, capturing my lips in a fierce, demanding kiss as his body tenses. I can feel him pulsing inside me, his release triggering my own. I cry out into his mouth, my body convulsing around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over me.

He collapses on top of me, his body shaking with the force of his release. We lie there for a moment, our breaths coming in ragged gasps, our hearts pounding against each other. He rolls off me, pulling me into his arms, our bodies still slick with sweat and desire.

"Wow," he murmurs, his voice soft and content. "That was... incredible."

I smile, nestling closer to him, my head resting on his chest. "It really was," I agree, my fingers tracing lazy patterns on his skin. "You were incredible."

He chuckles, a low, satisfied sound. "So were you. I've never felt anything like that before."

I prop myself up on one elbow, looking down at him. "Me neither. It was perfect."

He reaches up, cupping my face, his thumb brushing gently across my cheek. "You're perfect," he says, his voice filled with sincerity and something more, something that makes my heart skip a beat.

I lean down, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "So are you," I whisper against his mouth.

We lie there for a while longer, our bodies entwined, our hearts beating in sync. The world outside fades away, leaving just the two of us, lost in the afterglow of our passion. It's a moment of pure bliss, a connection that goes beyond the physical, a promise of something more.

I stir, stretching lazily, my body aching in the most delicious way. He watches me, a soft smile playing on his lips. "Stay with me," he says, his voice husky with emotion. "Stay the night. Stay forever."

[yuta-nakamots]

Dive Into You - L.Haechan

Pairing - Boyfriend!Haechan x University!AFAB Reader

Genre(s) - Fluff, Smut, University!AU

Warning(s) - smut, unprotected sex, reader wears a bikini, slight public sex (more like just public indecency and really heavy petting), dry (wet?) humping, creampie, multiple orgasms, marriage, reader and haechan have a kid 

Summary - After a whirlwind semester, Haechan sweeps you away on a surprise getaway after finals are over. Between salty kisses and soft-spoken promises, you both begin to realize that Fridays mark more than just the end of the week, they mark the beginning of something new. 

Word Count - 7.5k 

Author’s Note - I meant to get this out on his birthday but got caught up in life so I guess happy belated birthday to Haechan haha

Taglist - @k-vanity @cosyhomenet @neocity-net @k-films @cinneorolls @dinonuguaegi @tinyzen @fancypeacepersona (join my taglist!)

Written for the Resonance Beach Collab originally hosted by @loeycity. Part of the K-Films Summer Event 2025 hosted by @k-films. Also part of my NCT Dream: Seven Days Collection. 

Now playing: Dive Into You - NCT Dream, Bahama - aespa

You first met Haechan in a music theory class halfway through the semester. You were taking it for your degree, as was he, though he hadn’t managed to show up to a class thus far because of his busy idol career. On his day off, he finally attended class for the first time, slipping into the back row of the lecture hall ten minutes late, wearing sunglasses indoors and a hoodie too big for the late-spring weather. Yet no one batted an eye. That’s the thing about university, you could be a celebrity or a sleep-deprived caffeine gremlin and still get away with everything as long as you looked miserable enough. 

He sat beside you, even though the rest of the row was empty. “Your notes looked better than mine,” he remarked. 

You raised an eyebrow. “Are you even enrolled in this class?”

He grinned, teeth flashing beneath the shadow of his hood. “Technically.”

“Technically,” you repeated, unimpressed, as you angled your notebook away from him. 

“Come on,” he whined, nudging your elbow with his. “The midterm is next week, I haven’t studied, and my manager thinks I’m watching video lectures at home right now. Help a guy out?”

You sighed, already sliding your notes a little closer. “If I get caught helping you cheat, you better buy me lunch.”

“Deal,” he agreed, a little too quickly. “And maybe a song.” 

“A song?” You questioned.

“You’ll see.”

Your friendship with Haechan started just like that. A few shared notes, a couple late-night study sessions in the campus café when he had time off in his schedule. He hummed next to you while you worked on your laptop, occasionally changing songs halfway through the phrase just to annoy you. You quickly learned that when he wasn’t on stage, he was a menace with too many inside jokes, an alarming stash of memes, and a knack for making your cheeks hurt from laughing. 

The first time you let him into your apartment, he tripped over cables hooked up to music equipment. He made it up to you by immediately assisting in layering harmonies onto the half-finished chorus of a demo track you made. “This would sound so good with a weird falsetto ghost vocal,” he commented, already recording himself singing off your cheap microphone like it was a stadium stage. 

Somehow, you didn’t mind because somehow, his chaos just fit with yours. You made music together, half as a joke, half because it felt right. You teased him about his idol life, and he teased you about your messy desktop and how seriously you took your plugins. He never stopped talking, but you never wanted him to. Somewhere between 3AM laughter, breathless studio nights, and his fingers brushing yours over a keyboard, you stopped writing love songs about people who didn’t exist. 

One night, when your midterm projects were due and sleep felt like a forgotten luxury, he popped by your apartment with fast food and insisted on ‘helping’ you mix your final track. The ‘help’ amounted to him curling up on a chair next to you with a can of soda and randomly hitting keys on your MIDI keyboard while proclaiming it to be ‘art’. 

You swatted his hand away from your laptop for what had to be the tenth time. “You’re going to make me fail.” 

“I’m inspiring you,” he countered, leaning over your shoulder to peer at your project window. “See, this part? Needs more chaos.” 

“You are chaos.”

He laughed, dropping his chin to your shoulder. “I’m glad you finally noticed.”

You turned to look at him, a comeback ready, but the look on his face made the words freeze in your throat. You didn’t realize until that moment just how badly you wanted to kiss him, his lips looking so full and soft mere inches from you. Your breath caugh,t and Haechan heard, but didn’t move away. 

“If you keep looking at me like that,” he said quietly, the usual teasing in his voice softened by something more sincere, “I’m going to think you like me.”

Your eyes flickered to his. “What if I do?”

The words hung there, suspended in the space between your breath and his. You weren’t sure who leaned in first, but suddenly the distance didn’t exist. His lips met yours in a kiss that tasted like soda and secrets you didn’t want to keep anymore. It was gentle, slow, and careful, like neither of you wanted to break whatever this was turning into. 

When Haechan pulled away, his eyes searched yours. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, his usual bravado stripped away. 

You swallowed, heart thudding in your chest, and your brain fighting with every reason why this shouldn’t have happened. “Haechan,” you started hesitantly. “You’re…you. And I’m just me. This isn’t right.”

He tilted his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “Do you think I don’t know that?” You blinked. “I’ve thought about this, all the reasons it could go wrong. But then I think about how you save lecture notes for me, how you roll your eyes at me, but still tolerate me when I make a bad joke. I think about how I’ve never heard music the same since I first met you.” You looked down at your hands, the weight of reality pressing against the lightness you felt just seconds ago. “Hey.” He reached for your hand. “I can’t promise it’ll be perfect, but I can promise I’ll show up. For you, for this, for us.” 

Your eyes meet his again. There was no cockiness there, just quiet determination and something you realized had been growing behind all his jokes and late-night harmonies. It was real, terrifying, beautiful affection. You nodded slowly, lips drawing up into a small smile. “Okay.”

“Okay?” He echoed, eyes widening. 

“But if I end up in a dating scandal, you better write me a hit breakup song.”

He laughed, his fingers lacing through yours. “Deal. But I’m aiming for a love song first.” And somehow, it felt like the beginning of one. 

Your relationship didn’t erupt like the drop of a chorus, it eased in like a warm synth line, subtle but impossible to ignore. Somewhere in the haze of long nights and low battery percentages, between split headphones and shared playlists, Haechan became the rhythm you moved to without even realizing it. 

One night, long past midnight, you both sat sprawled on the floor of your apartment, surrounded by tangled cables, empty ramen bowls, and the fading echo of a demo track you’d been layering harmonies into. You lay back, arms spread out, gaze unfocused on the water-stained ceiling. “I want to do this forever,” you swooned. “Not the ramen-for-dinner part, I mean the music. Producing, composing, I want it to be my life.”

Haechan was quiet for a beat, then shifted to lie next to you, his shoulder brushing yours. “I think about that too,” he said. “I think about what I’ll do when the spotlight fades, if I’ll still be making music, if I’ll still be me without the stage.”

You turned to look at him. In the dim blue haze of your laptop screen, he looked less like an idol and more like just a boy who loved music too much to let it go. “I think you’ll still be you,” you murmured. “Just…a  little less glitter and a little more sleep.”

He laughed at that. “You think I’ll sleep? I’ll be recording your songs. That’s what my future looks like. You, writing chaotic brilliance in your studio, and me, still trying to convince you to add in a nonsensical adlib.”

“I don’t pay you enough for this,” you joke. 

“You don’t pay me at all.”

A grin spread across your face. “Exactly.” That night ended like most did these days, with your head on his chest, fingers tangled, some indie R&B track humming softly in the background. 

But finals week and a new comeback changed the tempo. You barely saw him after that. He was swallowed by comeback promotions–early call times, live broadcasts, and late-night rehearsals. You, in turn, were drowning in projects, caffeine, and academic despair. The apartment was filled with the evidence of the struggle, empty energy drink cans, abandoned sheet music, and forgotten takeout containers strewn across the floor. 

You missed Haechan in moments that didn’t make sense, like when your headphones didn’t sit quite right, when a melody sounded a bit lonely, when your mind wrote a joke only he would laugh at. So when your last exam ended on a bright Friday afternoon and you staggered out of the lecture hall blinking like a mole, you didn’t expect to find Haechan standing just outside the door. 

He was wearing sunglasses indoors again, paired with an all too large hoodie, like it was the first day you met all over. But this time, he was holding two plane tickets. “Fridays are meant to be fun,” he said, grinning like he had a secret, “so I made one just for you.”

You stared at him, eyes going wide. “What?”

“Hope you have your passport, because we’re leaving like, now. Tropics. You, me, no deadlines.”

“Haechan.” You deadpanned. “Are you kidnapping me?”

He pulled down his sunglasses just enough for you to see him wink. “Only a little. You seem like you could go for some sleep and peace, and actual food for once.” 

You huffed a breath, somewhere between laughter and disbelief. “You’re insane.”

“I’m you’re insane,” he corrected, curling a finger into the strap of your backpack to tug you closer. “This is me keeping my promise.” So you let him take your hand, let him lead you out of the building and into the very beginning of your own song. There’s no chorus yet, just an opening note that felt like freedom. 

You were half-asleep by the time the plane took off. At some point during the flight, you woke up with Haechan’s hoodie draped over your lap and his hand curled loosely around yours, his thumb moving in slow, absentminded circles. You wanted to be annoyed, you really did. He hijacked your post-finals crash and turned it into a spontaneous getaway with little to no time for packing. Who does that? But as warm sunlight spilled through the plane window and Haechan softly hummed a tune you vaguely recognized as one of your demos, annoyance melted into something warmer. 

By the time your feet hit the sand in the Bahamas, you’d accepted two things. One, you were exhausted, but you were here with Haechan. Two, you wouldn’t be getting any rest with Haechan looking at you like that. 

The private villa he booked looked like it had been pulled straight from a honeymoon brochure with whitewashed walls, a hammock strung lazily between palm trees, and the sea glittering just beyond your doorstep. You barely had time to toss your bag onto the bed before Haechan grabbed your hand again, pulling you out to the beach with the urgency of someone racing daylight.

You squinted against the sun. “I can’t believe you kidnapped me.”

“You say kidnapped, I say rescued,” he replied smugly, already kicking his slides off, dragging you toward the shoreline. “You were on the verge of becoming a coffee-addicted music gremlin.”

“I think you missed the part where I already am one.”

Haechan gasped like you just confessed to a felony. “You admit it? Bold.”

You shot him a look. “You say that like you haven’t seen me crawling on the floor at 4AM trying to find a flash drive.”

He grinned. “I’ve also seen you fall asleep with a pencil in your mouth and four open Ableton projects on your screen, so yeah, it was time for an intervention.”

You barely had time to reply before a splash of water hit your shins. You gasped, stunned, looking down at your now-soaked pants. Haechan stood a few feet into the waves, a boyish and playful smile on his face as he cupped more water in his hands. You narrowed your eyes at him. “Did you just–” Before you could finish the sentence, he splashed you again. “Haechan!” you shrieked, stumbling backward as cold water hit your thighs. 

You kicked off your shoes and chased him into the water, shrieking as the ocean soaked through your clothes. Haechan laughed wildly, arms flailing as he tried to evade you, which didn’t work out all that good for him when he tripped and nearly face planted into a wave. You pounced on him. 

The two of you wrestled in the shallows, screaming and splashing like kids on summer break. At one point, he scooped you up bridal style only to dramatically dunk you, then immediately panicked when he thought you might actually be mad. You emerged like a sea monster, hair dripping and clinging to your cheeks, and tackled him right back into the water.

“Timeout!” he gasped between laughs, hands raised in surrender. “You’re actually kind of terrifying like this.”

“You deserve terrifying,” you shot back, breathless from laughing. “I’m still in my clothes, you maniac.”

He swam closer, catching your wrist under the surface. “Okay, but like, you’re also kind of hot when you’re angry.” You rolled your eyes, heart racing not just from the chase, but from the way Haechan was looking at you. His hair was plastered to his forehead, skin glistening with saltwater, and his thumb rubbed against your wrist like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. “Come on,” he said softly, tugging you toward the shore. “Let’s go change and swim for real. I want to see you in that bikini set I know you packed.”

You changed in the bathroom of the villa while Haechan took forever in the outdoor shower, emerging half-wet and humming something suspiciously romantic under his breath. When you finally stepped out in your bikini, adjusting the strap at your shoulder, you didn’t even get the chance to say anything.

Haechan stopped mid-hum, jaw slack. “...Okay,” he said after a beat. “I lied. You’re not terrifying, you’re going to ruin my life.”

You raised a brow, crossing your arms. “That’s a bit dramatic.”

“No, no, no,” he stepped closer, eyes never leaving you. “You’re not allowed to look like that and expect me to behave. I brought you here for relaxation. This is not relaxing.” You laughed, flushed and flattered, but his tone shifted as he got closer. His hand skimmed down your arm, deliberate now, no more teasing in his touch. His fingers slipped just under the curve of your waist. “Mine,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “Everyone else can look at the ocean while I look at you.”

You swallowed hard. “You brought me to paradise, and now you’re acting like you want to keep me locked in the villa.” 

Haechan leaned in, mouth brushing just below your ear. “I absolutely want to keep you locked in the villa.” Your breath hitched, and the air between you shifted, lazy heat turning into something far more dangerous. His hands didn’t leave your skin. “But I promised a beach day,” his voice dipped, sounding like velvet and fire, “so you better walk ahead of me and give me something to look at.” 

You smacked his chest, laughing. “You’re impossible.” 

“And you’re unreal,” he countered, grin crooked, pupils blown wide. “Let’s go swimming before I forget how to be decent in public.” 

You hadn’t even made it ten steps outside before Haechan was at your side again, fingers laced with yours, palms tight against each other like he couldn’t stand even that much distance. The sand was warm underfoot, powder-soft between your toes, the ocean glittering like a postcard dream just a few yards away. 

The water was perfect. Warm, clear, and so inviting, it almost made you forget the way Haechan’s eyes had darkened the second he saw you step out from the bathroom. He followed you into the ocean like a man possessed, hands already reaching before the waves even reached your hips. You squealed when he caught your waist from behind, spinning you in the water with a triumphant laugh. 

“Don’t act surprised,” his lips brushing your exposed shoulder. “You came out here looking like that and expect me to behave? Please.” You rolled your eyes at his theatrics, but your pulse was a dead giveaway. 

His hands were everywhere, drifting down your spine, splaying wide over your stomach, teasingly tugging at the strap on your shoulder like he was two seconds away from snapping it. When you waded deeper, Haechan followed like a shadow, grabbing your hips under the surface and pulling you flush against him, salt-slick skin on skin. You twisted in his arms, giggling, trying to push him away, but he only groaned low in your ear and held you tighter. “You think I’m playing,” he muttered, fingers trailing under the water, slipping between the thin stretch of your bikini top. You gasped as he cupped one breast, his thumb circling with infuriating slowness, masked by the motion of the waves. 

“Haechan—” you whispered, scandalized and breathless. 

He just smirked. “No one can see us. We’re underwater.” You weren’t sure if that was true or if he just didn’t care. Probably both. He kissed you then, salt and heat and something greedy in the way his tongue brushed yours. The kind of kiss that melted your knees even in the water, the kind of kiss that left you breathless and aching and already wishing you were somewhere more private. 

His hands didn’t behave. One stayed low on your waist, the other sliding beneath the fabric again, bolder this time, palm warm and rough where it wasn’t supposed to be. He kissed you harder when you gasped again, like he wanted to devour every sound. 

“Don’t you dare,” you scolded when he started to push a little further, slightly nudging the strap of your top to the edge of your shoulder. 

“Don’t I dare what?” he asked, all innocence and sin. “Touch my girlfriend?” You splashed him in the face. He laughed, full-bodied and beautiful, but even then he didn’t let go. His arms circled your waist, drawing you against his chest like he couldn’t live without his skin on yours. “I love this swimsuit,” his lips moving against your cheek. “I love how it looks on you. I also love that I’m the one who gets to take it off later.” 

You swatted at him again, face burning, but he caught your wrist and kissed your knuckles, then your inner wrist, then the inside of your elbow, making his way back up your arm like a man worshipping something divine. You hated how easily he made you fold. 

Eventually, the two of you migrated back to shore, half-drunk on heat and horniness. The sun dipped low on the horizon, turning the sky into a watercolor gold and flame. You sank into the warm sand belly down, his thigh pressed against yours as he lay on his back, your fingers tangled together with his. You propped yourself up on your elbows, drawing shapes in the sand with your free hand. 

“Mmm,” Haechan hummed, his eyes following your finger in the sand. “This is almost enough to distract me from the fact that I can see the curve of your ass through that bikini.” 

You snorted and looked away from him. “You’re ridiculous.” 

“I’m in pain, actually,” he said, reaching over and placing a palm on the back of your thigh, fingers sliding upward. “Real suffering is happening right now.” 

“You’re the one who dragged me here. This is your fault.”

“And yet,” his eyes traced over your body like he was memorizing every sun-kissed inch, “I would do it again. A hundred times. Just to watch the way you move with barely anything on.” Your heart stuttered. Haechan pulled back to meet your gaze. “We should head back,” his voice rougher now, molten and thick. “Or else I will fuck you right here, right now.” You could tell he meant it. 

There was nothing joking in his eyes now, only heat and hunger, tethered just barely by your hand in his. You stood slowly, tugging him up by the wrist. “Then let’s go,” you say confidently. “Before you really lose your mind.” 

Haechan groaned like you’d just given him the best present of his life. “Race you to the villa,” he prompted, already grabbing your hand. But you didn’t run. You walked slowly, skin still tingling, Haechan’s hand never leaving yours, practically pulling you as the sky burned orange above. 

You reached the edge of the villa’s patio just as the last sliver of sun kissed the horizon, casting everything in warm honey and soft firelight. Haechan tugged you toward the outdoor shower, barely glancing over his shoulder as he flicked the water on. “Get in,” his voice low and coaxing. “You’re all sandy.”

You looked him up and down. “So are you.”

“Guess we’ll just have to help each other out,” he said, eyes gleaming.

The water was lukewarm, cascading in soft rivulets over your sun-warmed skin. Haechan stepped in behind you, crowding your space like he had no concept of personal space, his hands sliding up your waist, over your stomach, until resting under the swell of your breasts. You shivered when his fingers slipped beneath your bikini again, cupping one breast with no hesitation, thumb brushing over your nipple until it peaked under his touch. 

“Haechan,” you warned, breath catching.

“I know,” he practically growled, pressing closer, hips grinding slowly against your ass. “We’re technically at the villa…” His hips rolled, unhurried yet firm. You felt him, thick and hard beneath the wet cling of his swim trunks, grinding into you like he was seconds away from losing his sanity. 

You gasped as he moved your bikini top aside completely, exposing your breasts to the air and the spray of the water. “Haechan–”

“No one’s out here,” he whined, mouth finding your shoulder, biting it lightly. “We’re still on our villa property.”

“There’s only trees, no fence,” you hissed. “Anyone could walk by–”

“Let them,” he muttered, grinding harder, one hand sliding down to palm at the softness of your thighs. “Let them see how pretty you are when you let me touch you.” You moaned at his words, reaching behind you to grab at him, palm sliding down his abdomen, fingers slipping beneath the band of his trunks. 

He groaned through his teeth, thrusting forward involuntarily. “Fuck, baby,” he breathed. “I want you so bad I’m gonna die.” 

“We can’t,” you insist, even as you arch into his hold on your breasts from how good his hands felt. “We can’t do it out here.”

“Why not?” he begged, kissing up your spine. “We’re dripping wet, you’re practically naked, I’m hard, just let me–”

“No,” your voice firm while grabbing one of the towels hanging by the knobs of the shower and moving your top back into place. “Inside. Now.” You barely managed to toss it around yourself before his hands found your waist again. You glared at him, and he growled in frustration, eyes dark and glassy, but the second you turned toward the villa, he was grabbing a towel and he was on you again, barely letting either of you dry off before he was hauling you through the door. 

The door had barely clicked shut behind both of you when Haechan was already reaching for your towel, mouth crashing into yours like he’d been starved for days. But you pulled back before he could drag it off you entirely, palm firm against his chest. 

“Hold on,” you command, eyeing the growing puddle surrounding the two of you. “You’re soaking wet. We’re dripping all over the floor.”

“I’ll clean it up later,” he muttered, stepping closer to kiss along your neck, but you pushed at him again. 

“No, you’ll slip and die before we even make it to the bed,” you say playfully with a smirk, grabbing the towel he’d brought in with him. “Stand still.”

His brows furrowed, his hair wet and wild over his forehead. “Wait…what?”

You only smiled and tossed the towel over his head. “I said, stand still.” 

Haechan stood frozen as you began to dry him off, starting at his head, rubbing the towel gently over his hair. Your fingers massaged his scalp as you worked, slow and soothing, watching his eyes flutter closed under your touch. Then you moved to his neck, the hollow of his throat, the slick curve of his shoulders. “You’re really gonna take your time with this, huh?” he asked, unamused. 

“Uh-huh,” you respond, dragging the towel down his chest, deliberately slow, the plush fabric skimming over his nipples. He twitched slightly under your touch. 

You made a show of dragging the towel over every inch of him, his stomach, the sharp cut of his hips, the waistband of his swim trunks. Then you dropped the towel lower, pressing your palm over his length through the fabric of the towel. 

Haechan cursed under his breath, thighs tensing. “Baby–”

You rubbed slowly, palm flat, teasing pressure, feeling how hard he already was. His hands hovered like he didn’t know what to do with them, torn between grabbing you and obeying. “I thought you wanted to be dry,” you cooed, glancing up at him through your lashes. 

“I do,” he groaned. “I do. But, fuck, you’re killing me.”

You squeezed his length softly, just enough to make him choke on air. “Is that better?”

He threw his head back, jaw clenched. “You’re evil. I’m gonna die. Actually die.”

You leaned in, kissing a droplet of water from his collarbone, your hand still moving against him through the towel. “Maybe. But at least you’ll die warm and dry.”

He whimpered, actually whimpered, hips rolling into your hand. “Please,” he begged, desperate now. “Let me touch you, let me taste you, anything. I need you.”

You let the towel slip from your grasp, the object of Haechan’s agony falling to the floor. “Then take me to bed.” 

He didn’t need to be told twice. In a blur of motion, he had you pressed against the bed, your towel forgotten. You barely caught your breath before he was on you again, hot, hungry, and entirely yours. 

Haechan’s hands found your waist again, pulling you flush against him as his hips began to grind with a desperate, jagged rhythm. You gasped at the friction, the slick heat of him pressing through the damp fabric of your bikini bottoms. His fingers tangled in your hair, his breath ragged as he nuzzled your neck. “You feel so good,” he murmured, voice rough and needy. His movements grew more frantic, less controlled, as if holding himself back was a losing battle. 

Your hands roamed his chest, nails scraping lightly over his skin as he ground harder, hips rocking against you in a slow, scorching tease. You could feel the pressure building in him, thick, pulsing, utterly relentless. Haechan’s grinding slowed just enough for you to feel every inch of him pressed through the thin fabric, teasing and maddeningly close. His breath was ragged in your ear, words lost to the haze of want and heat. Your hands slid under the waistband of his damp shorts, fingers curling around the fabric as you tugged gently but firmly. Haechan froze for a second, chest rising a falling fast, then gave a breathy laugh. 

“Can’t wait any longer, huh?” you teased, dragging the shorts down over his hips and thigh before he kicked them off.

He was fully naked above you now, his skin gleaming under the fading light of sunset, every muscle taut and trembling with need. His hardness pressed sharply against your stomach through the thin fabric of your bikini bottoms, twitching with each shallow breath. Haechan’s eyes were dark, glazed with want, and he didn’t hesitate to lean forward, mouth finding your collarbone as his hands roamed over your skin. His hips began to move again, slow and deliberate at first, pressing with a teasing persistence over you, every brush of skin against skin setting fire to your nerves. 

Haechan’s hands slid up your sides, urgent but reverent, until they cupped your breasts over your bikini. His thumbs circled your peaked nipples through the damp fabric, coaxing a gasp from your lips. “So soft,” he muttered while kneading your breasts, voice wrecked like he was in a dream he couldn’t quite believe. “So perfect, all for me.”

You arched into his hands, breath catching, and he took that as permission to push the fabric aside once more. Your nipples were pebbled in the open air, and then his mouth was on you, hot and wet, tongue swirling, lips sucking, his teeth lightly scraping. His hips kept moving, grinding against your clit through the soaked barrier between you, the pressure maddeningly precise. “Haechan,” you breathed, your nails digging into his shoulders, your body thrumming with tension. 

“I’ve got you,” he whispered between kisses to your chest, hips never stopping. “Gotta make you feel good. I need to–fuck, baby–need to feel you fall apart.” 

Your hips lifted instinctively, chasing the drag of his cock against your clit, even through the layer of clothing. His cock twitched, leaking pre-cum that smeared slick against your skin and mixed with your own arousal, making the friction even worse. It was so good it was almost cruel. He rutted harder now, sweat and water making his glide even easier, messy and hot. “Oh my god,” Haechan groaned, hips stuttering. “Fuck…fuck, I’m–”

You felt it before you saw it, his cock jerking between your bodies as he came hard, hot ropes of cum spilling onto your stomach, dripping down your sides as his thrusts slowed, then faltered. He collapsed forward, breathless laughter bubbling against your chest. 

“Are you proud of yourself?” he rasped, barely able to lift his head, still panting. “You wrecked me.” 

You smiled, eyes fluttering shut. “A little.” But then you felt it, his cock, still hard, twitching again as he looked down at the mess he made. Haechan moaned low in his throat, eyes glassy as he licked a stripe of cum from your stomach, lips brushing your skin in an obscene way. 

When he reached your navel, he looked up to you with something dark and hungry. “Inside this time,” he whispered. You didn’t say a word, you just nodded. 

He surged up to kiss you, slow and deep, tongue sweeping into your mouth as he pressed his length against you again. The kiss was different now, less frantic, more deliberate, and you could taste remnants of his cum, tangy but slightly salty as it mixed with the lingering seawater on your skin. You reached between your bodies, tugging your bikini bottom to the side. He groaned as his cock slid through your slick folds, the head catching just below your clit before dragging down again. He did it twice, three times, coating himself in your arousal. Each pass made your thighs shake. 

When he finally pressed in slow and steady, stretching you open, you gasped, grabbing his biceps. Haechan held your gaze, even as a tremor ran through his whole body. “You feel unreal,” he whispered. The thrusts were slow and deep at first, hips rolling, not just to chase pleasure, but to memorize how you felt around him. Every drag of his cock against your walls had you gasping, thighs locked around his waist. 

Earlier, he had been desperate to lose himself in you. Now, he was desperate to stay in this moment. His forehead pressed to yours. “Let me see you cum,” he pleaded, one hand driving down to circle your clit, the pad of his finger working you in slow, steady circles while his cock filled you over and over. 

The pressure built fast, your body was already primed from how he had bullied your clit with his cock earlier, the way he had made you ache from the rutting of his hips before he even got inside you. You cried out, clenching around him, your orgasm snapping sharp and intense as you clenched around his cock. 

Haechan moaned as you pulsed around him, his rhythm faltering. “Fuck, baby, you’re squeezing me so tight, so good.”

You felt him tremble above you, like it took every ounce of willpower not to cum. His cock twitched inside you, but he held still, panting against your lips, eyes wide and shining. “Don’t move,” he said, more of a command to himself than to you. “I’m not done.” 

Before you could reply, he pulled out slowly, his cock dragging slick and heavy against your walls. You whimpered at the loss, but he was already shifting, already flipping you onto your stomach, handling you like something precious but breakable. Your cheek pressed into the sheets, and you barely caught your breath before you felt his hands spreading you apart, his cock sliding between your soaked folds, grinding up against your entrance and ass, teasing and filthy. 

“Shit,” he breathed, rutting forward, dragging the head of his cock through your folds before rocking it between the cheeks of your ass. “You’re so wet…you want it like this, huh?” His voice cracked on a moan as he rocked forward again, not quite slipping in, but close enough to make you ache. 

“Please, Haechan,” you whined, writhing back into him, greedy for the weight of him inside you. “Put it back in. I need you.” That was all it took. He pressed into you again, entering you all too easily, your body welcoming him soft and hot and soaked with everything he’d pulled from you. His cock sank in deep, and he groaned loud against your ear, collapsing over you like he couldn’t hold himself up anymore. 

“Fuck,” he cried, rutting shallowly, hips flush to your ass. “Fuck, you feel too good. I can’t–I can’t stop.” His arms slid beneath you, wrapping tightly around your chest. One hand curled over your breast, squeezing as he buried his face in the curve when your shoulder met your neck, teeth scraping gently at the skin there. The other traveled down, urgent and clumsy, until his fingers found your clit again. He rubbed you with no tempo, no restraint, just pure desperation. “Wanna feel you cum with me,” his voice was shaking. “Wanna feel you clench around me, while I’m inside, while I fill you up.”

The angle had him pushing in deeper, the stretch unbearable and perfect, your entire body wound up beneath his. You could feel it coming again, the pressure sharp and devastating, your moans helpless as he rutted harder against you, gasping every time you clenched around him. Then it hit, sudden and overwhelming, tearing through you as you sobbed his name into the sheets. Your walls fluttered around him, tight and wet and trembling. 

Haechan cursed, cock throbbing deep inside you as he finally let go. He came with a broken cry, hips stuttering against your ass as he pressed as deep as he possibly could, like he never wanted to leave your body again. His cum spilled inside you, warm and thick, and he held you tight, still moving in tiny thrusts, dragging it out as long as he could. Afterward, he didn’t move, just breathed against your back, arms still wrapped around your chest like he was afraid you’d disappear. 

You didn’t speak for a long time. Just the two of you, tangled together in the afterglow, his breath fanning hot against your shoulder, your heartbeat slowly syncing back to something steady. His arms stayed wrapped around you, even as his cock softened inside you and your bodies finally relaxed into the sheets. You could feel the sweat cooling on your skin, the dampness between your thighs, the faint ache in your hips, and still, you didn’t want to move. 

Eventually, Haechan shifted just enough to slip out of you, making you whimper at the emptiness, but he hushed you with a kiss to your shoulder blade. He pulled away only long enough to grab the towel off the edge of the bed and gently cleaned between your thighs, mumbling quiet apologies when you flinched at the sensitivity. Then, he crawled right back into bed, curling himself around you like he belonged there. 

Your legs tangled instinctively. His hand found your waist under the sheet, warm and steady, and he tugged you closer until your back was snug to his chest, your head nestled under his chin. “You good?” he asked softly, voice scratchy and slow. 

You nodded, a faint smile playing on your lips. “Yeah. You?”

He hummed in response, then kissed the top of your head. His thumb rubbed idle circles into your hip bone. For a while, the only sound was the lull of waves outside, still crashing softly in the dark, echoing the pulse of your bodies slowly calming down. Then, so quiet you almost missed it, he said, “I want every Friday like this.” Your heart stuttered in your chest. “This one…” He hesitated, tightening his arms around you, like he needed to hold the thought together with his hands. “This one feels like the start of something.”

Your breath caught. You twisted just enough to look at him over your shoulder. His face was half-lit by the moonlight cutting across the room, but you could see the sincerity there. His eyes were warm and tender, never leaving yours. You reached up to brush his hair back from his forehead. “It does,” you whispered. “It really does.”

He smiled, slow and soft, and leaned in to kiss you again, gentle, no heat this time, just truth. Neither of you said anything else. You didn’t need to. Not when you were already wrapped up in what was starting, and not when Friday had never felt this good. 

The next morning, the light changed everything. It slipped in slowly through gauzy curtains, bathing the villa in soft gold. The ocean beyond the villa was calm now, like it had worn itself out from singing you to sleep. The salt-heavy breeze drifted in and made the white linen curtains sway, lazy and warm. 

You were still asleep when Haechan stirred. He didn’t move much, just shifted enough to lean up on one elbow, the sheet barely clinging to his hips. His gaze drifted to you, still curled beneath the covers, one hand tucked under your cheek, lips slightly parted. Your hair spilled across the pillow like something he could get lost in, and maybe he already had. 

He reached out, touched your shoulder gently, tracing the faintest circles with his fingertip. Not enough to wake you, just enough to feel the shape of you, real and here. You made a sleepy noise in your throat, but didn’t open your eyes. He smiled to himself. “What would life look like with you?” he pondered quietly, not really expecting an answer, just letting the thought live in the morning light. His finger trailed down your spine, leisurely. “Would we have a house?” he mused, voice low and thoughtful. “Backyard? One of those little ones who tugs at your shirt after preschool and asks for snacks and cartoons?” He paused, the smile spreading wider, eyes fond. “A kid who likes Fridays.”

You shifted under the sheets, breath catching on a sleepy laugh. Your voice came muffled against the pillow. “We’ll find out,” you murmured, still half-asleep. “One Friday at a time.”

His heart pulled tight. God, he wanted that. Not just the house, not just the child, but this–this exact moment, you still drowsy in his bed, the sound of your voice soft from sleep, your warmth next to him, as natural as breathing. He leaned down and kissed the bar curve of your shoulder, lingering there like a promise. “I’d give you every one,” he whispered. “Every Friday I’ve got.”

When you finally opened your eyes and turned to look at him, sleepy and smiling, it felt like maybe you believed him. Because this one, this Friday, felt like the start of everything. 

Years later, Fridays still hold meaning in your house. They always have, and probably always will. You hear them before you see them, your daughter’s giggles echoing down the hallway, pure and breathless, followed by the familiar thud of Haechan’s socked feet on the hardwood floor. 

He’s carrying her on his hip, her backpack slung over his other shoulder, her tiny hand clinging to the collar of his shirt. She’s still wearing the glittery pink hair clip she insisted on this morning, slightly askew now from whatever adventure she had at preschool. Her cheeks are flushed from the walk home, smiling brightly as she talks excitedly about something that happened on the playground. 

“She made a painting today,” Haechan calls out as he steps into the living room, his voice loud and proud. “It’s us. All three of us. And the sun has hearts in it because she said that’s what Friday feels like.” 

You set your laptop aside, rising from the couch just as your daughter wriggles in your arms, reaching for you. “Mommy!” she squeals, arms flung wide as Haechan lowers her carefully into your embrace. 

“She missed you,” Haechan murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to your temple before dropping her backpack by the door. “And she may or may not have convinced me to stop for strawberry milk.”

Your daughter pulls back just enough to show you her pink-stained lips and a guilty smile, causing you to laugh. “I see that.”

Later, after dinner and bath time and a chaotic attempt at brushing her teeth, the house quiets again. The dishes are done, the toys are tucked away, and the soft glow of your living room lap spills across the floor as Haechan settles beside you on the couch, one arm thrown over the backrest, content. There’s something in the stillness that feels earned. 

You glance at him, your body relaxing instinctively in his presence. Even now, with fewer stages and more studio days, he’s still unmistakably him. His voice still sells out records, his face still flashes in LED lights on billboards from time to time. Fans still recognize him in grocery stores, still send letters with inked hearts in the margins. But here, like this, barefoot with his daughter’s preschool painting in his lap, he’s just Haechan. Yours. 

And somehow, you’re not just the girl who loves music anymore, you’re in it. You belong to the music world just as much as he does, not as a spectator, but as a contributor. Your name rolls across credits on streaming platforms, buried between synth programmers and vocal producers. Your beats pulse through earbuds across continents, your songs make it into playlists people fall in love to. You’d once dreamed of this life from behind classroom desks and secondhand headphones, back when it felt impossibly far away. Now, it’s home.

Haechan turns to you, brushing his hand gently across your knee like he can read your thoughts. “Didn’t think I’d end up with the label’s most in-demand producer,” he says, voice soft with admiration. “Kind of a dream for me.” 

You smile, a little shy even after all these years. “Didn’t think I’d end up working for my husband.”

“Mmm,” he hums, leaning in with a teasing glint in his eyes. “Technically, I work for you. Have you seen the way everyone treats you in the studio now?” You laugh, shaking your head as he shifts to press a kiss to your cheek. “I’m serious,” he adds. “You walk in and it’s like ‘oh my god, it’s her.’ You earned that. Every bit of it.” You let the words settle in your chest, warm and solid. A breeze moves through the curtains, the night quiet and full. 

You’re searching for a charger in the drawer of the side table next to the couch when your fingers graze against paper, thin, crips, and familiar. You pull it out and smile as the memories rush forward. Plane tickets, the villa, that first real Friday. 

Haechan sees what you’re holding, and his expression shifts into something fond. “You kept those?”

“Of course I did,” you tell him, brushing your thumb over the dates. 

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes tracing the curve of the old boarding pass in your hand. “Best Friday of my life.” 

You glance over at him, then nod toward the hallway where your daughter’s bedroom door is cracked open, the glow of her night light spilling out. “Until the next one,” you murmur.

That night, the three of you end up in the same bed. It wasn’t planned, just one of those nights where the world outside felt far away. Your daughter lay between you, her fingers curled around the edge of your shirt, breathing steadily and even. Haechan reaches for your hand in the dark and squeezes it when he finds it. You squeeze back. And you know, just as you did back on that villa in the morning light, that this is the start of everything, all over again. 

Fridays are still yours. They always will be. 

Autoplay: If you liked this, you may also like Some Kind Of Wonderful - L.Mark

[buckets-and-trees]

Rank and Promotion

Characters/Pairings: soft!dark Alpha!Ari x curvy Female!Omega!Reader Word Count: 7.5k Summary: Ari Levinson receives a visit and a gift from Governor Barnes. (part of the Fine Line collection but can be read fully on its own)

Content/Warnings: omegaverse (alpha-omega dynamics, scenting, etc); power dynamics; loss of virginity; explicit smut: thigh riding, oral (female receiving), vaginal fingering, unprotected vaginal intercourse and insemination, cum appreciation; omega trafficking

Author Notes: I said there would be more alphas in this verse, and HERE'S THE FIRST OF THEM! It is not necessary to read anything else in this story. Relevant information is relayed directly and/or insinuated in the narrative for this piece. But for anyone who has followed the Bucky parts of the story, this takes place immediately after the council scene in No Way Out.

Additional Note: I need to give credit where it's due to @stargazingfangirl18 for helping me figure out how to best approach sharing this storyline for new characters/a new reader into an existing verse!

Fine Line Collection

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

Five years ago, Ari would have been pacing impatiently across the floor of this opulent living room in the penthouse of Skyline Tower, but now he’s learned how to control the impatience, to cage it, let it undulate deep inside of himself to be used to launch into action at the right moment. 

And so he sits in a comfortable armchair with a view of the mountains in the distance out to the west of the city, studying the view, reading on his phone, and looking out into the distance again.

Twenty-seven hours ago he’d received a summons from the Governor’s executive aide, told he was expected in the capital by sundown and to pack for an indefinite stay. The order had not been entirely unusual - he’d been instructed to move to different locations many times given the nature of his work, and many of those reassignments had been with unknown expectations for how long he would need to be there. 

Ari arrived in the capital the night before and had been escorted to this penthouse in the city’s tallest building, and thathad been unusual. Typically his assignments were fulfilled in ordinary, unremarkable areas, not the a place like this. 

The space balances luxury with functionality – sleek lines and modern fixtures softened by plush seating and warm lighting. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the sprawling city below, but automated privacy screens can be adjusted for comfort. The leather couch looked genuinely used, not merely decorative. Books lined built-in shelves, their spines showing wear. The kitchen gleams with high-end appliances, yet remains approachable with its open layout. Even the temperature is perfectly calibrated – cool enough to remain comfortable, but not so cold as to require additional layers.

This attention to livability rather than mere display speaks volumes about its owner. Bucky Barnes may be Hydra's conquering fist, but he clearly values practical comfort over ostentatious wealth. It's an unexpected insight into the man who seized control of the territory mere weeks ago in a swift, brutal campaign that left the previous government broken, but not obliterated left with just enough strength and infrastructure to remain viable and powerful on the continent.

His phone buzzes, and there’s a message indicating that Governor Barnes has just arrived at Skyline Tower and will be with him presently. 

Ari frowns.

Having been summoned, he expected to be called to the Governor’s office or his mansion. 

A personal visit was yet another anomaly. 

Only a few minutes later, there’s a brief knock and a man enters the penthouse, making way for a tall, imposing alpha, and his omega. 

Ari man rises from the leather armchair. "Governor Barnes," he greets Bucky with a slight inclination of his head. 

"Levinson," Bucky responds, stepping forward to clasp his hand firmly. "I trust the accommodations are satisfactory."

"More than," Ari replies, gesturing around. His gaze shifts to the female at Bucky’s side, curiosity evident in his expression. "And this must be your new omega. The former governor's daughter."

Bucky's hand moves to the small of her back, a possessive gesture that doesn't go unnoticed by anyone in the room. "Yes. She's mine now."

Bucky steers his omega and gestures for her to sit on the plush leather couch with him. She settles beside him, and he drapes his metal arm possessively across her shoulders. Ari can see it’s not a demonstration for his benefit, but for hers. 

Ari takes his seat again in armchair opposite the couch and waits, deferring to the governor to speak first. 

"Your work in the eastern territories has been exceptional," Bucky begins, his tone matter-of-fact. "The intelligence you've gathered over the past three years has been invaluable to our acquisition of the territory."

"Just doing my job," Ari responds with a modest shrug, though there's a hint of pride he can’t hold back in his tone. 

"Which is precisely why I've called you here to the capital," Bucky continues. "Every weakness, every vulnerability you identified in the territory's defenses proved accurate. The takeover was executed with minimal resistance, just as you predicted."

"Minimal resistance is generous," Ari remarks with a slight smile. He heard every report, saw footage online and on television. "Your tactics were... thorough." 

And in line with many of the intel and suggestions Ari himself had supplied to Barnes and the others in the Hydra network for this very purpose. 

Bucky leans forward, his posture shifting subtly from casual to intent. "Which brings me to my proposition. I need someone to lead my military forces—someone with your strategic mind and field experience." 

Ari keeps his expression carefully neutral, though he is more than intrigued if Barnes means what he think he means. 

Still, he doesn’t want to misstep by assuming or betraying any eagerness. 

So he waits half a moment before saying evenly, "You have STRIKE teams already in place. Rumlow seems capable enough."

"Rumlow is a blunt instrument," Bucky replies dismissively. "Useful for specific tasks, but lacking the vision required for what I have planned." He pauses, studying Ari with calculating eyes. "I'm offering you the position of General of my armed forces.”

Ari raises his eyebrows slightly. "General?" 

"Yes," Bucky confirms without hesitation. "The current military leadership lacks vision. They're competent at maintaining order, but we need more than that to secure our borders and expand our influence. You understand the larger picture." 

He assumed there would be a special assignment, but he hadn’t anticipated this. Though his pulse has accelerated, he keeps his voice even. "What exactly would this entail?" 

Like himself, Bucky is a man who respects cool heads.

"Authority over all military operations, reporting directly to me," Bucky explains. "A seat on the territory council, but also a member of my personal cabinet.”

Ari considers the Governor’s words, drumming his fingers lightly against the armrest. His gaze flicks between the alpha and his omega - a woman who has remained stoic, silent, and still through all of the exchange, though certainly studying every word and action, thoroughly paying attention. 

"Think about it,” Bucky continues, “this territory has resources, manpower, and strategic positioning. What we lack is someone with vision to utilize them properly."

Ari weighs his options, calculating the benefits against potential risks.

Bucky shifts, squeezing the back of his omega’s neck before standing. "I don't expect an immediate answer. Consider the offer." He gestures toward the door where the man who entered with them has remained, clearly waiting for this signal. "In the meantime, I've brought something to mark your acceptance."

To mark your acceptance… So this is an edict, no room for negotiation, refusal an impossibility. 

The man - a beta, Ari can tell - nods and opens the door. A moment later, an older looking beta female enters, leading five omega women in behind her. 

"Alphas like us have... certain needs," Bucky says, his tone casual but his eyes sharp, watching for Ari’s reaction.

Ari stands, and something in his chest rumbles unbidden. He’s enjoyed an omega here and there, though they’re difficult to find. To have five in a room together is rare. Five unmated? Unheard of. 

Bucky steps forward, his hand gesturing toward the line of omegas with practiced smoothness. "These fine specimen come from Whitecrest," he explains, voice carrying an unmistakable note of pride. "Perhaps the most prestigious omega training facility in the northern hemisphere."

All five are dressed modestly in cream-colored, simple yet exquisite dresses - each cut and tailored to show off the omegas in the best way possible. They appear to range in age from twenties to thirties. Their hair is neatly styled, their postures submissive but dignified, eyes downcast.

The beta male - Marcus, according to his silver name badge - steps forward with a slight bow. His suit is impeccably pressed, his manner formal yet approachable.

"Whitecrest is an institution with over a century of tradition. Interested families who are interested contact us when they have a child who identifies as an omega within days of their presentation, usually between thirteen and fifteen years of age," Marcus elaborates. "Only those with exceptional potential are selected. From that moment, their education becomes comprehensive. We identify their natural aptitudes and enhance them through rigorous education."

One of the omegas lifts their gaze momentarily before lowering it again. The brief glimpse reveals intelligent eyes that seem to assess the room.

"Our curriculum for all our omegas is comprehensive—multiple languages, of course, with each omega mastering a minimum of four. They study diplomatic companion relations, learning to navigate even the most complex international negotiations at their alpha's side. Our political training ensures they understand governance structures worldwide, while our history program contextualizes modern power dynamics."

Marcus's voice takes on a reverent quality as he continues, "And naturally, we provide thorough instruction on what an omega's role should be—how to anticipate an alpha's needs before they're expressed, how to manage a household of any size, how to present themselves in society. They learn to navigate hierarchies with grace and dignity."

Ari's eyes travel down the line of omegas, each one a testament to careful cultivation. "And their families simply... give them up?"

"They entrust them to us," Marcus corrects smoothly. "Most come from prominent families who understand the value of proper training. Others are discovered through our scholarship program, which identifies exceptional potential regardless of background. In either case, the families are generously compensated."

Bucky watches Ari's reaction carefully. "Each of these omegas represents years of investment. Their training costs more than most people earn in a lifetime.”

Ari feels a primal hunger growing within him as he studies the five women. His alpha instincts, normally kept under tight control, rise to the surface. He hasn't had the luxury of an omega companion during a rut in years, though he had been able to find sufficient satisfaction with betas to get him through. 

"And now, one of them will be yours," Bucky says.

The implication hangs in the air, heavy with expectation. Ari feels his pulse quicken despite his practiced control.

"You're offering me one of these omegas?" he asks, careful to keep his tone measured despite the sudden rush of alpha interest surging through him.

"Consider it a signing bonus," Bucky replies with a slight smile. "A general requires a proper companion. Someone who can manage your household, accompany you to diplomatic functions, and of course," his voice drops slightly, "satisfy your more... primal needs."

The older beta female steps forward. "If I may, Governor Barnes?”

Barnes nods, “Certainly. Levinson, I’ll leave you to your selection. Marcus and Elsie, send the final contract to my assistant.” Then he turns to his own omega, and reaches a hand out. 

The Governor’s wife rises from the couch with her own grace, and follows her husband out of the penthouse. 

The older woman speaks again. "Each omega has been specifically selected based on compatibility with your profile, sir," she explains, her voice crisp and professional. "We've studied your background, preferences, and needs extensively to ensure an optimal match."

Ari's brow furrows slightly. "You've been researching me?"

"Of course," she replies without hesitation. "Whitecrest prides itself on creating perfect matches, not merely providing bodies. These five were hand-selected from our entire cohort as potential matches for your specific temperament, career demands, and genetic compatibility. Governor Barnes provided us with your dossier months ago. We've analyzed your service record, psychological assessments, even your dietary preferences to identify the most compatible candidates."

Ari shoots a glance toward the door where Bucky has just exited. Months ago. Before the territory was even conquered. The realization that Barnes had been planning this role for him all along settles like a weight in his stomach – both flattering and unsettling.

"And what exactly did your analysis determine about me?" Ari asks, unable to resist his curiosity.

Elsie - Ari notes her own silver nametag - smiles politely. "That you're disciplined, methodical, and intensely private. You value competence above all else. You require an omega who can anticipate needs without constant direction, who can function independently when your duties demand your attention, yet submit completely when you require it."

Her assessment is uncomfortably accurate, even identifying elements he may not have thought to consider for himself but sound satisfying to him. 

Ari walks slowly along the line of omegas, studying each one with careful consideration. They remain perfectly still under his scrutiny, spaced out evenly approximately a meter apart from each other, enough room for him to circle them physically and assess their smells somewhat individually. 

As Ari approaches the fourth omega, he catches a subtle shift in demeanor – not defiance, exactly, but a certain alertness that distinguishes you from the others. While the rest remain perfectly still, your head tilts almost imperceptibly, but he does catch it. He recalls that you’re the he noticed looking up before, during Marcus’s thorough explanation about the education omegas of your kind receive. 

He steps directly in front of you, drawn by that subtle difference. "You," he addresses you directly, his voice low. 

Your eyes remain downcast respectfully, but your posture straightens a fraction more. Unlike the others who remained unmoved around him, you appear to become more present.

"May I?" He extends his hand, palm up, an invitation rather than a demand. The gesture reveals more about him than perhaps he intends – a preference for consent, even in a situation where he holds all the power.

You lift your gaze to meet his, just for a moment, before lowering your eyes again in practiced deference. With fluid grace, you extend your wrist, turning it upward to expose the delicate skin where your scent is strongest.

Ari's fingers close gently around your offered wrist, bringing it to his nose. The first inhale is cautious, analytical – but the moment your scent fills his lungs, something shifts fundamentally in his gut. 

Your scent hits him with unexpected force. It's not merely pleasant; it’s complex and resonates with him on a primal level, setting off a cascade of reactions he hasn't experienced before. His pupils dilate slightly, and he finds himself drawing a second, deeper breath.

"What's your name?" he asks, still holding your wrist, his thumb unconsciously tracing small circles against your pulse point. 

You respond, answering in a calm, controlled tone, but he can feel the way your pulse races beneath his thumb. 

Elsie steps forward. "A fine choice, General Levinson. This omega has excelled particularly in languages – fluent in seven, including Mandarin and Russian – and has specialized training in military history and strategic analysis. We believed these skills would complement your new position admirably."

Ari barely notices her words, as he's entirely absorbed in the scent that envelops him. However, his keen sense of movement and awareness of those around him ensures he catches Marcus signaling the other omegas to leave the penthouse. 

Marcus approaches with a sleek digital tablet in hand, clearing his throat discreetly. "If you're satisfied with your selection, sir, we have just a few formalities to complete." 

Ari reluctantly releases your wrist, though his eyes linger on you for a moment longer before turning to Marcus. "Of course." 

"Standard transfer of guardianship documentation," he explains, gesturing toward the tablet. "It confirms your acceptance of this omega and outlines your rights and responsibilities."

Ari scans the document quickly but thoroughly, his years of intelligence work having trained him never to sign anything without reading it first. The legal language is precise, transferring all rights to him while acknowledging Whitecrest's continued interest in your wellbeing – a formality more than an actual limitation on his authority. 

"Everything appears to be in order," he murmurs, pressing his thumb to the digital pad in the appropriate spot. 

Elsie, who has guided you to stand slightly apart while the men handle the paperwork. "The omega comes with a complete wardrobe and personal effects," she explains, her tone businesslike. "All items have been selected to complement your lifestyle and preferences."

Ari nods. 

“They will delivered to the concierge downstairs within the hour. Whitecrest provides a six-month adjustment period," Elsie explains, “should you wish to make any changes or find any incompatibility or unwanted behavior from or with the omega.”

"And we'll need your signature here as well, confirming receipt of the omega's medical records and maintenance instructions," Marcus says, swiping to another screen on the tablet.

Ari raises an eyebrow. "Maintenance instructions?"

"Just a formality," Elsie interjects smoothly. "Dietary preferences, exercise regimens, heat suppressant schedules as long as you wish to suppress them. Nothing you wouldn't expect." 

Marcus taps several more fields on the tablet before sliding it toward Ari once more. "Just your signature on the final acceptance form, General. This confirms receipt of the omega and acknowledges Whitecrest's fulfillment of our contract with Governor Barnes."

Ari signs with a practiced motion, his eyes flicking toward you. Marcus taps a few more buttons before the tablet emits a soft chime.

"Congratulations, General Levinson. She is officially yours," Marcus says with a practiced smile. 

Elsie straightens her jacket. "The omega has been thoroughly briefed on her duties and expectations. She'll serve you well." She gives you a final appraising look, a nearly imperceptible nod that seems to convey some private message, before turning back to Ari. "Should you require any assistance during the adjustment period, our support staff is available at any hour."

"That won't be necessary," Ari replies, his tone making it clear the conversation is concluded.

With a final nod, Marcus and Elsie depart, leaving Ari alone with you for the first time. The door closes with a soft click, and the sudden silence feels weighted with possibility.

Ari studies you, still standing precisely as you had undoubtedly been trained to do, hands folded neatly before you, eyes downcast. The perfect picture of omega submission—yet he hasn't forgotten that brief moment of alertness that drew him to you initially.

"You can look at me," he says, his voice neither harsh nor particularly gentle. "I prefer direct communication."

You raise your eyes to meet his, and he's struck again by what he sees there—intelligence, assessment, and something else he can't quite define. Not fear, which is interesting. Perhaps caution. Certainly awareness.

"I imagine this is... unexpected for you as well," he says.

“On the contrary, General Levinson, I’ve known for two decades I was being held in reserve, training and preparing for the alpha who would claim me.”

Ari notes that your tone doesn’t seem to harbor any resentment towards that statement or the reality of it either. 

"Two decades is a long time to prepare for something without knowing when it will happen," Ari observes, moving to the kitchen area. He pours himself a glass of water, then, after a moment's consideration, pours a second. "Would you like one?"

"Thank you, Alpha," you respond, joining him in the kitchen and accepting the glass with graceful movements. Your fingers brush against his, and he notes the controlled steadiness of your hand.

"You can call me Ari when we're alone," he says, watching your reaction carefully.

You take a small sip of water before responding. "As you wish... Ari." The name sounds intimate on your lips, a privilege you understand the significance of.

"I should inform you," you continue, your voice measured and practical, "that I'm currently on a regimen of heat suppressants, as is standard protocol before a Whitecrest omega is transferred to the care of an alpha." Your voice is measured, professional. "However, I can discontinue them immediately if you prefer. The medication will clear my system within seventy-two hours."

Ari's expression remains neutral, though his scent shifts subtly with interest. 

"That won't be necessary just yet," he replies, studying your face. "We have time." 

You nod once, acknowledging his decision. "Regardless of my suppressed state, I am fully capable of satisfying any and all intimate requirements you may have." Your tone remains matter-of-fact, neither coy nor embarrassed. "While I am a certified virgin omega, Whitecrest's curriculum includes comprehensive training in all aspects of physical intimacy." 

Ari's lips twitch beneath his mustache. He told you he appreciates direct communication, and he likes that you seem to fall into it naturally with him. “How does that work? A virgin but with comprehensive training?”

At this, you do drop your eyes for a moment shift slightly from one foot to the other. 

"Whitecrest, as explained, always adopts a thorough and methodical approach to educating their omegas," you explain, your voice remaining professional despite the intimate subject matter. "My physical training included extensive work with beta partners—men and women both—to master techniques of oral gratification. I can pleasure with my mouth, hands, and body in a myriad of distinct ways."

You take another small sip of water before continuing, "We were also thoroughly schooled in self-pleasure, to understand our own bodies' responses. This knowledge helps us better anticipate and accommodate an alpha's needs." 

Ari watches your face as you speak, the blood in his veins pumping more heatedly as you speak. 

"There were practical vaginal applications too," you add. "Specialized stretching exercises to gradually stretch and prepare our bodies to accommodate an alpha's... dimensions."

You meet his eyes directly now. "However, nothing has ever penetrated my vaginal canal deeply enough to break my hymen. That honor is reserved exclusively for my alpha. For you."

“Fuck,” he says.

The word escapes his mouth before he can stop it, his careful control slipping for just a moment. Your eyes widen slightly at his reaction, and he sees a flash of something—satisfaction, perhaps—cross your features before you compose yourself again.

"I apologize if I was too forward," you say, though your tone suggests you don't believe you've overstepped.

"No," Ari says, setting his glass down on the counter with measured precision. "I said I wanted direct communication. You're giving me exactly that."

He moves closer to you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his body. Your scent shifts subtly in response to his proximity, and he catches it immediately—a sweetening, an unconscious response that makes his alpha instincts stir with primal satisfaction.

"I want to be clear about something," he says, his voice dropping to a lower register. "You were trained to be what Whitecrest believed an alpha would want. But I'm interested in what lies beneath that training."

Your eyes meet his, and for a moment, your carefully constructed demeanor wavers. "Whitecrest doesn't encourage individuality," you admit, tone laced with wariness. 

You’re incredibly intelligent, strategic. He likes that. 

"I consider it essential," Ari counters. “I want to know who you are beneath the training."

You tilt your head slightly, a gesture that seems less practiced and more natural. "What would you like to know, Ari?"

He steps back, creating space between you again, regaining his composure. "Let's sit," he suggests, gesturing toward the living area. You follow him, moving with elegant efficiency, and take a seat on the couch while he chooses the armchair opposite you.

He studies you for a long moment, taking in the details of your face, your posture, the way you hold yourself. There's a precision to your movements that speaks of years of training, but underneath it, he senses something more—a natural grace that couldn't have been taught.

"Tell me something that isn't in your file," he says. "Something Whitecrest doesn't know about you."

Your eyes widen slightly at this unexpected request. For a moment, you seem to wrestle with it, your training having conditioned you to present only what would please an alpha. But he sees the moment you let go and relax from that expectation.

"I steal moments," you admit finally, voice softer than before. "When I'm supposed to be meditating during quiet hours, I sometimes watch the stars instead." Your hands rest in your lap, perfectly still, but he notices the slight tension in your fingers. "There's a constellation that as visible from my dormitory window that wasn't in any of our astronomy texts. I named it myself." 

Ari leans forward slightly, genuinely intrigued. "What did you name it?" 

The question seems to surprise you, you’re clearly not expecting his curiosity to extend beyond a surface level. "Libera," you answer after a moment. "It means—"

"Freedom," Ari finishes for you, his expression thoughtful. "I speak Latin too." 

Something shifts in your eyes—a flicker of deeper interest in him, the man, not the alpha.

A current seems to pass between you both at that moment. Ari's eyes darken slightly, and the air in the penthouse grows heavier with unspoken tension. 

"Come here," Ari says, his voice low as he extends his hand toward you. His command is gentle but unmistakable.

You hesitate for just a fraction of a second—another glimpse of the real person beneath the training—before rising gracefully from the couch. You cross the short distance between you and place your hand in his.

With a smooth, deliberate motion, he guides you onto his lap, your body naturally finding position across his thighs. Without a word, Ari's hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing the outline of your lower lip. His eyes search yours, seeking something beyond the polished veneer of your training.

His eyes never leaving yours, Ari leans forward, closing the distance between you. His lips brush against yours—tentative at first, almost questioning. But when you respond, parting your lips slightly, his restraint crumbles. 

Ari deepens the kiss, hungry for more of you, exploring your mouth, the way you taste. His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair to hold you in place as he tastes you thoroughly. You taste of mint and something else—something uniquely you that makes his alpha instincts surge with possessive pleasure.

You respond with the technical precision of your training, but there's something more authentic beneath it—a genuine response to him that makes his blood heat. He can sense it in the air as your scent shifts to something more heady. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, claiming, exploring, and you match him movement for movement.

When he finally pulls back, both of you are breathing harder. Your eyes have darkened, pupils blown with a desire he believes matches his own. 

His hand travels from your neck down your spine, pressing you closer as he leans in again. This time his lips find the sensitive spot just below your ear, and you shiver involuntarily at the contact. He grins against your heated skin, and continues his exploration, trailing kisses along your jawline, down your neck, lingering at the junction where your neck meets your shoulder. 

"Your scent is..." he murmurs against your skin, inhaling deeply. "Intoxicating." 

Ari shifts beneath you, adjusting his position in the armchair. He slides his hands to grip your waist, then guides you to straddle his muscular thigh, positioning you so his quad presses directly against your core, the fabric of your dress forced up around your hips. 

His eyes, dark with desire but still observant, study your face. His hand slides to your hip, fingers applying gentle pressure.

"Ride my thigh," Ari commands softly, his thumb stroking your hip. "Show me what brings you pleasure."

You hesitate, confusion flickering across your features. "I don't understand. My purpose is to—"

"Your purpose right now," he interrupts, his voice firm, "is to give me what I want, and what I want is to see you please yourself." 

The concept seems foreign to you, and Ari can see the conflict in your eyes—your training has conditioned you to focus exclusively on an alpha's pleasure, not your own. This slight deviation from your programming fascinates him. 

"I..." you begin, uncertainty coloring your voice.

"This isn't a test," Ari says, and he moves from your hip to cup your face, his touch gentle but commanding. "I want to see what feels good to you. I always study my subject, that’s my expertise. I want to watch you come apart, know what your body craves so I can meet out pleasure to you like you’ve never experienced before."

Something in his words seems to unlock something in you. Your body responds to his reasoning, beginning to move slowly against his thigh. The friction sends visible shivers through you, and your eyes widen slightly at the sensation.

"That's it," Ari encourages, his gaze intense as he watches your face. "Don't hold back." 

Your movements grow more confident, planting your hands on his shoulders and finding a rhythm. Your breathing quickens as you grind against his muscular thigh, the rhythmic movement causes your dress to ride up further, exposing more of your thighs. Ari's hands move to grip your hips, not to guide but to feel your movements, to learn your rhythm.

"Look at me," he commands, and your eyes lock with his. The vulnerability in your gaze is intoxicating—this isn't the practiced performance of a Whitecrest omega, but something raw and genuine.

A small moan escapes your lips before you can stop it, and you immediately tense, as if surprised by your own loss of inhibition so quickly.

"Don't," Ari says, his voice husky with desire. "Don't hide those sounds from me. I want to hear every one of them." 

Your movements become more urgent, more desperate as pleasure builds within you. Your body trembles against him, and Ari can feel the dampness growing between your legs, seeping through the thin fabric of your underwear and onto his pants. He finds the evidence of your arousal deeply satisfying.

"That's it," he murmurs, one hand leaving your hip to slide up your back, pressing you closer. "Show me what you need." 

Your movements become less controlled, more instinctual as pleasure builds. Your head falls back slightly, exposing the elegant line of your throat. Ari can't resist—he leans forward to press his lips against your pulse point, feeling it race beneath his mouth. His teeth graze the sensitive skin there. Not a claiming bite—not yet—but the promise of one.

"A-Alpha," you gasp, forgetting his instruction to use his name in the haze of your building climax. 

Ari doesn't correct you. There's something primal and satisfying about hearing his designation on your lips in this moment of abandon. His own arousal is painful against the confines of his pants, but he ignores it, focused entirely on your pleasure.

His hand tightens on your hip, urging you on, his other hand sliding from your back to slip beneath the neckline of your dress, exploring the soft skin he finds there.

Your movements become frantic, chasing the release that hovers just out of reach. Ari slides one hand between your bodies, pressing his thumb against the exact spot where you need it most, even through the fabric of your underwear.

"Let go," he commands, his voice a low growl. "Show me."

Your rhythm falters as pleasure overtakes you. Your thighs tighten around his, your fingers digging into his shoulders as your body shudders with release. A broken cry escapes your lips, raw and unfiltered.

Ari watches, transfixed, as you come apart for him. The sight of your genuine pleasure, the sounds you make, the scent of your arousal—it all combines to stoke his own desire to nearly unbearable levels. His hardness presses insistently against his pants, but he makes no move to seek his own release. Not yet.

As the aftershocks subside, you slump slightly against him, your breathing ragged, your forehead resting against his shoulder as your body continues to tremble with aftershocks.

"Beautiful," he murmurs against your hair, his hands still gripping your hips.

In one fluid motion, Ari lifts you from his lap. His movements are controlled yet urgent as he lowers you to the plush carpet. Your dress has ridden up around your waist, and he takes a moment to appreciate the sight of you—flushed, disheveled, still trembling slightly from your release. 

"That was just the beginning," he murmurs, his voice deep with promise as he positions himself between your thighs. 

His fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear, sliding them down your legs with deliberate slowness. The garment is damp with evidence of your arousal, and Ari inhales deeply, his pupils dilating at your scent. 

"Perfect," he whispers, mostly to himself. 

He spreads your thighs wider, exposing you completely to his gaze. He can see the mixture of anticipation and interest as Ari lowers himself, planting his shoulders between your legs. He senses his intentions are in no way unwelcome, but not what you were told to expect. His breath ghosts over your sensitive flesh, already swollen and slick from your previous climax. The first touch of his tongue against you sends a jolt through your entire body, your back arching involuntarily off the carpet.

"Ari," you gasp, forgetting formality as sensations overwhelm you. 

He hums against you, the vibration adding another layer to the pleasure coursing through your body. His technique is methodical yet intuitive – exploring, learning, cataloging every response. When his tongue circles your clit and your thighs tremble, he takes note. When he flattens his tongue against you in a broad stroke and you whimper, he files that information away too. 

"You taste even better than you smell," he murmurs against you, his voice rough with desire.

Your hands flutter uncertainly before settling on the carpet beside you, fingers curling against the plush rug. 

Ari shifts his approach, abandoning the methodical exploration in favor of something more primal. His movements become unhurried, indulgent—almost worshipful as he parts your folds with his fingers and drags his tongue through your wetness with deliberate slowness. The meticulous pace makes every sensation more acute, more overwhelming. 

You gasp as he laps at you with broad, leisurely strokes, and he knows his beard is creating a delicious friction against your sensitive skin - he’s looking forward to seeing the evidence later. His technique is less precise now, messier. He's savoring a feast rather than executing a strategy. Slickness gathers at the corners of his mouth, but he’s unconcerned, focused entirely on drawing out your pleasure. 

"Please," you whisper, the word escaping before you can contain it.

He glances up, meeting your eyes over the landscape of your body. His mustache is slick with your arousal, his eyes dark with desire. "Please what?" he murmurs against your inner thigh, his hot breath teasing you.

You struggle to articulate what you need, your training suddenly inadequate for this unexpected experience. "More," is all you manage.

A low chuckle rumbles through him, vibrating against your core. "Like this?" He seals his lips around your clit and sucks gently, his tongue flicking against the sensitive bundle of nerves with precision.

Your back arches off the carpet, a strangled cry escaping your throat. Your hands move instinctively to his head, fingers threading through his dark hair. For a moment, you freeze, but Ari responds by pressing closer, encouraging your touch.

He slips one finger inside you, careful to maintain the barrier of your virginity while still providing the pressure and fullness he knows your body craves. 

"That's it," he murmurs against you, feeling your inner walls begin to flutter around his finger. "So responsive.”

He adds a second digit, and his fingers continue their teasing exploration, never quite breaching you but applying just enough pressure to make you ache for more. All the while, his tongue works against your sensitive bundle of nerves with deliberate, focused attention. 

Your hips begin to rock against his face, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of everything he's giving you. He responds by increasing the intensity, his tongue circling your clit with relentless precision while his fingers press deeper, stretching you without breaching that final barrier.

"Ari," you gasp, your voice breaking as the tension coils tighter. "I can't—"

"You can," he growls against your sensitive flesh. "Come apart for your alpha again."

His tongue flattens against your clit, applying firm, consistent pressure while his fingers curl inside you, finding that perfect spot. The dual sensation shatters you completely. Your release crashes down, your body convulsing beneath him as waves of pleasure radiate outward. Your cry echoes through the penthouse, uninhibited and raw.

As you tremble through the aftershocks, Ari's control finally shatters. With a fluid movement born of years of military training, he flips your limp body over, and he hoists your hips up with powerful hands, positioning you on your knees.

"Present for me," he growls, his voice barely recognizable even to himself, thick with primal need. 

Your body responds instinctively to his command, your back arching, hips raising to offer yourself to him. The position is vulnerable, submissive—exactly what your alpha demands.

Ari's hands caress your exposed flesh, appreciating the curve of your spine, the perfect roundness of your ass, the sight of you ready and waiting for him. He quickly unfastens his pants, freeing his straining erection. The cool air of the penthouse against his heated flesh makes him throb with anticipation. He positions himself at your entrance, the blunt head of his cock pressing against and then parting your slick, swollen folds.

"Mine," he growls, the single word laden with possession and promise. 

Without further warning, Ari drives forward in one powerful thrust, breaking through your virgin barrier and burying himself to the hilt inside you. The sensation is overwhelming—your tight heat enveloping him completely as your virginity yields to his claiming.

Your cry echoes through the penthouse, a mixture of pain and pleasure. Your body, still limp and sated from your previous releases, offers little resistance to his invasion. Your inner walls stretch to accommodate his considerable size, pulsing around him as your body adjusts to this new intrusion. 

Ari remains still for just a moment, his hands gripping your hips with bruising force as he fights for control. The primal part of him wants to rut into you with abandon, to claim and mark and own. But the more controlled part of him—the strategist, the soldier—knows to temper that instinct.

"Breathe," he commands, his voice strained with the effort of restraint. His hand slides up your back to grip the nape of your neck, applying gentle pressure—a steadying, grounding touch. 

You whimper beneath him, your body trembling as it adjusts to the unfamiliar fullness. Your inner walls flutter and contract around his length, instinctively trying to accommodate him. The sensation nearly makes Ari lose his hard-won control. 

"So tight," he groans, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hip. "So perfect for me." 

You whimper beneath him, your body trembling as it stretches to accommodate his invasion. Your inner walls flutter around him, adjusting to his girth, your body producing more slickness to ease his passage.

"Good omega," he murmurs, the praise falling from his lips unbidden. His hands return to your hips, gripping firmly as he begins to withdraw slowly, almost completely, before driving back. Each thrust is measured, calculated to stretch you perfectly while minimizing discomfort. The warrior in him wants to claim you roughly, but the strategist wins out, conquering your body with deliberate precision.

"Alpha," you moan, your fingers curling into the plush carpet beneath you. Your voice carries a note of surrender that satisfies something primal in Ari's core.

His pace increases gradually as your body yields to him completely, your initial discomfort giving way to unmistakable pleasure. Your scent changes, sweetening with arousal, and Ari inhales deeply, letting it fuel his desire.

"You were made for this," Ari growls, his rhythm increasing as he feels your body responding, accepting him deeper, your inner walls gripping him like a silken vice. "Made for me."

Your gasps and whimpers spur him on, each sound a testament to your pleasure. He shifts his angle slightly, searching for that spot inside you that will make you shatter again. When your back arches sharply and a broken cry escapes your lips, he knows he's found it.

"There," he murmurs, satisfaction evident in his voice. "Right there."

He maintains that angle, hitting that perfect spot with each powerful thrust. His hand slides around your body to find your sensitive bundle of nerves, circling it with his thumb in time with his movements. The dual stimulation has you trembling again, your breath coming in short, desperate pants.

"Let go for me again, omega," Ari commands, his voice rough with exertion and desire. "I want to feel you come apart around my cock."

The pressure of his skilled fingers combined with the relentless stimulation of that perfect spot inside you push you over the edge. Your entire body convulses as pleasure crashes through you, more intense than before. Your inner walls clamp down around him in rhythmic pulses, drawing a guttural groan from deep in his chest. Your cries are uninhibited now, echoing through the penthouse as your body surrenders to him entirely. 

With a final, powerful thrust, Ari buries himself completely inside you, his body going rigid as his climax overtakes him. His release floods your insides, hot and abundant, marking you from within. His fingers dig into your hips as he holds you firmly in place, ensuring every drop remains inside you. 

As the waves of pleasure gradually subside, Ari remains buried deep inside you, leaning forward. His breath comes in harsh pants against your neck, his chest pressed to your back as he covers you completely with his larger frame. The position is intensely intimate, possessive in a way that satisfies something primal in his bones.

For several long moments, neither of you moves, your bodies joined and slick with exertion. Ari's hand slides from your hip to your stomach, splaying his fingers across your abdomen where he can almost feel the evidence of his claiming deep inside you. The thought sends another pulse of satisfaction through him. 

"Mine," he murmurs against the shell of your ear, the single word carrying weight beyond its simplicity.

You shiver beneath him, your body responding to his declaration with another small aftershock that ripples around his still-hard length. 

With utmost care, he eases out of you, his cock still semi-hard and slick with the evidence of your joining. Satisfaction courses through him as he watches his release begin to seep from your entrance, marking you in the most ancient way.

He will clean you soon, but for now he wants your thighs sticky with his seed, your slickness, and traces of your claimed virginity.

He helps you collapse gently onto the plush carpet. You fold your arms together and rest your head on them, turning your face to your alpha, your body still trembling with aftershocks.

Ari stretches out beside you, propping himself up on one elbow to study your face. His other hand traces lazy patterns on your back, unwilling to break physical contact. Your eyes are half-lidded, your breathing still uneven. 

"Are you alright?" he asks, his voice softer now. 

You nod, meeting his gaze with a new openness. "Yes, Alpha... Ari," you correct yourself, reconditioning yourself from the instruction you’d surely been given to only call him Alpha. He imagines he will always find satisfaction from both falling from your sweet lips. 

He reaches out to brush some hair from your face. 

"You're remarkable," he murmurs, his eyes studying your features with newfound appreciation. "I didn't expect..." 

You wait for him to finish, but he merely shakes his head slightly, surprised by his own thoughts.

"What didn't you expect?" you press, your voice still slightly breathless.

Ari's thumb traces the outline of your lower lip, his expression thoughtful. "To feel this... connection. This quickly." 

The admission is wholly unexpected. He didn’t expect the feeling or to be ready and willing to share it with you, but you seem to be an element weaving itself into his inner alpha.

Your eyes soften at his words, a warmth spreading through them as he continues to hold your gaze. Your hand lifts hesitantly to touch his face, fingers tracing the edge of his beard with unexpected tenderness.

"I feel it too," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "They taught us to expect... many things. But not this." 

Ari turns his face slightly to press his lips against your palm, a gesture that feels more intimate than the joining of your bodies moments before. His alpha instincts purr with satisfaction at your admission, at the vulnerability you're willing to show him in return. 

The silence between you stretches, comfortable rather than awkward. In this quiet moment, Ari feels something settling into place inside him—a certainty he hasn't experienced before. Outside these walls, he will still become General Levinson, the calculating strategist who helped Barnes conquer a territory, the ruthlessly efficient military leader who will shape and command armies. The world will see the same disciplined, controlled alpha who has built his reputation on precision and detachment.

But here, with you, something different exists. Something private and separate from that external identity. 

I know I was just writing a very different Alpha!Ari last week, but IT'S ALPHA APRIL! And I've had this idea swirling in my head or about six weeks. I hope he was satisfying... 😏 There's at least one other alpha I'm going to introduce to this verse very soon.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[salemlunaa]

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆EMBODY THE SENSE OF “I AM” ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

you are the decider, the creator 👁️👁️👁️

The fact is that you can see, not what you see

The fact is that you can hear, not what you hear

The fact is that you can feel, not what you can feel

That you exist is fact, The version of reality you exist in isn’t

What is the only constant aspect in all this?: you

You are the most high, you are the divine spirit. You are everything. Nothing is a fact and nothing is a lie, drop that concept. When I tell you to think as if you’re living your dream life it’s because you are. There is no such thing as “fake it til you make it”, affirming isn’t “lying to yourself” it being “delulu”, what you perceive and affirm as fact is fact.

Real = Fake

Fake = Real

Something being real or fake is an idea. And these two idea are concepts, just as valid or as useless as the other

The distance you are from your dream life = the closeness of the reality you are experiencing now. As you’ve gathered from the success stories you binge, once you fully immerse yourself in what’s true, the need for outside validation from your 3d senses is non existent. Go within so you don’t have to look outward in desperation.

Wake up and realise that you are god. That’s who you are. You are “I AM” it shouldn’t be difficult for you to reach your natural naked state. You’re making it harder than it needs to be.

Who’s to say you haven’t induced the state of pure consciousness

Who’s to say you don’t have your dream body

Who’s to say you haven’t shifted

It’s you. there’s no other deciding factor telling you that. There’s no one else, nothing else telling you you’ve failed, it’s you.

And don’t even begin to mention the 3d, a malleable, ever changing CONCEPT. The 3D can’t tell you anything.

The things and feelings that dominate the mind are what manifests. Stop letting creation happen to you, you are the creator.

Feel the feeling of stepping into the POV of god, that’s all you need to induce the void, lay down and feel that feeling, surrender to it. To manifest you must decide. That’s all it is.

You can do literally anything, NOTHING is too small, get excited about that. Get excited that you can create and perfect anything from a dream face to a dream reality from the comfort of your own bed. Get excited at the fact that you can change your life by doing nothing but thinking. Get excited that you can have anything.

You are so privileged to know what you know, although you are the prize. This information is privileged to be discovered and experienced by a godly being such as yourself. Move through life knowing that you are the creator, move through life blocking out the 3D, Move through life with bliss and love for the game that is this experience.

There are people who have risen others from the dead and you can’t manage to wrap your head around your role as god. The only reason anything seems impossible is because you believe it to be so.

“You are already that which you seek”

-Ramana Maharishi

Belief is a concept, what you really must do is know and embody

🌞👁️ALL YOU MUST DO IS DECIDE AND YOU WILL FIND THAT ALL IS HERE, BECAUSE YOU ARE ALL

also thank you guys for 7.5K!!! that’s a really scary amount lol jk 😀

[soulofapatrick]

The Fourth Wing Boys and their Reactions to you being Pregnant

Summary: Just what I think the boys' reactions would be

Words: 7.5K words

Warnings: some angst but mostly fluffy and cuteeee

Xaden Riorson, the man who has made a career of maintaining control in a world that crumbles around him, has never looked more vulnerable than in this moment. His eyes—those sharp, calculating eyes that see everything and give nothing away—widen as the words I just spoke settle between us. The smirk that usually dances on his lips, the one that makes him seem untouchable, vanishes as if it’s never been there at all. His expression, typically guarded and enigmatic, is now a map of raw emotion, impossible to ignore.

I watch him, unsure of whether I’ve just shattered the air between us or opened a door we aren’t ready to walk through. His hands, always confident and steady, grip my waist with a force that seems born of instinct, as if the weight of what I just told him threatens to pull him down. He inhales sharply, and in the way his breath catches in his throat, I can feel it—a tremor, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. The sound of it—soft, like a whisper of disbelief—breathes life into the moment, making it real, making it unavoidable.

His eyes dart to my stomach, that small curve, barely noticeable but unmistakably there. Then, without warning, they flick back to mine, as if trying to find some confirmation that this isn’t a cruel joke, some twisted play to see him unravel. His jaw tightens, his muscles go taut, and for the briefest of seconds, I think he might not believe me. But then he whispers, his voice low and edged with something I’m not ready to identify. “You’re sure?”

I nod, unable to contain the mix of fear, anticipation, and joy that floods through me, and that’s when everything shifts. The tension in his body cracks, splintering apart like ice breaking under the weight of an ocean. His breath, shallow and uneven, spills out in a rush, and his gaze—normally so calculating, so indifferent to everything around him—softens, transforming into something I’ve only seen glimpses of: vulnerability. There, in that look, I see the faintest flicker of hope, a light that barely dares to exist in the shadows of his usual guarded composure.

The silence that follows feels like an eternity, a moment stretched so thin it could shatter at any second. But instead, he moves. His hands, which had been trembling ever so slightly, find their place around me, pulling me close as if I’m the only thing holding him together. His lips brush against the side of my face, pressing against my temple in a gesture that feels oddly fragile for someone like him—someone who has built walls taller than any fortress, whose every breath is calculated, every action precise.

His voice, when it finally comes, is raw—thick with emotion I didn’t know he was capable of showing. “You have no idea how much I love you,” he murmurs, his words a promise. His hands slide down slowly, reverently, until one rests on my stomach. His thumb begins to trace circles, soft at first, like he’s afraid to touch too firmly, as if afraid he might shatter something precious. And maybe he’s right—because in this moment, something shifts inside him, and I’m not sure he’s ready to face it yet.

The man who once seemed so untouchable, so impenetrable, is unraveling in front of me, but not in a way that makes me want to run. Instead, I find myself holding him just as tightly, afraid that if I let go, he might slip away. He isn’t just holding me—he’s holding onto something else. Something bigger than both of us.

We stay like that for a long while, the world fading into the background. His hands, still tracing slow circles over my stomach, seem to speak volumes without words. Each pass of his thumb is a vow—a promise to protect, to fight for, to love the life growing inside me with the same fierce, unrelenting devotion he’s always given to me. Only now, there’s something new in his gaze—something deeper. The promise isn’t just to me anymore. It’s to the little one we’ve yet to meet, the one who has already captured his heart in a way I never could have expected.

We’re lying in bed, the early morning sunlight spilling through the window, painting Garrick’s bare shoulders in a soft, golden glow. The light dances across his skin, highlighting the muscles in his back as he sleeps, his breathing slow and steady, the rise and fall of his chest like a calming rhythm. His arm is draped lazily over my waist, holding me close but not tight, as if he’s still half-anchored to the world of dreams. The warmth of him presses against me, a comfort I never want to lose, but something stirs inside me—something I can’t ignore, something that needs to be said.

I shift slightly, the flutter of nerves in my chest making my heart race just a little faster than it should. His eyes crack open, barely more than a sliver, and he blinks up at me through the haze of sleep. His lips twitch into the softest of smiles, and I can’t help but feel a warmth spread through me, even as my own pulse quickens.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, his voice husky from sleep, a teasing note in the words.

I swallow hard, suddenly feeling the weight of the moment, the gravity of the words I’m about to say. “I have something to tell you,” I whisper, my voice barely audible, thick with nerves. I watch his expression shift as he processes my tone—sleep fading from his eyes as they focus on me, sharpening with concern, alertness creeping in. His brows furrow slightly, his grip on me tightening just enough that I can feel the change, the instinctive need to protect, to hold me steady.

The air between us thickens, and I take a steadying breath before finally letting the words escape. “I’m pregnant.”

For a long moment, there’s nothing—no sound, no movement. Just the steady beat of my own heart, pounding in my ears. His blue eyes lock onto mine, and I see the wheels turning in his mind, trying to make sense of what I’ve just said. It’s as if he’s searching for any sign that he’s misunderstood, trying to find some hint that this isn’t real. And then, slowly, so slowly that it feels like time itself holds its breath, a grin begins to spread across his face. It starts small, like disbelief, and then grows—grows until it’s nothing short of radiant, the kind of grin that could light up the world. It’s like the sun breaking through storm clouds, a warmth that fills the space between us, and I feel myself melt under it.

A quiet, breathless laugh escapes him, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing, what he’s feeling. He sits up then, pulling me with him, his movements fluid, confident, like he’s always known he’d be here. His hands come up to cradle my face, and his thumbs gently trace over my cheekbones, each touch reverent, as though I am the most precious thing he’s ever held. His touch is tender, full of wonder. His gaze never leaves mine.

“We’re having a baby?” he whispers, voice hushed, awed, like the very idea of it is too beautiful to fully comprehend. His eyes search mine for any hint of doubt, any sign that this might not be true, but all I can do is nod. And when I do, he kisses me—deep, lingering, filled with everything he feels, overflowing with love and joy in a way that takes my breath away.

The kiss is everything—the kind of kiss that promises a future, the kind that says we’re in this together, no matter what. When he finally pulls away, his hands slide down to rest over my stomach, his touch slow and careful, like he’s handling something fragile, something sacred. His voice is thick with emotion as he murmurs, “I’m going to love them so much.”

I can feel the sincerity in his words, hear the depth of his commitment in every syllable. He presses his forehead to mine, the grin never fading, and I can feel his joy radiating off of him, filling me up. There’s no hesitation, no doubt in him, just a certainty that this moment, this new chapter of our lives, is exactly where we’re meant to be. He holds me close, his hands still resting gently on my stomach, as if he’s already thinking of all the ways he’ll love the little life growing inside me.

“I can’t believe this is real,” he murmurs, and the wonder in his voice makes my heart swell. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

And for the first time in a long time, I’m certain too. In his arms, with his heart beating against mine, I know that whatever comes next, we’ll face it together. And I know, deep down, that we’ll be the best parents we can be. Because this moment—this shared joy—is only the beginning.

Liam is in the middle of fixing his dagger, the rhythmic glide of the whetstone over the blade a comforting sound, familiar and steady. His brow is furrowed in concentration, lips slightly parted as he works, his fingers steady and sure. There’s a certain ease to his posture, though—a quiet confidence in the way he holds the dagger, in the way he moves. I watch him for a moment, the soft light from the window casting shadows over his strong features, and something stirs deep in my chest.

I know what I’m about to say will change everything. It will shift the balance of us, of this quiet, simple life we’ve built. It will disrupt the calm. And yet, in this moment, with his presence so solid and steady beside me, I’m not sure if I’m ready for the words to leave my lips.

“Liam,” I say softly, my voice steady despite the whirlwind inside me. My heart is racing, a thudding pulse in my ears, but I push through it. He hums in acknowledgment, his eyes still focused on the blade in front of him. But when I don’t continue, when the silence stretches between us too long, he finally stills. His sharp green eyes flick to mine, reading me in an instant. And in that moment, I feel like he’s already seen it all—the hesitation, the fear, the joy that fights its way to the surface.

The dagger is forgotten, carefully set down on the table beside him, and he stands in one smooth motion, crossing the distance between us in two quick strides. The energy between us shifts, and his hands frame my face, warm and steady, his breath unsteady as he studies me. I can see the question in his eyes, and I know he’s waiting for me to speak again.

“What is it?” he asks, his voice low, steady. But I can hear the uncertainty beneath it—the flicker of confusion, of concern, because he knows something is coming, something big.

I exhale slowly, trying to steady myself, gripping the edge of the table as though it’s the only thing keeping me grounded in this moment. I whisper the words, barely above a breath, but I feel them settle between us like a charge in the air. “I’m pregnant.”

The words hang there, heavy, charged, electric. I watch as his body locks up, the shock rippling through him, a brief stillness in the air before everything changes. He blinks once, then twice, his lips parting slightly, as if he’s trying to find the right response but no words come. The seconds stretch out, thick and heavy, as though we’re suspended in time, before he inhales sharply, his chest rising and falling with an effort that betrays his calm.

Without another word, he steps closer, closing the gap between us. His hands are on me in an instant, cupping my face with a tenderness that makes my heart catch. He’s searching my eyes, his expression intense, as though he’s trying to read me, to make sure this is real. “Say it again,” he murmurs, his voice thick, as if the words themselves are something he needs to hear once more to believe.

I don’t hesitate this time. I say it again, the words rolling off my tongue with a clarity I didn’t know I had in me. “I’m pregnant.”

His chest rises again, this time in a sharp inhale, and his fingers tighten around me as if to pull me even closer, as if he never wants to let go. The moment feels suspended, timeless, and then suddenly—he laughs. It’s a quiet, disbelieving sound, almost as though he can’t quite wrap his mind around it, and the laugh shifts into something softer, something deeper. Something filled with wonder.

He presses his forehead to mine, the weight of his hands on my face grounding me, and then slowly, reverently, his hands slip down to rest over my stomach. His touch is warm, careful, as though he’s holding something delicate, something precious. The moment stretches between us, full of a new, tender energy, and I know without a doubt that everything has changed.

“You have no idea how much I love you,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion, raw and genuine, like he’s trying to find the words to hold all of it—this moment, this future, this life we’re about to create together.

And then, without another word, he kisses me. It’s slow, deep, and everything I’ve ever wanted. It’s a kiss that speaks of promises, of futures and dreams, of everything we’ve built and everything we will. I can feel the weight of it, the depth of it, and as he pulls me close, as his hands rest gently on the life growing inside me, I know that this moment is the beginning of everything. Everything has changed. And somehow, it feels like it always was meant to.

Bodhi is pacing, his boots scuffing against the cold stone floor with every angry step. The rhythm of his movement is frantic, almost like he's trying to outrun the frustration boiling inside him. His hands are thrown up in exasperation, his voice sharp with bitterness. “Of course, Xaden gets the good shit. Again. Powers? Sure. Now Violet... First in line for the throne? Why the hell not?” His voice cracks with sarcasm, the words biting through the air like daggers. “They both get the good fucking shit.”

I watch him, my heart beating wildly in my chest. It’s not the anger that rattles me; I’ve seen him like this before. But the weight of it all—the frustration that pours out of him—makes my stomach twist with something deeper. It’s all too familiar, this endless cycle of feeling overlooked, dismissed. His voice is thick with old grievances, with wounds that never quite heal, and I know well enough to recognize when he’s spiraling.

He’s about to explode, and I can’t let him. Not this time. If I don’t stop him, I know he’s going to hurt himself in more ways than one. So I step forward, my footsteps silent but determined, and before he can throw his next bitter word into the air, I grab his wrist, holding it firmly but gently.

“Bodhi.”

My voice cuts through his storm of frustration like a calm in the eye of the hurricane, sharp and steady. He freezes mid-step, his body tensing as my name slides past my lips. His hazel eyes, blazing with unresolved anger, snap to mine, and for a moment, everything else falls away.

I take a deep breath, steadying myself, feeling the weight of the words that have been resting on the edge of my tongue for what feels like an eternity. "I’m pregnant."

The shift is immediate, like the world tilts on its axis. His body locks up, rigid and uncertain, and his expression flickers through anger, confusion, and something else—something raw, vulnerable, and unguarded. His lips part, but no sound escapes. For a long moment, he just stands there, staring at me like I’ve just ripped the ground out from under him, like he’s trying to process what I’ve just dropped into the space between us.

The air in the room feels thick, charged, like time itself is holding its breath. Then, as if he’s been holding onto something for too long, the tension in his shoulders suddenly drains away, replaced by something softer, almost fragile. His fingers twitch at his sides like he’s unsure of what to do, like he wants to reach for me but is afraid of the weight of what this means.

“You’re—” He stops himself, blinking hard as if he’s trying to shake off the fog of disbelief. “You’re serious?”

I nod, and when I do, his whole body seems to collapse inward. His breath comes out in a sharp exhale, ragged and uneven, and a shaky laugh bursts from him. It’s low, almost disbelieving, like he can’t quite catch up to the reality of it all. His hands tremble as he reaches for me, pulling me close like I’m the only thing holding him together in this moment. His fingers land on my waist, steady and desperate, as if he needs to feel me beneath his hands, solid and real.

“Holy fucking shit,” he breathes, shaking his head with a soft, disbelieving laugh. "Xaden can keep his damn throne." And then, without warning, he’s kissing me. It’s not soft or gentle—it’s desperate, a kiss that’s full of raw emotion, of relief, of something far too big to name. His hands tighten around me, anchoring himself to the moment, to the realisation, to us.

When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t let go, his hand sliding down to rest over my stomach, warm and steady. His touch is a promise, a grounding force. He’s breathing heavily, still trying to catch up to the reality of everything, but there’s a clarity in his eyes now. A certainty that wasn’t there before.

“This?” He murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “This is ours.”

And for the first time in a long while, I see it—the shift in him, the release of all that frustration, all that anger, replaced with something I can’t quite name. But I know this is the moment everything changes. This is the beginning of something far greater than the chaos we’ve both been drowning in.

Violet slides a glass toward me, the faintest glint of challenge in her eyes as she smirks. “Come on, you’re not seriously turning down a drink, are you?” Her voice has a playful edge, teasing me, but something’s different in the way she looks at me, like she senses that something is off. I hesitate, the words swirling in my mind, threatening to spill, and that’s when I push the glass away.

Her smirk falters. “Wait. What?”

Before she can press further, I feel it—the weight of Ridoc’s gaze on me. I turn, and there he is, standing a few feet away, brow furrowed and head tilted just enough to show he’s putting pieces together. I’ve been trying to hide it, but I can’t. His sharp eyes meet mine, and I know he’s already suspicious. He sees the way my fingers twitch, the way my breath hitches just a little too sharply when Violet teases me. He knows something’s coming.

I swallow hard, grip his wrist, and tug him away from the table. The murmurs of the others fade as I pull him further from the group, needing space to breathe. My pulse is racing now, my heart pounding louder with each step. I know damn well I can’t hold this in any longer, but the moment I say it, things will never be the same.

We stop just outside the circle of laughter and conversation, where no one can overhear us. Ridoc stands there, arms folded, eyes narrowed with a mix of amusement and curiosity. “Alright,” he says, drawing out the word. “You’re acting weird, you turned down alcohol, and you’re pulling me aside like you’ve got some massive secret. Should I be worried?”

The weight of it all presses against me, suffocating, but I manage to look him in the eye. This isn’t something I planned to tell him so soon, but I can’t carry this any longer. I take a deep breath, the words burning on my tongue, and whisper, “I’m pregnant.”

The world seems to stop.

Ridoc blinks once, then twice, as if he didn’t hear me right. His mouth opens, and then shuts, his brain visibly scrambling to process what I just said. His eyes dart to mine, searching for any hint of a joke, but there’s nothing. His hands, once folded tightly across his chest, now hang at his sides, fingers twitching like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

For a moment, he’s completely still, like the world around us has fallen silent and we’re the only ones who matter.

And then, his face shifts. The shock gives way to confusion, and that’s when I see it—the joy. The raw, unfiltered joy that bursts through his expression. His lips part, the corners twitching upward in disbelief. He can’t quite believe it. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

In the next breath, before I can say another word, he spins around, his body moving with a force that’s both desperate and excited. And then, as if he’s claiming the moment for himself, he calls out across the room, loud enough for the entire squad to hear.

“I’M GONNA BE A DAD!”

The room goes completely still. Every single person freezes. A glass hits the floor with a dull thud. Violet chokes on her drink. Rhiannon’s jaw nearly hits the floor. Xaden, of course, looks like he already knew, his gaze unamused but somehow fond. Ridoc, meanwhile, is still grinning like the world is his to conquer. He doesn’t even care that we’re the center of attention.

The chaos erupts. Cheers, whoops, congratulations from every corner of the room. The sound of people scrambling to get to us, laughing, offering their well-wishes. But I can’t help but bury my face in my hands, overwhelmed with embarrassment.

Ridoc’s laughter, though, it’s pure, unrestrained. He pulls me into his arms, lifting me off the ground in a tight, dizzying hug. His grip is firm but gentle, as if I’m the most precious thing he’s ever held.

“You really thought I’d keep that to myself?” he says, his voice muffled in my hair as he chuckles, his breath warm against my skin. “Oh, love, you should know me better by now.”

I can barely breathe, laughing in spite of myself. The entire world feels like it’s shifting around us, and yet in this moment, I don’t care. I’m lost in him, in the joy he’s radiating, in the life we’ve just begun to build together. For the first time, I feel like nothing can touch us.

And when he finally pulls back, his hand slides over my stomach, slow and reverent, as if trying to memorise the change that’s already started to take place.

“This?” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “This is going to be the best thing thats ever happened to us.”

The soft sound of footsteps echoes through the quiet hallway, but it's the unmistakable sound of a door creaking open that pulls me from my thoughts. I'm sitting at the edge of the bed, a thousand things running through my mind, but when I hear it, I freeze.

The door clicks shut behind me. I don’t need to turn around to know who it is. I can already hear Sawyer’s quiet, steady steps, the way he moves with that lazy confidence, like nothing in the world could make him rush. He's always been like that—unfazed, comfortable in his skin, but also the first one to notice when something’s off.

He leans against the doorframe, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and one brow arches slightly, like he's in on some joke I haven't figured out yet. He watches me for a long moment, his gaze knowing, waiting for me to speak. But I can’t. Words are stuck in my throat, heavy and thick.

I open my mouth, then close it again, trying to find the courage. My fingers brush against the edge of the bed, and it feels like the room is shrinking, the weight of what’s coming making my chest tighten.

Sawyer, ever perceptive, notices the shift in my demeanor instantly. Without hesitation, he pushes off the doorframe, his movements slow but purposeful. His voice is low, calm, but laced with concern. "What’s wrong?"

I glance at him, my heart hammering, and for a second, I almost wish I could keep this to myself just a little longer. But I know I can’t. Not with him. Not now.

I take a deep breath, avoiding his gaze as I stand up from the bed. My stomach churns again, a nauseating wave rising in my gut, but this time, it's different. I press a hand to my stomach, fighting against the bile that threatens to rise.

And that’s when I feel it—the low, guttural sound of me retching. I stumble toward the bathroom door before the first wave of nausea hits, pushing the door open just enough to avoid the inevitable disaster. I’m barely able to make it to the toilet before I’m on my knees, my body doubling over as I empty my stomach. The burn in my throat makes everything spin, and I try to steady myself, but it’s no use.

Then I hear it—the sound of Sawyer’s footsteps behind me, closer now, much closer. The door to the bathroom creaks open, and I don't need to look up to know he’s standing there. I can feel his presence, solid and unwavering. His hands press against the doorframe as he leans in, his gaze searching for me in the dim light.

“Hey… hey, you okay?” His voice is soft but urgent, his concern bleeding through the calm tone. He steps closer, his hand resting gently on the back of my neck, his touch warm and steady, like he’s trying to pull me back to earth.

I try to swallow, my breath still shallow, but I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes. “I’m fine,” I say, but it comes out raspy and weak, not even close to convincing. The words fall flat, like they’re already on their way to breaking.

Sawyer doesn’t buy it. He crouches down beside me, his fingers brushing through my hair as he presses a damp cloth to the back of my neck. It’s soothing, but it’s also him, grounding me in a way that only he can.

“Talk to me,” he murmurs, voice low and calm.

And that’s when it happens—the dam breaks. I feel the weight of it, everything I’ve been holding back, and it spills out before I can stop it. “Sawyer, I’m pregnant.”

The words hang between us for a moment, and I can see it in his eyes—surprise, confusion, maybe even a little disbelief. His expression shifts like he's trying to process it, his brows furrowing for a fraction of a second before they smooth out, replaced by a gentle, almost stunned smile.

"You’re what?" he asks softly, his voice thick with the disbelief of the moment. But there’s something else there now, something warmer, a flicker of excitement, and maybe even hope.

I nod, my heart thudding in my chest as I try to steady myself, the nausea still lingering. His hands, once gently cradling me, tighten around me now, pulling me closer as if he’s trying to keep me anchored in the moment.

He blinks, then laughs softly, the sound almost disbelieving. “Holy shit,” he breathes, a smile spreading across his face. “I’m gonna be a dad?”

I nod again, the words tumbling out like they’re finally free, but I can feel the tension lift from my shoulders, replaced by something new, something lighter.

Sawyer’s expression shifts from disbelief to joy. It’s like the moment the words left my mouth, everything clicked for him. His arms tighten around me, pulling me into a warm embrace as he presses a kiss to my temple, the action soft, tender. "I’m gonna be a dad," he repeats, voice thick with emotion.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, his hand coming up to gently cup my cheek, his thumb brushing over the skin there. “You just made me the happiest guy alive, you know that?”

I lean into his touch, feeling the sincerity in every word, every action. The chaos of the moment, the whirlwind of emotions, all start to settle in a way I didn’t expect. I’ve been carrying this secret, but now, in this moment, it feels like everything is going to be okay. Together.

Sawyer grins, his eyes sparkling with a joy that’s impossible to miss. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but we’ll figure it out. Together.” And just like that, the weight of everything shifts. It’s no longer a burden. It’s a promise.

Dain is already watching me when I step into the room, his eyes flicking over me with that overly cautious, ever-concerned expression that only he can pull off. It's like he has a sixth sense for when something is off. I can feel the weight of his gaze, like he's reading me before I even open my mouth. But this time, I can tell—he has no idea what's coming.

I shift on my feet, trying to steady my racing heart, and exhale sharply. The words feel stuck in my throat, but I can’t keep them in any longer. I have to say it, no matter how much it makes my palms sweat or my stomach churn.

“I’m pregnant,” I say, my voice a little shakier than I want it to be.

For a full five seconds, Dain doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. It’s like time has stopped, and I’m caught in this endless moment, waiting for him to process what I’ve just said. His face is completely blank, like his brain just short-circuited, like I’ve just dropped an impossible bomb on him and his system is still rebooting.

Then, panic. Pure, unfiltered panic. “You’re what?!” His voice jumps an octave, his eyes going wide as his hands fly up in the air, like he’s physically trying to keep reality from sinking in. “How—? I mean, I know how, but—this isn’t—what are we going to—?”

I can almost see the wheels turning in his head, like he’s trying to work out a hundred different scenarios all at once, his mind moving faster than he can process. He starts pacing, running a hand through his hair, muttering to himself like he’s already mentally drawing up battle plans for a war he didn’t see coming. “We need a plan. I need to—fuck, what if—what about Xaden? Does he know? And the squad? And—”

Before he can fully spiral, a sharp smack echoes through the room. Dain jerks forward slightly, his eyes snapping up in shock, and I can’t help but let out a breath of relief at the interruption.

Behind him stands Sloane, one hand on her hip, the other still raised from the smack she just delivered upside his head. She’s unimpressed, as always, her expression a mixture of disbelief and mild annoyance.

“Pull yourself together, Aetos,” she deadpans, like she’s heard enough. “She just told you she’s pregnant, not that the kingdom is burning down.”

Dain blinks rapidly, his hand coming up to rub the back of his head, his brow furrowing as he tries to process what just happened. “Did you just—?”

Sloane doesn’t even flinch. She just raises an eyebrow and gives him an almost bored look. “You were being dramatic.”

I can’t help the small chuckle that escapes my lips at the exchange. I’m still reeling from the words I just said, but Sloane’s dry humor is like a lifeline, and Dain’s still-freaked-out expression helps ground me.

Something shifts in Dain’s face then. The panic is still there, lingering, but it begins to break apart, bit by bit. He exhales sharply, like he's realizing just how deep into this he’s about to dive. His gaze flicks back to me, and this time, he really sees me—really sees me. The fear is still there, but it's quieter now, and there’s something else in his eyes. Something steadier. Something that tells me he’s starting to process it, even if he’s still not sure what the next step is.

Dain steps forward slowly, almost cautiously, like he’s afraid I might slip away from him if he moves too quickly. His hands reach for mine, his grip warm, a little shaky. For a moment, the world feels like it narrows to just him and me, the chaos of his thoughts receding into the background as he pulls me into his orbit.

“You’re pregnant,” he repeats softly, his voice a little raw. The words still feel strange in the air, like he's still getting used to them, but there’s something comforting in the way he says them. Like he's finally letting the weight of it sink in.

Then, to my complete surprise, a small, almost reverent smile tugs at his lips. The kind of smile I’ve never seen from him before. It’s not the typical confident, strategic grin he wears when he’s solving a problem or taking charge. No, this smile is softer, more awed, like he’s realizing something bigger than both of us.

“We’re going to be okay,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, but it’s filled with something more. A promise. A reassurance.

Just as I feel myself starting to breathe again, Sloane claps Dain on the shoulder with enough force to almost send him stumbling forward. She doesn’t even look back at us as she starts to walk away, her voice cutting through the moment with a sarcastic edge.

“About time,” she mutters under her breath, shaking her head.

Dain huffs out a quiet laugh, clearly unbothered by her comment. He squeezes my hands tighter, his grip grounding me as his other arm slides around my back, pulling me into a tight embrace.

“I’ll be better at this,” he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion, his breath warm against my ear. “I promise.”

I rest my head against his chest, feeling his heartbeat against mine, and for the first time in a long while, I believe him. Together, we’ll figure this out. One step at a time.

The meeting room is tense, filled with whispers and the clink of metal as people adjust in their seats. Violet is leaning forward, her usual soft smile replacing any hint of concern, while the others are deep in debate about who will go on the next mission. The stakes are high, and it’s clear that everyone wants to make sure they’re well-prepared. My heart is pounding in my chest, a tight knot forming as I feel the weight of what’s coming. The group is discussing the flying assignments, who’s going to be paired with Violet on her dangerous mission, and I can’t help but feel like something’s off. There’s a restlessness in me, a hesitation that I can’t shake.

Then, as expected, the moment comes. They call my name.

I stand, my legs feeling heavier than usual as I move toward the front of the room, my mind racing with a thousand thoughts. I haven't even had the chance to tell Aaric yet. Haven’t had the chance to figure out what to say, how to handle it, how to let him in on something that already feels like it might be too much for us to process together.

But then, just as the silence begins to settle in the room, his voice cuts through, clear and commanding.

“No.” Aaric’s tone is sharp, his presence suddenly filling the room with an authority that demands attention. All eyes snap toward him as he stands from his seat, his jaw tight, a flash of something determined in his eyes. “She’s not going.”

Everyone blinks in confusion, unsure of where this sudden interruption is coming from. I glance over at Violet, who raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. She’s known Aaric for years, but she’s never seen him this... intense, this protective.

“What do you mean, she’s not going?” Xaden’s voice is incredulous, his hands on her hips as he challenges him. “We need her there. She’s more than capable—”

Aaric cuts her off, his gaze never leaving me. “I’m not letting her go. Not when—” He pauses, his expression tightening, like he’s struggling to hold back the words. But then his gaze flickers over to me, and the moment shifts. He knows. His eyes soften, just for a second, and I realize that somehow, without me even saying a word, he’s already figured it out. He’s seen it.

Before anyone can react, Aaric strides toward me, his hand lightly resting on my shoulder, like he’s grounding himself as much as he’s grounding me. “You’re pregnant,” he announces, his voice thick with the weight of his knowledge. The room falls into stunned silence.

I freeze, every muscle in my body locking up as his words hit me like a physical blow. I hadn’t planned to tell anyone yet. I hadn’t even figured out how to tell him. And now, here he is, pulling me into the center of attention, revealing something so personal that I feel like my entire world is shifting beneath me.

There’s a brief moment of chaos, with murmurs spreading through the room, eyes flicking between us. Some of the squad members look concerned, others confused, and a few seem like they’ve been expecting this. But I can’t focus on them. I can’t focus on anything except the look in Aaric’s eyes.

“I…” I try to speak, but the words stick in my throat. I’m not angry at him, not exactly. But I feel exposed, raw. How did he know?

Aaric’s gaze softens as he watches me, but his tone is firm. “I saw it.” His voice drops, quieter now, only for me to hear. “My signet... It showed me. I can’t... I can’t let you put yourself in danger. Not now.”

The sincerity in his eyes is almost enough to break me. His instinct—his foresight—has always been a double-edged sword. It’s saved us more times than I can count, but now, it’s exposing a vulnerability neither of us were ready for. He’s not just thinking about the mission or the war. He’s thinking about me. About us.

Violet is staring at us, disbelief on her face, but Aaric isn’t looking at her. His attention is fully on me, and the way he holds my gaze makes me feel like I’m the only person in the room.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, his hand slipping from my shoulder to gently take my hand. “I know this isn’t easy. But I’m not letting you go out there. Not like this. Not with...” His voice falters for a moment, the weight of his own emotions pressing down on him. “We’re going to be a family.”

His words hit harder than I expected. He hasn’t even had time to process the gravity of what he’s saying, yet somehow, he’s already stepping up in ways I hadn’t anticipated. There’s no panic in his voice, no second-guessing. Just a quiet certainty that, in this moment, makes me feel like maybe everything will be okay.

I open my mouth to argue, to tell him that I’m capable, that I’ve handled worse, but something in his eyes stops me. The truth is, I’m scared. Scared of what this means, what it changes between us. But at the same time, there’s something about Aaric’s confidence, his protectiveness, that makes me feel like maybe—just maybe—he’s right.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice shaky. “I didn’t mean for you to find out this way.”

He squeezes my hand, his smile a little softer now, though still full of that unshakeable confidence. “You didn’t have to tell me. I knew.”

And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m carrying this burden alone.

The war room is quiet, save for the occasional crackle of candlelight and the rustling of parchment as Brennan pores over the map before him. His shoulders are taut, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. He hasn’t come to bed yet. Again.

I watch him from the doorway for a long moment, arms crossed, my heartbeat an insistent drum against my ribs. He’s been lost in his own mind for hours, drowning in battle plans and strategy, and if I don’t pull him out of it, I know he’ll stay here all night.

So, I move.

The air is thick with the scent of parchment and ink, the remnants of a half-finished cup of tea gone cold at his elbow. He doesn’t look up as I approach, not even when I step behind him and press my hands against his tense shoulders, kneading gently.

“Brennan.” My voice is soft, coaxing.

A quiet hum is the only response I get. He leans into my touch, just barely, but his eyes stay fixed on the map.

Stubborn man.

I exhale sharply before shifting, slipping into his lap with ease. That gets his attention. His hands move instinctively to my hips, steadying me, but his gaze flickers only briefly to my face before returning to the table, as if I’m just another part of the world he’s trying to control.

I huff in frustration, threading my fingers through his auburn hair, tugging gently. “You’re ignoring me.”

“I’m working,” he murmurs, voice distant, distracted.

“Brennan.” This time, there’s warning in my tone. When he still doesn’t look at me, I grab his face between my hands, forcing him to meet my gaze.

He startles, his breath catching, and for the first time tonight, I have his undivided attention.

“Look at me,” I whisper.

His lips part slightly, confusion flickering in the depths of his amber eyes, but he doesn’t pull away. My thumbs brush over the sharp lines of his jaw, tracing the tension there, the weight he carries like armour.

I exhale, slow and measured, before I finally speak the words that have been pressing against my ribs all night.

“I’m pregnant.”

Silence.

A long, breathless pause where the world seems to still, time stretching between us like something fragile. Brennan doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. His expression is utterly unreadable, carved from stone.

Then—his hands tighten at my waist, his fingers digging into the fabric of my shirt like he’s grounding himself, like he’s afraid to let go.

“What?” The word is barely a whisper, hoarse with something I can’t quite name.

I swallow, my throat suddenly tight. “I’m pregnant.”

His chest rises and falls sharply, the only sign that he’s actually processing what I just said. For a long, terrifying moment, he just stares at me—like I’m something impossible, something too precious to be real.

And then, the breath he’s been holding rushes out of him all at once. His hands move without thought, sliding up my sides, over my stomach, reverent and almost hesitant, as if he’s afraid he might break me.

“You’re serious?” His voice is raw, stripped of all its usual certainty.

I nod.

Something in him shatters.

He exhales a quiet, disbelieving laugh, but his eyes are bright, almost feverish with emotion. And then he’s kissing me—fierce, desperate, like he’s trying to press this moment into my skin so he’ll never forget it. His hands tangle in my hair, pull me closer, his breath warm and unsteady against my lips.

When he finally breaks away, his forehead rests against mine, his eyes searching mine for something unspoken. His fingers skim over my stomach again, slower this time, lingering.

“We’re going to have a child,” he murmurs, like he’s only just allowing himself to believe it.

I nod again, my own breath shaky.

Brennan closes his eyes for a moment, exhaling against my skin. And when he looks at me again, it’s different. The storm inside him has quieted, replaced by something deeper, something unshakable.

“I love you,” he whispers, voice rough with promise. “And I swear to you—I swear on everything—I will protect you both.”

Tears burn at the edges of my vision, but I blink them away, letting my fingers trace the strong lines of his face. “I know.”

And for the first time in hours, Brennan forgets about war.

For the first time in weeks, he lets himself hold something other than duty.

Me. Us. Our future.

And for now, that’s enough.

[snail-day]

You Can't Just Play God

SatoSugu x Reader Inspired by a comic on Webtoon: Never Ending Darling and that one anon asking about how things would go if you were dating Geto and Gojo entered the relationship instead.

TW: No Curse AU/Modern Au, Horror? Yandere Behaviors (Obsessive, Possessive, Manipulation, Etc.), SatoSugu, Dubcon, Implied Noncon, Murder, Disturbing deaths, Blood, Gun violence, Reader Dies Multiple Times, smut, spooky lab tech (not used for smut), academic theft. MDNI. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

WC: 7.5k

Enjoy! I'm going to touch grass now :)

The cycle repeats.

A new age, a new era—and you had a goddamn headache.

The chimes of your alarm dragged you out of sleep, their shrill notes cutting through the haze clouding your mind. A groan slipped through your lips as you sluggishly threw an arm over your face as the sun’s obnoxiously bright rays streamed through your curtains, making everything somehow worse. Judging by the pounding in your skull, you had to assume you were hungover. Not that you could confirm it—these days, your memories were more like fragmented snapshots, and last night was no exception.

Reaching for your side table, you fumbled to silence the grating K.K. Slider alarm jingle that seemed ten times louder than usual. The sudden quiet was a relief, but only for a moment. Your groan deepened as you noticed the sweet note left behind by your boyfriend—no, fiancé. That term still felt foreign, awkward on your tongue.

“For the love of my life, please stop with your antics, sweet girl.” —Sugu.

Beside the note sat a neatly placed hangover tonic and a couple of pills, his familiar thoughtfulness easing some of the tension in your chest. You popped the pills and chased them with the tonic, grateful for his foresight, though the nagging truth lingered: you didn’t remember going out last night. At all.

The sensation wasn’t new, but it never got less unsettling. A blank space where memories should be. A creeping sense of unease settled over you as you swung your legs over the edge of the bed. Your head throbbed with the effort, each beat of the headache a sharp reminder of how little control you seemed to have over your own life lately.

You padded downstairs in your pajamas, still half-asleep and half-questioning your existence. The familiar scent of breakfast wafted through the house, but it did little to clear the fog in your mind. Despite Suguru’s persistent efforts, you still lived at home with your parents. You’d insisted you weren’t ready to move in with him yet. He’d even offered to kick out his roommate and business partner—your college best friend, Gojo Satoru—to make space for you. You still said no.

“You’re so lucky to have a man like him, Y/N,” your mother chimed from the kitchen, her voice cutting through your haze. She stood by the stove, spatula in hand, her words laced with just enough mom judgment to make you wince. “He carried you home, helped you shower, and got you changed. You don’t find men like that anymore.”

You don't remember any of that however -

She wasn’t wrong. Somehow, you’d managed to score Geto Suguru, the golden boy of your university days and a literal campus heartthrob. Dreamy looks, a sharp mind, and a personality that could charm even the grumpiest professor. He was, by all accounts, perfect. A goddamn dreamboat. And all because you were friends—well, “friends”—with Gojo Satoru.

The term "friends" was generous. You’d been stuck with him for every group project and PhD research assignment imaginable, his sharp intellect rivaled only by his inability to take anything seriously. Yet, through some twist of fate, that irritating partnership had landed you Suguru.

And now, here you were: hungover, disoriented, and trying to piece together just how you’d gotten so lucky. Lucky wasn’t the right word—it was a miracle. A once-in-a-lifetime kind of miracle.

As you poured yourself a glass of water and leaned against the counter, you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to last night than just drinks and laughter. Maybe you should stop drinking.

Because while you had a doctorate, had been part of some of the most groundbreaking research in the medical field, and somehow scored a partner who now co-owned one of the biggest medical organizations in the country…

You still didn’t have a real job.

Sure, you worked at a café on weekends, but that didn’t exactly scream “career success.” The smell of burnt espresso and sugary syrups clung to your clothes, and your paycheck barely covered your expenses and crippling student debt.

Suguru had been practically begging you to come work with him. He’d pitched every possible reason, his voice honey-smooth and infuriatingly persuasive. “We’d make a great team,” he’d say, always with that easy smile. Or, “You’d finally get to put that brilliant mind to use,” followed by a soft kiss on your forehead. And, of course, the practical approach: “You could stop getting burned by scalding coffee every other Saturday.”

But your answer never wavered. It was always a firm no.

Why should you take advantage of your boyfriend’s—fiancé’s—accomplishments? It wasn’t his fault you felt like a freeloader in your own life. But working with him would only cement that feeling, wouldn’t it? And let’s be honest: there was no way you could survive the smug, self-satisfied smirks Gojo Satoru would throw your way every. Single. Day.

The thought alone made your headache throb harder.

Your mother’s voice cut through your spiraling thoughts—the kind of thoughts you really should’ve been saving for your therapist. “Did you hear me, Y/N? You’re lucky he even tolerates you living here at your age,” she quipped, half-joking, half-serious.

You sighed, forcing yourself back to the present as she set a plate of breakfast in front of you. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you wondered if Suguru’s offer would ever stop looming over you.

“Can you bring Suguru his bento? Oh, and I made one for Satoru, too! You don’t bring him around anymore. I miss that cute smile of his,” your mother hummed, nodding toward the perfectly packed bento boxes lined up on the counter.

Dragging a hand down your face. At least running this errand was better than being stuck at home, drowning in wedding prep, and trying on half a million dresses your mom insisted on. “It’s the least you could do,” she always said, as if you weren’t already suffocating under the weight of your own existential dread.

“Sure,” you muttered, knowing resistance was futile. Besides, it wasn’t like you had any real plans today.

After a quick shower and throwing on something that looked presentable enough for public, you grabbed the bento boxes and headed out. The warm sunlight and cool breeze were a temporary reprieve, a small comfort as you made your way to their office—their office.

 It was better than the alternative of staying at home and listening to your mother’s words about floral centerpieces and seating arrangements. Barely.

Their company was part of this “new era,” the one everyone couldn’t stop raving about—and you’d been a huge part of its foundation. Back in the day, you and Satoru had cracked the code to altering DNA, finding a way to cheat death. If you could afford the astronomical price tag, mortality was no longer your concern. People who were once riddled with cancer could now return home cancer-free, spared the agony of losing limbs or enduring endless rounds of chemo.

You’d only been part of solving the formula, though. The groundwork. Satoru had the funding, the connections, and the relentless drive to take it further. Once you stepped out of the picture, you hadn’t kept track of the system or its progress. You didn’t ask, and no one offered answers.

The alteration had been applied to most of the foundational jobs—political leaders, police officers, high-ranking officials. It was a standard requirement now, a guarantee of longevity and efficiency in roles deemed too crucial to risk mortality.

These days, people were willing to go into crippling debt to get the procedure done, their desperation outweighing the staggering price. After all, what was a lifetime of debt if you couldn’t die? No risk of death meant no fear of defaulting, and for many, that trade-off was worth it.

The procedure had shifted society’s balance, turning death into a choice rather than an inevitability—but at a cost few truly understood.

The business was beginning to have a cult following after being backed by the world's leaders.

And yet, not everyone shared the world’s admiration for the scientific marvel housed within that towering, double-helix-shaped skyscraper in the heart of Tokyo. Protestors were a constant presence outside the building, their chants about ethics blending with the dramatic videos they displayed of humanity spiraling into chaos. You’d seen their demonstrations so many times it had faded into background noise.

Still, as you approached the sleek, futuristic entrance, a pang of guilt crept in. What had once been your passion now felt like a story you’d abandoned—a story that no longer felt like yours.

Maybe there was a hint of resentment buried beneath the guilt. Maybe, deep down, you wished you’d taken Satoru’s offer back then, even if you knew it wouldn’t have made things easier. But that was a door you’d slammed shut long ago, and no amount of hindsight could undo it.

Shaking your head to clear the thought, you stepped through the automatic doors. The familiar hum of the lobby enveloped you, the pristine white interior and futuristic decor unchanged since the last time you’d been here. Security nodded as you passed, their recognition swift and unquestioning.

The private elevator awaited a sleek capsule of steel and glass that carried you straight to the top floor. The ascent was smooth and silent, yet the weight in your chest grew heavier with every passing second.

There, you were greeted by Suguru’s stunning, sharp-eyed assistant. Even after countless encounters, Manami gave you that same unreadable look—like she was quietly sizing you up, or maybe judging you in some understated, professional way. It wasn’t outright rude, but it was just enough to make your skin crawl.

The treacherous thought crept into your mind, uninvited: Maybe he should be dating her instead. No—marrying her. She fit into his world so effortlessly. Polished, composed, and clearly brilliant, Manami seemed like the perfect match for someone as successful and poised as Suguru. Meanwhile, you still felt like a guest who’d overstayed their welcome, fumbling to keep up in a world that wasn’t yours.

It was a ridiculous thought, and you knew it. Late-night Reddit doom-scrolling had reassured you that insecurities like this were perfectly normal, even if they were soul-crushingly embarrassing. Deep down, you understood that your so-called “little life” wasn’t the problem. The problem was you—stuck in your own head, drowning in doubts that never seemed to let up.

But no matter how loud the voice in your head got, one thing you couldn’t ignore: Suguru would never leave you. You were sure of that. If anything, he clung to you like his life depended on it—unfortunately. And for reasons you couldn’t quite put into words, that unwavering devotion only made it harder to believe you deserved him.

You shifted awkwardly in the too-fancy armchair across from Manami’s desk, clutching the bag of bentos like it might save you from drowning. “Nice weather we’re having,” you mumbled, trying to fill the heavy silence with small talk.

Manami barely glanced up, her manicured fingers pausing just long enough to adjust the nameplate on her desk before resuming their rhythmic clatter against her keyboard.

“Hm,” she hummed, a noncommittal response that somehow managed to sound both polite and dismissive at the same time.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing yourself to look anywhere but at her. The room, much like the rest of the building, was sleek and pristine, designed to impress. But the air felt heavy, the quiet tension between you and Manami a constant reminder that this wasn’t your world. It was theirs.

And you weren’t sure you’d ever truly belong.

You sighed, muttering a quiet “Alright,” under your breath, and returned to fidgeting with the straps of the bag. Your eyes wandered down to the weight on your left hand—the engagement ring.

It was stunning. Too stunning. The kind of ring that screamed wealth and class, the kind that seemed like it should belong to someone like her. Another insecure thought, you supposed, but brushing it off was easier said than done. The gnawing doubt settled deep in the pit of your stomach, refusing to budge. Perhaps another conversation to save for your therapist. 

The soft click of a door unlocking snapped you out of your spiral. You looked up to see Suguru stepping out, his familiar, easy smile lighting up his face as his dark eyes landed on you. The way his gaze swept over you still sent butterflies fluttering through your stomach. Even after all this time, he still had that effect on you.

“There’s my sweet girl,” he murmured warmly, his voice low and soothing as he extended a hand toward you.

You stepped forward, slipping your hand into his. His grip was firm yet tender, grounding in a way that made your chest tighten. He gave your hand a small squeeze before adding, “You could’ve waited with Satoru, you know. He misses you.”

The mention of Satoru made your skin crawl. Missed you? That was one way of putting it. You were marrying Suguru, yet Satoru still didn’t seem to grasp the concept of personal space. No matter how often you tried to address it, he always found a way to push the boundaries.

The casual hand lingering too long on your thigh. The hugs that felt tighter and lasted longer than they should. The kisses to your cheek that came far too often to be innocent.

You’d brought it up to Suguru so many times, and his response was always the same, a calm dismissal wrapped in a reassuring smile: “He’s harmless.”

But it didn’t feel harmless to you. Not even close.

Once inside Suguru’s office, you set the bag of bentos down on his desk, taking a step back to collect yourself. Before you could settle, he was already there. The door clicked shut behind him, his long, purposeful strides closing the space between you in seconds.

You barely had time to react before his lips crashed into yours, his hands gripping your waist as he pulled you into his arms. The force of the kiss left you breathless, his presence overwhelming as his fingers pressed against the fabric of your shirt.

“Missed you,” he murmured against your lips, his tone softer now, the affection in his voice sending a familiar heat blooming in your chest.

For a moment, you let yourself sink into him, into the comfort of his touch. He always felt safe. A fuel for comfort perhaps. 

“You were such a mess last night,” he murmured against your lips, trailing kisses down to your neck as he pushed you to sit on the edge of his desk. His hands guided your legs around his waist, holding you close as he continued his slow assault of affection. You swallowed hard against the tightness in your throat.

“You’re lucky your friend called me,” he added softly, his words brushing against your skin like a tease.

Closing your eyes, you tilted your head back as his lips moved down the column of your neck. You’d learned not to push him away when he got like this—it always left you feeling guilty afterward.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, the words barely audible.

Suguru’s fingers worked at the buttons of your blouse, his hands warm and conscious as he hiked up your skirt. You shivered under his touch, the chill of the room clashing with the heat of his hands.

“Can we not do this with your assistant in the other room?” you managed to ask meekly, your voice wavering as his fingertips trailed over your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“I’m having a rough day, my love,” he murmured against your throat, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I didn’t get much sleep after taking care of you last night. I need a little motivation to get through the rest of my day.”

Before you could respond, he gently eased you to lay back on his desk. It was then you realized it had been cleared—papers, files, and everything else neatly tucked away. Had he planned for this?

His lips continued their path down your body, leaving soft kisses and the occasional nip as he went. When he reached the space between your legs, he spread them carefully with his hands, his gaze lingering on you as if savoring every moment.

His tongue pressed against your clothed slit, sending a jolt of heat through your core.

“You’re not wearing the ones I bought you,” he noted, his voice low and teasing.

He was right. Instead of the delicate, expensive pieces he favored—like that itchy white G-string with the little gold charm bearing his initials “G.S”—you’d gone for the practical, cost-effective option: simple cotton underwear from a multipack.

“Wanted to be—” Your breath hitched as his fingers brushed against you, light and teasing, pulling the words from your throat before you could even finish.

“Wanted to be what?” he repeated, his voice dripping with honeyed amusement. His tone was playful, but there was an edge to it—a quiet demand. “Weren’t you taught to finish your sentences?”

The vibrations of his words sent another wave of shivers through you, and your body betrayed you, squirming under his touch. He hummed in approval, the sound low and indulgent as his hand trailed up your inner thigh, his fingers left your skin tingling in their wake.

With practiced ease, he pulled your panties to the side, his lips trailing soft, feather-light kisses along your skin. Then, without hesitation, he leaned in and began to devour you, his tongue hot and insistent, moving with volitional precision that made your back arch against the cool surface of his desk.

It was overwhelming—the way his long tongue slid inside you, the way his thumb circled your most sensitive spot with just the right amount of pressure. He moved as though he had all the time in the world, savoring every moment.

You couldn’t help the soft, pathetic moans that escaped your lips, your hands gripping the edge of the desk for some semblance of stability. Suguru had always been like this—relentless, thorough, and determined to reach every spot that made you unravel.

It wasn’t just physical. He had you memorized. Every shiver, every gasp, every sound you made only spurred him on, his movements calculated to draw out your pleasure until your mind was spinning.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured between kisses, his breath warm against your skin. “Every inch of you.”

His words made your chest tighten, a mix of emotions bubbling to the surface. Love, longing, and something you couldn’t quite name. You wanted to believe his devotion was just that—devotion. But there was a weight to his words, an intensity that sometimes felt... suffocating.

He didn’t stop until your body trembled beneath him, your breaths coming in short, uneven gasps. Suguru lifted his head, his lips glistening as he looked at you with a satisfied smirk. “See?” he whispered, his voice impossibly soft. “I know exactly what you need.”

And you believed him. How could you not, when he made you feel like this? Like you were the center of his world, the only thing that mattered.

“You’re so good for me,” he murmured, his voice low and velvety as he brushed a stray strand of hair from your face. “So, so good.”

In your haze, still trembling from your last orgasm, you felt the blunt, heated tip of his cock pressing against your entrance. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist again, his hands gripping the soft flesh of your thighs. 

“Gotta ease up for me, sweet girl,” he groaned, his voice thick with restraint as he pushed forward, sinking into you inch by girthy inch. The stretch made your breath hitch, your body fluttering around him, still sensitive and raw.

“It’s not gonna feel good if you don’t relax,” he cooed, though his tone carried a sense of control, a reminder that he wasn’t stopping until he had all of you. Whether it hurt or not.

You did your best to loosen the tension in your body, focusing on the soft kisses he pressed against your lips, your cheeks, and the corner of your jaw. They were meant to soothe, but the way he moved—rolling his hips upward, grinding deep—made it impossible to fully relax.

His cock filled you completely, brushing against every spot that left your mind spiraling. The slow, deliberate way he moved, the way he stretched you open, had your hands scrambling for purchase on his desk. Your nails clawed at the wood, and you wouldn’t be surprised if they left permanent marks. Something you were sure he wouldn’t mind. 

“That’s it,” Suguru whispered, his lips brushing against your ear. “Taking me so well, sweet girl. Like you were made for this.”

Every thrust was deliberate, deep, and measured, as though he wanted to etch the feeling of him into every fiber of your being. He lifted his head to watch your face, his dark eyes locked on yours, taking in every gasp, every quiver, every plea that spilled from your lips.

“That’s my girl,” he praised, his voice dripping with affection as he cupped your cheek with one hand, the other still gripping your thigh, firm yet gentle as if he was afraid to leave a mark on you despite the harshness of his thrusts. “You’re perfect. So perfect for me.”

Your mind was overwhelmed, the sensations blurring together as his movements became more insistent, relentless in their devotion to unraveling you. Yet, through the haze of pleasure, a small, unwelcome thought surfaced, bubbling up in the back of your mind.

When was the last time you took your pill?

The question lingered, sharp and intrusive, cutting through the heat pooling in your core. You’d been forgetting so much lately—little things, big things, all slipping through your fingers like grains of sand. But it had to be fine. It must be a safe day. Right?

“I love you,” he murmured, his voice steady and low as his hips pressed flush against yours, burying himself to the hilt. “Don’t ever forget that.”

As the words sank in, a faint voice in the back of your mind tried to warn you, tried to remind you of the way Suguru sometimes felt too much. But it was drowned out by the overwhelming mix of his touch, his words, and the way he seemed to pour his entire being into you.

You couldn’t say it back. Whether it was the overwhelming heat, the way you could only let out these broken little whines and moans as your body trembled beneath him, or the way his hot, sticky release spilled deep inside you, filling you up until you couldn’t think straight—you just couldn’t utter those three little words. Some little voice in the back of your mind urged you not to. 

After a moment’s rest, with him carefully cleaning you up, you noticed the delicate way he helped you into some fancy lingerie—pieces he apparently had stored just for moments like this. The charm with “G.S” engraved on it caught the sunlight, glinting mischievously as he slid the panties up your legs.

“Shall we eat with Satoru?” he asked, his tone casual, as if he hadn’t just fucked you within an inch of your life. You could only nod mindlessly, clinging to his arm while he reached for the bag.

You didn’t miss the way Satoru hugged you when you walked into his office, Suguru trailing behind. The way his arms lingered around you just a little too long, his lips brushing your cheek in what felt like more than a friendly kiss. Suguru didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he just didn’t care. It was Satoru, after all. His best friend. His business partner. The two were inseparable.

You also didn’t miss the way Satoru draped an arm over your shoulders while the three of you ate. Suguru and Satoru were caught up in their conversation, filling each other in on meetings and plans, while you picked at your food in silence. Your mind was elsewhere, lost in the strange mix of sensations you couldn’t shake. The cum soaking into the new underwear, the lingering fog in your head, the circles Satoru traced on your arm as he kept you close. Your gaze flickered to the photo on his desk—a snapshot of the three of you. Perfect smiles. Perfect lies.

“Did you hear me, sugar?” Satoru’s voice cut through the haze, his tone teasing. “I was asking how the job search was going. You know, we could always work together again—for old times’ sake.”

You shook your head, forcing a meek smile. “I haven’t heard anything back yet. And the answer’s still no. I’m not into... medical research anymore.”

That was a lie. You were more than capable, but you didn’t want to work with them. You didn’t want to stay stuck in their shadow, even though you’d helped lay the foundation they thrived on.

Satoru chuckled, leaning back in his chair with that infuriatingly confident grin. The way his bright blue eyes glimmered with a glint of mischief. “Still so stubborn. You know, you were the brains behind half of what we’ve built. You’d fit right back in.”

Suguru’s voice cut in smoothly as if to diffuse any tension. “Let her breathe, Satoru. Not everyone is as obsessed with work as you are.” Suguru’s dark eyes settled on you for a brief moment, there was warmth to them, unreadable as always. 

You glanced between them, their banter as familiar as it was unsettling. They made it look so effortless, this balance of power and charm. But you knew better. You felt it in the way Satoru’s fingers tightened ever so slightly on your arm, in the fleeting glance Suguru shot your way when he thought you weren’t looking.

The rest of the meal passed in a haze, their conversation blending into the background. You couldn’t shake the unease curling in your stomach. It wasn’t just the situation—it was them. The way they moved around you like you were something precious and fragile, seamlessly passing control back and forth, a trophy they both claimed but never outright acknowledged.

When the meal ended, Satoru stood, stretching lazily before offering you his hand. “Why don’t you come with me for a bit? I’ve got something to show you.”

You hesitated, your gaze flicking to Suguru, who had already risen and was watching you closely. “It’s okay,” he murmured, his tone unreadable. “I’ll clean up here.”

Caught between the two of them, you nodded and took Satoru’s hand. His grip was firm, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a way that sent an involuntary made your skin crawl. He led you out of the office and down a hallway you knew all too well. His space. His domain. His lab. 

The door clicked shut behind you, and Satoru turned, his impossibly blue eyes locking onto yours, as sharp as ever. “You’ve been distant,” he said softly, his words gentle but edged with something sharper. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

Your gaze drifted over the room, landing on the metal tables scattered with sleek technology. Computer screens hummed with life, displaying endless rows of code, their glow casting faint shadows across the walls. This used to be your life—back in college, when the hum of processors and the thrill of breakthroughs consumed you. Now, it all felt foreign, like a distant memory you weren’t sure you wanted to revisit.

“I’d appreciate it if you kept a distance,” you said, your voice trembling just enough to betray your nerves. “I’m marrying Suguru, you know.”

The words hung in the air, a barrier you hoped he wouldn’t cross. But Satoru, being Satoru, ignored it entirely. You felt his warmth behind you before you even realized he’d moved, his tall frame enveloping yours in an embrace that felt far too intimate. His hands rested lightly on your stomach, his touch burning through the fabric of your clothes. You stiffened as his breath fanned against your neck, raising goosebumps along your skin.

“Sharing is caring,” he hummed, his voice low and teasing, sending a shiver down your spine. “Suguru doesn’t mind. In fact…” His fingers tightened slightly, grounding you in place. “He likes it when we get along.”

Before you could respond, you felt the wet warmth of his tongue trace along your jaw. The sensation jolted through you, a yelp escaping your lips before you could stop it. Satoru’s laugh followed, soft and boyish, a stark contrast to the tension suffocating the room.

“You’re adorable when you’re flustered,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. “But you don’t need to fight it. We both know you don’t really want me to stop.”

His words left you frozen, the weight of his overwhelming presence pressing down on you, suffocating yet intoxicating. Do you want him to stop? 

A fleeting memory surfaced as you stood there, frozen in Satoru’s embrace. It was from the early days of your relationship with Suguru when you’d first brought up Satoru’s antics. You’d been hesitant, unsure how to address the way his lingering touches or overly familiar words made you feel. Suguru had only smiled, his voice calm and reassuring as always.

Suguru’s calm voice had soothed you then, his words steady and reassuring. “He’s harmless,” he’d said, the faintest smile tugging at his lips as if amused by your concern. “He knows, at the end of the day, you’re mine. Plus, the guy is ridiculously lonely. You’re his friend. He’s just comfortable around you.”

The words had settled over you like a balm back then, quelling your unease. Suguru’s confidence, his sense of control, had made it easy to brush off the way Satoru’s presence lingered in your life—always just a little closer than necessary.

But now, as Satoru’s lips brushed against your ear, as his arms anchored you in place, that memory felt distant. Suguru’s reassurance no longer felt like a safety net; it felt like permission. Permission for Satoru to blur the lines, to push boundaries that had never been as firm as you thought.

“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” Satoru’s voice pulled you back to the present, his tone soft but knowing. His hands tightened slightly around your waist, a subtle reminder of his control of the situation. “It’s sweet, really. You always look so soft when you’re thinking about Suguru.”

You tried to pull away, but he only held you closer, his chuckle vibrating against your back. “Relax, sweetheart. I’m just keeping you warm. You’re the one who’s overthinking.”

Your heart pounded as you struggled to steady your breath. “This isn’t right, Satoru,” you managed, though your voice sounded weaker than you intended. “Suguru—”

“Suguru trusts me,” he interrupted, his voice smooth, almost teasing. “And you, too. That’s what makes this work, doesn’t it?” He shifted slightly, his lips grazing the shell of your ear as he whispered, “He said it himself—you’re mine, too.”

You wanted to believe it was just another one of Satoru’s games, another way for him to twist the truth to suit his desires. But the memory of Suguru’s calm, reassuring voice lingered as if Suguru had already told you—subtly, indirectly—that Satoru had his permission.

though as of late it seemed like memories all seemed to blur together.

Your instincts screamed at you to leave. To get out of this room. To get away from him. From the person who used to be your friend, your lab partner. The one who would sit with you for hours in the library, pretending to study while sneaking glances at your coffee-stained notes. The guy who’d playfully nudged you into Suguru’s arms, making it all seem so easy. Was this all some kind of cruel fate?

“I have to pee,” you blurted out, the excuse too loud, too sudden, and too weak to be convincing.

Satoru didn’t seem to care. He eased back slightly, leaning casually against his desk, his ever-present smirk still in place. “Need me to walk you there?” he asked, his voice light, teasing—but his eyes betrayed him. That hungry look in his gaze lingered, stripping away any illusion of innocence.

“I’ll manage,” you replied, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to sound calm.

You didn’t miss the look in his eyes—hungry, possessive. Like he didn’t care that Suguru had touched you first. The thought of Suguru’s “seconds” didn’t bother him at all. As if plunging his cock into the leftovers of Suguru's cum would be a delicacy. If anything, it seemed to excite him, and the realization made bile rise up to the back of your throat. Burning. Searing. 

“Alright,” he said with a lovesick grin that might’ve been charming to anyone else. “I’ll have Suguru meet us here.”

For most girls, a man like Satoru was a dream—handsome, confident, untouchable. And he knew it. So did Suguru. Yet they both clung to you, always hovering just a little too close.

Satoru and Suguru had always clung to you, hadn’t they? From the beginning, you’d been their constant. Their focus. You wondered why that was—why they always had, and why they always would.

As soon as the lab door clicked shut behind you, the words hung heavy in your mind, echoing like a haunting refrain. It’s not assault if he didn’t do anything, right? That’s what you told yourself, over and over, as your breaths came in sharp, uneven bursts. You sprinted down the endless hallways, your heels clicking against the tile, your heart pounding in your chest. But no matter how fast you ran, the knot in your stomach refused to loosen, and nausea churned with every step.

You clutched at the memory of your friendship with Satoru, desperate for solace. He wasn’t always like this. He was your study partner, your confidant, the one who nudged you toward Suguru when you doubted yourself. But now? The person you once trusted felt like a stranger—no, worse, a threat.

Your head pounded, and the memories came.

At first, they were warm, and tender. Satoru laughed as he leaned over your desk, swiping your notes and teasing you about your messy handwriting before planting a kiss on your lips. Suguru sitting beside you on some date, drinking hot cocoa together while watching the rain. The three of you tangled together on a couch, their arms around you, holding you close as you drifted off to sleep in their warmth.

Suguru brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, his eyes soft as he whispered, “You’re everything to me.” Satoru, his grin wide and mischievous, spinning you in circles during a rainstorm, both of you drenched and laughing.

The sweetness eventually curdled.

Satoru’s hand tightening around your throat, his blue eyes blazing with something unreadable. “You don’t get to leave me,” he murmured, his tone eerily calm as you clawed at his arms. Suguru holding a syringe, his voice soothing even as your body betrayed you, muscles seizing as the world faded to black.

You shook your head, gasping for air, but the images continued to assault you.

These memories can't belong to you.

Satoru pressing kisses to your temple as he whispered, “I’ll always protect you, sugar bear,” the warmth of his embrace lulling you into safety. Suguru kneeling in front of you, a ring in hand, his voice trembling as he said, “I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember.”

The images were overwhelming, suffocating even, like a weight pressing down on your chest, stealing the air from your lungs. Your breaths came in ragged gasps as you sprinted down the endless halls, your heels clicking against the cold tile.

Occasionally, your legs faltered, forcing you to clutch at the nearest wall for support. Every step felt heavier, every breath harder to draw, as the haunting echoes of laughter and whispered promises mixed with screams and soft, deadly apologies. They chased you, just as real as the walls closing in around you.

Suguru standing over you, a gun in his hand, his dark eyes filled with something that looked almost like regret. “You always fight me on this” he whispered, and the shot rang out. Satoru’s voice, lilting and light, as he said, “Let’s see if you fly,” before pushing you off the rooftop, the sensation weightless and brief until impact.

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head as if you could banish the images. This isn’t real. This can’t be real.

You stumbled into a random room, your fingers trembling as you punched in the passcode—your birthday, of course. The door clicked open with a mechanical hiss, and you collapsed inside, your knees hitting the cold, tiled floor. The sterile air burned your nose, the faint scent of chemicals making the knot in your stomach twist tighter.

The dim blue light cast eerie shadows across the walls, the occasional beep of nearby machines the only sound besides your ragged breathing. You squeezed your eyes shut, tears streaking down your face as you tried to push the memories away.

Were they real?

Could they be real?

The warmth of their love clashed with the cold edge of their possessiveness, leaving you adrift in a sea of conflicting emotions.

You wiped your eyes with trembling hands, blinking through the haze of tears. The room around you came into focus, and your breath hitched. Large test tubes lined the walls, filled with glowing blue and green liquids, their contents swirling lazily as if alive. The machines beeped rhythmically, lights flashing in a pattern you couldn’t decipher.

But the images were relentless. Suguru’s hands pinning you down, Satoru taking free use of your body, the weight of their combined presence crushing you until you could barely breathe.

Each memory was like some cruel nightmare, swinging wildly between moments too sweet to bear and others excruciatingly painful. The contrast made it all the worse, the warmth of one memory twisting into agony in the next, leaving you gasping for air as you stumbled forward. Broken sobs escaped your throat as you crumpled to the floor, grasping at the cold tiles, desperate for something—anything—real.

You wiped your eyes with trembling hands, blinking through the haze of tears. The room around you slowly came into focus, and your breath hitched. Large test tubes lined the walls, their glowing blue and green contents swirling lazily, almost hypnotically, as if alive. Machines beeped rhythmically in the background, their lights flashing in a pattern you couldn’t decipher.

You stared at the tubes, your mind racing. This wasn’t a random lab. It couldn’t be. The passcode, the eerie familiarity of the room—it all felt deliberate, intentional. Like you were meant to find this.

Your headache worsened, the pounding in your skull syncing eerily with the beeping machines. You pressed your palms to your temples, desperately trying to shut out the relentless wave of memories—real or imagined—that threatened to consume you.

But as you knelt there, shaking and breathless, one question clawed its way to the forefront of your mind, sharp and insistent, refusing to be silenced.

Why had they always clung to you?

And why did it feel like the answer was hidden somewhere in this room?

You had to be going crazy. That was the only explanation.

Shakily, you pushed yourself to your feet, the sterile air thick and heavy in your lungs. Sniffling, your fingers trailed along the cold, metallic surface of the tables as you moved closer to the strange test tubes. The faint hum of machinery filled the silence, the swirling contents inside the tubes illuminated by the dim, eerie glow of blue light.

Your breath hitched as you leaned in, squinting through the glass.

They weren’t just shapes or fragments. They weren’t abstractions of human life.

They were human.

They were you.

The realization hit like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from your lungs as you stumbled back. Your gaze darted to the screen beside the tubes, its sterile, blinking message driving the truth deeper into your chest.

"Processing."

The word repeated in steady intervals, cold and mechanical, mocking you with its efficiency.

This wasn’t a lab for curing diseases or advancing medicine. This wasn’t about saving lives.

They were cloning people.

They were cloning you.

Your knees threatened to give out again, but you gripped the edge of the table, your mind spinning wildly. Fragments of memories, half-formed and blurry, clawed their way to the surface, demanding to be seen. This had been your research once. Cloning. You’d cracked the formula—found the key.

You remembered the argument with Satoru, his icy blue eyes flashing with a rare seriousness. You’d told him it was unethical. That it wasn’t righteous. That you can’t just play god. You told him you couldn’t live with what you’d discovered. That’s why you stopped. That’s why you stopped talking to him. That’s why you left research behind.

But what happened after that?

How had they gotten here—this point, with a cult-like following and resources beyond comprehension? And more importantly—where had you been?

The questions tore at you, each one heavier than the last. Pieces of your memory felt missing, like someone had reached into your mind and carved out chunks, leaving you with only jagged fragments.

Had they done this to you?

Had he done this to you?

And then, the darkest question of all clawed its way to the surface:

How many times have they done this to you?

Your gaze snapped back to the endless row of tubes, bile rising in your throat as the enormity of it hit you. Backed-up versions of you floated in a dreamless stasis, stripped of identity, reduced to nothing but a tool for their ambitions.

The room spun, the walls closing in, as the truth pressed down on you—suffocating, undeniable.

You weren’t just a researcher who’d stumbled too close to the edge.

You were the edge.

And somehow, they’d dragged you right back into it.

The realization shattered whatever fragile control you had left. Sobs erupted from your throat, raw and unrelenting, as the pounding headache in your skull grew louder, sharper, threatening to split you in two. The sterile hum of the lab faded beneath the weight of your anguish, until—

Crack.

The sharp, deafening sound of a gunshot shattered everything.

You didn’t even have time to react.

The world went dark.

“Guess we’ll have to start all over again tomorrow,” Suguru’s voice hummed, smooth and almost tender, as though he were speaking to a wayward child. “Satoru will be disappointed, but it looks like this version of you wasn’t going as well anyway.”

His footsteps echoed in the eerie stillness, unhurried and deliberate, as he approached the bloodied mess you’d become.

He crouched down beside you, his dark eyes gleaming with an unsettling mix of pity and resolve. The gun fell from his hand with a hollow clatter, the sound reverberating through the cold room like an accusation.

“You should really stop with all your antics, sweet girl,” he murmured, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face with a tenderness that felt almost cruel. “It’s really heartbreaking to do this every time your brilliant mind starts to turn.”

Suguru’s hand lingered, disturbingly gentle as he smoothed your hair back, his touch so intimate it made your skin crawl—if you’d still had the strength to feel anything.

“You always fight so hard,” he said softly, almost like a lament. His gaze drifted over your still form, dark and unreadable. “But you know how this ends. You always know.”

He straightened slowly, letting his words settle in the suffocating silence.

“And yet, you never stop trying.”

Straightening, Suguru cast a glance at the tubes glowing faintly in the dim light behind him. His lips curled into a faint, almost tender smile, one that never quite reached his dark eyes. “Don’t worry,” he murmured softly, his tone as much for himself as it was for you. “We’ll put you back together again. Just like always.”

He knelt down, unhurried, his movements precise. His fingers brushed against your skin as he carefully slid the ring from your finger, the gesture deliberate, almost reverent. For a moment, he stared at the ring in his palm, his thumb tracing the smooth band. Something flickered in his gaze—regret, perhaps, or something far more calculated. He tucked the ring into his pocket with a quiet sigh.

A quick call to the “clean-up” crew followed. His voice was calm, clinical, as if he were ordering mundane office supplies rather than orchestrating the erasure of a life. The conversation ended with a sharp click, his phone slipping back into his jacket pocket.

Suguru cast another glance at the bloodied mess on the floor, his lips tugging into a sad, almost bittersweet smile.

“I love you,” he whispered, his tone heartbreakingly sincere, as though the words could absolve the horror of what had just transpired. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He turned, his fingers playing with the ring in his pocket, twirling it absentmindedly as if it were a trinket rather than a symbol of promises now rendered hollow. The door hissed shut behind him, the sterile room sealing itself in silence.

The hum of the machines was the only sound that remained, indifferent to the gruesome tableau they overlooked.

[jungkoode]

WE GREW UP SOMEWHERE ALONG THE WAY | 02

˗ˏˋcorporate hellscape & theoretical arrangements ˎˊ˗

"Despite every rational thought screaming at you to shut this down, you hear yourself agreeing to the most ridiculous professional arrangement in the history of professional arrangements."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 7.5k

content: corporate hellscape survival, Dave Davidson (yes that's his real name), theoretical modeling arrangements that feel less theoretical by the minute, meeting Momo the sugar glider, apartment tours, domestic intimacy disguised as friendship, emotional whiplash, and Y/N making questionable life decisions while simultaneously insisting they're purely professional.

Kiki Nation's discussion thread for this chapter.

✧ author's note ✧

Okay so first of all *turns microphone on, taps twice, clears throat aggressively* 🚨 WE HAVE AN OUTLINE FOR WGU, PEOPLE. I REPEAT. WE HAVE AN OUTLINE. 🚨

Which means this fic is now officially going to be 30 chapters long and highly likely somewhere between 200-250k+ words, so buckle your seatbelt, tighten your shoelaces, and kiss your emotionally stability goodbye. We're going full send.

This is wild because… I never outline. I’m not built like that. I am a write-by-the-vibes, stream-of-consciousness, playlist-induced fugue state kind of girl. I daydream entire scenes while brushing my teeth and then rearrange them mentally like a madman pinning red thread to a corkboard. The closest I’ve come to a “structure” before this is just knowing what general direction I want things to go—like I might know, “at some point they’ll kiss in the rain,” but no clue if that’s Chapter 5 or Chapter 17 or a hallucination I made up in REM sleep.

But now? Now I know what happens in every chapter. Not just plot beats, but character turns, internal shifts, thematic echoes. And y’all… it’s life-changing. It lets me plant narrative seeds that will grow into devastatingly beautiful emotional collapses later. Like, suddenly I feel like an actual architect instead of a raccoon with a pen. Still feral. But, you know. Feral with a floorplan.

And because I'm me, this story is now also structured into four volumes, because it needed to be arch-y like that. Big arc energy. Arcs that make you cry in the club. I genuinely think this might become my most emotionally textured fic—because I'm working with intent instead of just instinct. Both are good. But together? They go feral. Together they write this fic.

I love it so much. I love them so much.

NOW. About this chapter.

I absolutely love their interactions in here. The way Y/N is simultaneously trying to maintain professional distance while also being completely unable to resist Hoseok's chaos is so her. She's all "this is purely professional" while literally agreeing to the most unprofessional arrangement imaginable. And Hoseok! God, Hoseok in this chapter made my heart ache. The way he talks about his work—trying so hard to convince himself and everyone else that it has artistic merit while clearly struggling with what he's had to compromise to survive. There's this beautiful tension between his genuine artistic passion and the reality of what pays his bills. When he talks about wanting to draw "realistic" expressions and movements, you can see how much he actually cares about his craft, even when it's wrapped up in work he's ambivalent about.

The corporate office scenes were painful to write because they're so real. Dave Davidson (and yes, his parents really were that creative) represents everything soul-crushing about modern work culture. Y/N's first day is this perfect encapsulation of how foreign everything feels when you're trying to build a new life—not just the language barriers but the social dynamics, the unspoken rules, the way exhaustion seeps into everything when you're constantly translating your existence for other people.

But then we get to the izakaya scene and everything shifts. The alcohol loosens Y/N's defenses just enough for her to make this completely insane offer that sounds professional on the surface but is loaded with so much subtext. She tells herself it's just helping a friend with a work problem, but we all know there's so much more brewing underneath. The way she rationalizes it—"it's just work, it's professional, it's no different from life drawing class"—while simultaneously knowing she's crossing a line she can't uncross.

And Momo! Sweet little Momo who immediately sees through Y/N's bullshit and gives her the cold shoulder. There's something so perfect about Hoseok having this tiny, discerning creature who's protective of him. It adds this domestic layer to his character that makes him feel so much more real and vulnerable. Plus the way Y/N gets personally offended by being rejected by a sugar glider is peak Y/N behavior.

Next chapter we get to see this "professional arrangement" in action, and let me tell you, the tension is about to become unbearable. Y/N thinks she can maintain clinical distance while posing for intimate scenes. Hoseok thinks he can separate his artistic process from his growing feelings. They're both about to learn how wrong they are.

Thanks for reading, and prepare your emotions because we're just getting started.

⋆｡°✩ read on ✩°｡⋆

wattpad

ao3

Your alarm goes off at 6:30 AM sharp, dragging you from dreams about okonomiyaki and stupid orange beanies.

The corporate world of Osaka doesn't give a shit about your jet lag, your existential crisis, or the fact that you spent half the night staring at the ceiling wondering why Jung Hoseok draws porn for a living.

You stumble through your morning routine in the cramped bathroom, squinting at yourself in the mirror that's too small and positioned at the wrong height. Your reflection looks like it's been through a blender—hair doing its own thing, eyes puffy from restless sleep, and that general air of 'please don't perceive me' that seems to be your default setting these days.

The shower barely produces lukewarm water, and you're starting to understand why rent was so cheap. Everything in this apartment operates on the principle of 'technically functional but aggressively mediocre.'

You throw on your most professional-looking outfit—a navy blazer and matching pants that felt impressive in Sydney but now seem inadequate for whatever corporate hell awaits you. The fabric wrinkles the moment you sit down, because apparently even your clothes are nervous.

The commute to Umeda is a forty-minute journey that involves two train transfers and a ten-minute walk through streets that all look identical in the early morning light.

Everyone around you moves like they're on a mission or part of a James Bond movie (hard to tell, honestly)—briefcases and designer handbags clutched like weapons, faces set in expressions of determined politeness.

You study the other foreigners on the train—scattered among the sea of black-haired commuters like misplaced chess pieces. A few Western faces here and there, all wearing the same slightly overwhelmed expression you suspect is plastered across your own face.

The building housing Synergy International Marketing is a gleaming tower of glass and steel that probably looked cutting-edge in 1995 but now seems like it's trying too hard.

The lobby has that corporate smell—air freshener mixed with coffee and the faint anxiety sweat of people pretending they know what they're doing.

You present yourself to reception, where an immaculately dressed Japanese woman greets you with the kind of professional smile that reaches exactly nowhere near her eyes.

"Y/N-san? Welcome. Please wait here. Tanaka-san will escort you to orientation."

Tanaka-san turns out to be a harried-looking man in his forties who speaks English like he's translating every word in his head before letting it out.

He leads you through a maze of cubicles and conference rooms, explaining company policies in a tone that suggests he's given this speech approximately ten thousand times.

"International Communications Department is on seventh floor. Your desk will be in shared workspace with other English-speaking staff. Please maintain professional appearance and punctuality at all times."

The elevator ride up is silent except for generic jazz music that makes you want to throw yourself out a window.

The seventh floor is an open-plan nightmare of beige cubicles, warm lighting, and the aggressive clicking of keyboards.

It's honestly like someone took every stereotype about corporate offices and decided to make them reality.

Your desk is a small corner space next to a window that looks out onto another building approximately six feet away

The previous occupant has left behind a stress ball shaped like a hamburger and a coffee mug with 'I want to drown in coffee' printed on it in faded letters.

Inspiring.

"Your immediate supervisor is Davidson-san," Tanaka explains, gesturing toward a tall man with prematurely gray hair who's currently engaged in what appears to be a heated phone conversation in English. "He will explain your duties. Please make good impression."

Davidson finishes his call and approaches with the kind of smile that suggests he's simultaneously relieved to see you and already exhausted by your presence.

"You must be our new copywriter! Dave Davidson, department head. I know, I know, my parents were very creative." His handshake is firm but sweaty. "Ready to dive into the wonderful world of international marketing?"

Aaaand… That's how you spend the next three hours in meetings that could have been emails, learning about 'synergistic brand integration' and 'cross-cultural consumer engagement strategies.'

Your role, as it turns out, involves translating Japanese marketing concepts into English copy that doesn't sound like it was written by robots having a nervous breakdown.

Your colleagues are honestly a mixed bag—two other foreigners who look like they've been here long enough to develop thousand-yard stares, and several Japanese staff members who speak perfect English but seem perpetually confused by your presence.

Lunch is a sad bento box eaten at your desk while reviewing client briefs for companies you've never heard of selling products you don't understand.

The work itself isn't terrible, just mind-numbingly ordinary.

Write copy for a new line of beauty products. Edit brochures for a tech company. Make everything sound 'dynamic' and 'innovative' without actually saying anything meaningful.

Marketing, as it is.

By 3 PM, you're wondering if this is what death feels like—slow, bureaucratic, and accompanied by the sound of printers jamming.

Your phone buzzes with a message that makes several of your new colleagues glance over disapprovingly.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙷𝚘𝚠'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢? 𝙰𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚝? 𝙸 𝚋𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝! (◕‿◕)

You glance around to make sure no one's watching before typing back:

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙸'𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚘𝚖. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙰𝚠𝚠𝚠 𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢! 𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚗𝚘 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚕𝚝! (╥﹏╥)

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚕𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚏 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙. 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚜! 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢! 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑? 𝙸 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛, 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛!

You look around the office—at Davidson explaining synergy to a potted plant, at your coworkers staring at their screens with the enthusiasm of people watching their own funerals.

It feels like watching dead insects.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝟻:𝟹𝟶 𝚒𝚏 𝙸'𝚖 𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚢. 𝟼 𝚒𝚏 𝙳𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 '𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚞 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗' 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝! 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚢 𝚊𝚝 𝟼! 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚝, 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞!

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔?

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙷𝚊 𝚑𝚊, 𝚜𝚘 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚢, 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝙰𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝙸 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝. 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍, 𝙸 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚐𝚕𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙲𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚢. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎. 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝚆𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝙸 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝? (𝙸 𝚊𝚋𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘!!)

You put your phone away and try to focus on the task at hand—writing compelling copy for a line of anti-aging moisturizers targeted at 'modern Japanese women who demand excellence.'

The irony isn't lost on you.

At exactly 6:07 PM, you escape the corporate hellscape and find Hoseok lounging in the lobby like he actually belongs there.

He's wearing ripped jeans, a faded band t-shirt, and that same orange beanie, looking like he wandered in from a completely different universe.

Several security guards eye him suspiciously.

"Capy!" He jumps up (and you want to slap him) from the leather chair he's been sprawled across. "You survived! I wasn't sure you would make it out alive."

"Barely," you mutter, adjusting your blazer. "This place is where souls go to die."

"Harsh. But accurate, probably." He looks you up and down with an expression you can't quite read. "You look very... professional. Like you could fire someone and feel nothing."

"Don't tempt me. I already have a list."

He laughs, falling into step beside you as you head toward the exit.

"That bad, huh?"

"I spent six hours learning about 'consumer-focused brand narratives' and I still don't know what that means. Also, my desk faces a wall."

"Sounds like you need alcohol and carbohydrates. Lucky for you, I know just the place."

You follow him out into the early evening chaos of Umeda, where salary men in identical dark suits stream past like schools of depressed fish.

The contrast between Hoseok's chaotic energy and the rigid corporate atmosphere is so stark it's almost funny.

Almost.

"So," he says as you navigate through the crowd, "tell me about your coworkers. Anyone interesting? Any office romances brewing? Workplace drama?"

"It's been one day, Ott. I barely learned where the bathroom is."

"Details, Capy! I need details! Is your boss hot? Is there office gossip? Do people eat lunch at their desks like sad robots?"

"Yes to the sad robot lunches. No to everything else." You side-step a group of tourists taking photos of street signs. "Although Davidson—that's my boss—seems like the type who has strong opinions about proper email formatting."

"Davidson? What kind of name is Davidson for a boss? He sounds like a middle management villain."

"Davidson Davidson, actually."

Hoseok stops walking entirely.

"You're joking."

"I am not joking. His parents named him Dave Davidson. He acknowledged the lack of creativity himself."

"That's the most tragic thing I've ever heard. No wonder you looked dead inside when I picked you up."

"I didn't look dead inside."

"Capy, you looked like someone had surgically removed your will to live. Which, honestly, is understandable after spending eight hours with a man named Dave Davidson."

You can't argue with that assessment.

He leads you to a small izakaya tucked between a convenience store and a shop selling nothing but different types of socks.

The interior is all dark wood and paper lanterns, with the kind of cramped seating that forces strangers to become uncomfortably intimate with each other's elbows.

"This place doesn't look like much," Hoseok says, sliding into a booth that's clearly designed for people smaller than either of you, "but they have the best karaage in the city, and the beer is cheap enough that you can afford to forget about Dave Davidson's existence."

"I can't get drunk. I have to work tomorrow."

"Who said anything about getting drunk? I said forgetting Dave Davidson exists. That only requires like, two beers, max."

The waitress appears—a woman who looks like she's been working here since the restaurant opened sometime in the Meiji era.

Hoseok jumps in, ordering in fluent Japanese that flows so naturally you almost forget he's half-Australian. 

His mom made sure he was bilingual from the start, but hearing it now, surrounded by the actual language and culture, makes you realize how much more connected to this place he is than you.

"What did you order?" you ask when she leaves.

"Food. Beer. Trust me."

"That's not an answer."

"It is now, Capy. Live a little."

You lean back against the booth, feeling some of the day's tension leave your shoulders.

The izakaya is warm and dim, filled with the comfortable buzz of people unwinding after work.

It's the first time all day you've felt like you could breathe properly.

"So," you say, "how's the porn business?"

Hoseok nearly chokes on the water he's sipping.

"Jesus, warn a guy before you just blurt that out."

"What? You brought it up yesterday. I'm just making conversation."

"It's... fine. Good, actually. I just finished a commission that's probably going to pay my rent for the next two months."

"What was it? Wait, do I want to know?"

He grins.

"Probably not. But I'll tell you anyway. It was a twelve-page story about a librarian who discovers that late-night study sessions can be... educational."

"Oh god."

"Hey, don't knock it! The characterization was surprisingly deep. She had a whole backstory about her graduate thesis on medieval literature. Very sophisticated stuff."

"You're defending the artistic merit of librarian porn to me."

"I'm defending the artistic merit of all my work. Just because it's explicit doesn't mean it lacks substance."

The food arrives—platters of fried chicken, grilled fish, pickled vegetables, and enough beer to drown a horse.

Hoseok immediately starts dissecting the chicken with the precision of a surgeon.

"The thing is," he continues, apparently not done with his professional defense, "most hentai is garbage. No character development, ridiculous scenarios, anatomy that defies physics. But I try to make mine actually... realistic, you know? Like, what would these people actually be thinking? How would they really react?"

You take a long drink of beer.

"Realistic hentai. That's your niche."

"Mock all you want, but it's harder than you think. Especially drawing women. Like, actually making them look like real people instead of inflatable dolls with anatomically impossible proportions."

"I imagine that is challenging."

"It is! I spend hours looking at reference photos trying to get facial expressions right during…" He clears his throat. "…intimate moments. And body language! How do people actually hold themselves when they're vulnerable? What do real emotions look like on someone's face when they're—"

He stops mid-sentence, looking suddenly self-conscious.

"When they're what?" you prompt, more curious than you want to admit.

"When they're... you know. Experiencing pleasure. Real pleasure."

There's something in his voice—a genuine frustration that catches you off guard. Like this actually matters to him beyond just paying rent.

"That does sound complicated," you say, surprising yourself with the sincerity.

"It is. I mean, I can draw bodies fine. Anatomy, positioning, all that technical stuff. But making it feel real? Making the characters seem like actual people instead of just... vessels for fantasy? That's the hard part."

The beer is making you bolder than usual.

"So what's the problem exactly?"

Hoseok fidgets with his chopsticks.

"I think... I think I draw women the way I assume they should look and feel, instead of how they actually do. Does that make sense?"

"Sort of. Like you're working from secondhand information instead of... primary sources?"

"Exactly!" He leans forward, animated again. "I'm always guessing. What would her face actually look like in this moment? How would she really move? What would be going through her head?"

You take another drink, processing this unexpected insight into his work.

"And you can't just... I don't know, watch porn for reference?"

"Porn is the worst reference possible. It's all performance. Fake expressions, exaggerated reactions, completely unrealistic scenarios. If I based my work on porn, it would be just as terrible as everyone else's."

"Huh."

"Yeah, huh." He picks at his food, suddenly looking younger than his twenty-six years. "Sometimes I wonder if I should just give up on trying to make it realistic and just draw ridiculous tentacle monsters like everyone expects."

"Don't do that."

The words come out more forcefully than you intended, and he looks up with surprise.

"I mean," you backtrack, "if you think realistic is better, then... keep trying to make it realistic. Right?"

"But how? I can't exactly ask random women to model for explicit manga. That would be weird and probably illegal."

You're quiet for a moment, an idea forming that you immediately try to dismiss.

But the beer and the warmth of the izakaya and the genuine frustration in his voice make you consider it.

"What if..." you start, then stop.

"What if what?"

"Nothing. Never mind."

"Capy, what were you going to say?"

You drain half your beer in one go.

"I was going to say, what if you had someone to model for you? Like, someone you trust who could give you actual realistic reference?"

Hoseok stares at you. Frowns, like genuinely, actually frowns (and isn't that the first time in his adult face you've seen it?)

"Are you... are you offering?"

"I'm not offering anything. I'm just saying hypothetically, if you had access to realistic references, your work would probably improve."

"Hypothetically."

"Hypothetically."

"And this hypothetical reference model would be...?"

You feel heat rising in your cheeks and blame it on the alcohol.

"I don't know. Someone who understands that it's just work. Professional."

"Professional reference modeling for hentai manga."

"It's not any weirder than your current career path."

He's quiet for a long moment, studying your face like he's trying to solve a puzzle.

"You're serious," he says finally.

"I'm drunk," you correct. "There's a difference."

"But you're serious about being drunk."

"Shut up, Ott."

But he's grinning now, that stupid, wide grin that takes over his entire face.

"Capy wants to model for my sexy manga!"

"Keep your voice down!" You glance around the izakaya, but everyone seems too absorbed in their own conversations to care about yours. "And I didn't say I wanted to do anything. I said hypothetically—"

"You offered to pose for me."

"I offered a theoretical solution to your creative problem."

"By posing for me."

"By... providing realistic reference materials in a professional capacity."

"For my hentai manga."

"For your... adult-oriented sequential art."

He's laughing now, delighted by your obvious discomfort. "This is the best day of my life. Capy is going to be my muse!"

"I am not going to be your muse. And stop calling it that."

"What should I call it? My artistic collaborator? My reference consultant? My—"

"Your friend who's had too much beer and suggested something stupid."

"My friend who's going to help me create the most realistic romantic manga Osaka has never seen."

That stops you.

Because he…

He's just said the word 'friend'.

And you hate how that made something twist in your chest.

"I haven't agreed to anything," you insist. "We were just talking theoretically."

"Theoretically, when would you be available for our first session?"

"Theoretically, you're an idiot."

"Theoretically, you're avoiding the question."

You finish your beer and immediately signal for another.

"If—and I mean if—I were to consider this theoretical arrangement, it would be purely professional. No weirdness."

"Define weirdness."

"You know what I mean."

"I really don't. Are we talking about no inappropriate comments? No lingering stares? No—"

"All of the above. It would be like... like life drawing class. Clinical. Professional."

"Have you ever taken a life drawing class?"

"That's not the point."

"Because life drawing classes can get pretty—"

"Hoseok."

"Right. Clinical. Professional. Got it." He's still grinning. "So when do we start?"

"We don't start anything because this is a hypothetical conversation about a theoretical arrangement that will never actually happen."

"But if it were to happen theoretically?"

You look at him across the table—flushed from beer and excitement, eyes bright with possibility, that stupid beanie slightly askew.

He looks exactly like the kid who used to convince you to climb fences and steal apples from the neighbor's tree, all mischief and misplaced confidence.

And despite every rational thought in your head screaming at you to shut this down, you hear yourself saying:

"Tomorrow night. After work. Your place."

His grin could power the entire city.

"Theoretically?" he asks.

"Theoretically."

"This is going to be amazing, Capy."

You signal for another beer.

You're going to need it.

The thing is, he looks genuinely excited. Not the performative, over-the-top excitement he uses to annoy you—but the real kind.

The kind that makes his eyes go bright and his whole body lean forward like he can't contain whatever stupid idea is bouncing around in his head.

It's the same look he used to get when he'd convince you to sneak out and explore the construction site behind your neighborhood, or when he'd drag you to that weird arcade with the broken claw machines that somehow always gave him exactly what he wanted.

Which means this theoretical modeling arrangement is either going to be completely innocent or a complete disaster.

Probably both.

"You know what?" he says, peeling the label off his new beer bottle in strips, "you should see my place tonight. Get the full Osaka experience."

You nearly choke on your karaage. Because what did this nuthead just say?

"What? No. Absolutely not."

"Why not? It's still early!"

"It's past nine, Ott. That's not early. That's nighttime. When normal people go home to their sad apartments and contemplate their life choices."

"Since when are we normal people?" He grins, that stupid, infectious grin that probably got him out of trouble his entire childhood. "Come on, Capy. When's the last time you had a proper house tour?"

When's the last time you crashed at a guy's place just because he asked? When's the last time you did anything without calculating the exact social implications and potential for regret?

"When's the last time you cleaned your house?" you counter instead.

"That's… irrelevant."

"Everything about you is irrelevant."

"Harsh but fair."

The waitress brings your beer, and you immediately take a long drink because this conversation is heading somewhere you're not sure you want to follow.

The alcohol has made everything slightly fuzzy around the edges, but not fuzzy enough to make this seem like a good idea.

Actually, that's a lie.

The alcohol is making it seem like exactly the kind of stupid, impulsive thing you would have done when you were seventeen and thought the worst thing that could happen was your parents finding out.

Now you know better.

Now you know that the worst things are usually the ones that feel like coming home.

"I'm not going to your apartment at nine-thirty at night after we just agreed to some theoretical professional arrangement that I'm already regretting," you say, but your voice lacks conviction.

"But you haven't seen where the magic happens! Where your theoretical modeling will theoretically take place!"

"The magic happens in your bedroom, doesn't it."

"Well, yeah. Better lighting by the window, and I can spread all my references out on the bed—" He stops mid-sentence, apparently realizing how that sounds. "Wait, that came out wrong."

"Everything you say comes out wrong."

"Fair point." He demolishes another piece of chicken. "But seriously, you should see the place. I've got it set up pretty nice now. Real drawing desk, proper lamp, even organized my reference materials into folders like a functioning adult."

"Your porn collection, you mean."

"My professional research library," he corrects with mock dignity. "Very different thing. Alphabetized and everything."

The image of Hoseok carefully organizing hentai manga by genre and artistic merit is so ridiculous you almost smile.

"Plus," he continues, voice quiet and not meeting your eyes while he picks at the label on his bottle, "you could crash there tonight. Save yourself the train ride back to your shoebox apartment."

And there it is. The real reason behind this sudden house tour enthusiasm.

"My apartment isn't a shoebox."

"Capy, you described it yesterday as 'slightly larger than a coffin but with worse lighting.'"

"That was… accurate but not the point."

"The point is you're probably dreading going back there alone. New city, new job, everything unfamiliar." His voice gets softer, less performative. "Wouldn't hurt to have somewhere comfortable to crash."

There it is again—that stupid, genuine concern that always catches you off guard. The way he can shift from ridiculous to sincere in half a sentence, like he's got some kind of emotional whiplash disorder.

It's the same tone he used when you were thirteen and crying because your parents were fighting again, when he climbed through your window and sat on your floor for three hours without saying a word. Just… present.

Just there.

And that's the problem, isn't it?

Because it's been five years since anyone was just there for you. Five years of being the competent one, the reliable one, the one who has her shit together and doesn't need anyone to sit on her floor and not say anything.

Five years of being completely, utterly alone.

"I'm not crashing at your place, Hoseok."

"Why not? We're friends, right?"

There's that word again—friends.

Like it's simple. Like five years of radio silence and separate lives can be erased with one dinner and too much beer.

Like you can just slip back into being the people you were before you grew up and moved away and learned how to be strangers.

"Are we?" you ask before you can stop yourself.

He looks up from his bottle, label half-peeled and hanging like a sad flag of surrender.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean…" You gesture vaguely between you, encompassing the izakaya, the theoretical modeling arrangement, the way he's looking at you like you're still seventeen and nothing has changed. "This. Whatever this is. Are we friends? Or are we just two people who used to know each other pretending nothing's changed?"

He blinks at you. You blink at him. And suddenly the two seconds of silence that pass by feel like an eternity.

"Do you want to be friends?" he finally asks quietly.

"I don't know." The honesty surprises you. "I mean, yes. I think. But I don't know if we can just… pick up where we left off."

"We don't have to pick up anywhere. We can start over."

"Start over as what?"

"As…" He shrugs, that careful casualness that means he's thinking harder than he's letting on. "As whatever we want to be."

But that's the problem—because you don't know what you want to be.

You don't know if you want to be the girl who crashes at her old friend's apartment because she's too lonely to go home, or the woman who keeps appropriate boundaries and doesn't complicate things.

You don't know if you want to be someone who can trust that easily again.

"You still bite your lip when you're thinking too hard," he observes.

"I do not."

"You're doing it right now."

You immediately stop biting your lip, which only makes him grin wider.

"Some things don't change, Capy. Even when everything else does."

"Don't get philosophical on me, Ott. It doesn't suit you."

"What does suit me?"

The question catches you off guard.

You look at him—really look at him—taking in the way five years have sharpened some edges and softened others.

The boy you knew is still there, buried under layers of adult experience and professional disappointment and whatever other things happen to people when they stop being kids and start pretending they know what they're doing.

He's still too thin, still too energetic, still wearing clothes that look like he grabbed them off his bedroom floor.

But there's something different in his eyes now.

As if he's been waiting for something for a long time and isn't sure it's coming.

"Chaos," you say finally. "Chaos suits you."

He laughs, loud enough that several other customers glance over.

"I'll take it."

"Good, because that's all you're getting."

"For now."

There's something in the way he says it that makes your stomach do a small, traitorous flip.

You blame the beer and the warm lighting and the fact that you've barely slept in three days.

"I should go home," you say, but you don't move to leave.

"You should come see my apartment."

"Those are opposite things, Ott."

"Not if you crash at mine."

"I'm not crashing at your place."

"Why not?"

"Because…" You fumble for a reason that doesn't sound ridiculous. "Because it's weird. We just reconnected yesterday. Normal people don't sleep over at their childhood friend's house after one dinner."

Because it feels too much like before.

Because you're scared of how easy it would be to fall back into old patterns, old dependencies, old ways of needing someone.

Because you've spent five years learning how to be alone, and one night on his couch might undo all of that.

"Normal people don't agree to model for hentai manga either, but here we are."

"That's different. That's professional."

"Right. Professional." He draws out the word like it's a foreign concept. "Professional modeling, professional friendship, professional distance. Everything professional."

"There's nothing wrong with professional."

"Course not. Very sensible. Very mature."

He's grinning again, but there's something underneath it that you can't quite identify.

You feel, surprisingly, it's shaped like disappointment.

"Very unlike the Capy I remember."

That makes you swallow.

It's unfair, how he can say shit like that and have your chest cave in.

"People change, Ott. We're not kids anymore."

"No," he agrees, and his voice goes quiet. "We're not."

The way he says it makes you look at him again, and what you see in his eyes looks like he's grieving for those kids too. Like he misses them as much as you do.

Like maybe he's been just as lost without them as you have.

"I have a surprise," he says suddenly, changing direction so fast you get conversational whiplash.

"I hate surprises."

"I know. That's what makes this one perfect."

"That logic makes no sense."

"Trust me."

"I don't trust you. You tried to convince me that eating chocolate for breakfast was a balanced meal because it contained milk."

"It does contain milk! And calcium! Very nutritious!"

"You were seventeen, Hoseok. You should have known better."

"I was a growing boy! I needed nutrients!"

You laugh despite yourself, and the sound echoes off the low ceiling of the izakaya.

It's embarrassing how easy it is to fall back into this rhythm with him, like your brain has been storing all these conversation patterns for five years just waiting for him to come back.

"What kind of surprise?"

"The kind you'll only find out if you come see my apartment."

"That's manipulation."

"That's incentive."

"That's emotional blackmail."

"That's friendship."

Fucker.

You drain the rest of your beer in one long pull, partly for courage and partly to delay having to respond. The alcohol seems to have erased your usually reliable sense of self-preservation.

And maybe that's what you need right now. Maybe you need to stop protecting yourself from every possible disappointment and just… see what happens.

Maybe you need to remember what it feels like to trust someone who used to know all your secrets.

"If I come see your place," you say carefully, "and if I hate your surprise, I'm leaving immediately."

"Deal. But you won't hate it."

"I probably will."

"You definitely won't."

"I have a very high hate-to-like ratio when it comes to surprises. Remember my sixteenth birthday?"

His face changes. "Oh. Shit. Yeah, I remember."

Of course he remembers.

He's the one who spent three hours sitting outside the bathroom door, talking to you through the wood while you had a complete meltdown because your mom had thrown you a surprise party and invited half your class and you couldn't handle being the center of attention like that.

"Your mom meant well," he says quietly.

"I know she meant well. But I told her I didn't want a party, and she threw one anyway because she thought I was just being shy. And then I locked myself in the bathroom like a lunatic while twenty people ate cake and wondered where the birthday girl went."

"You weren't a lunatic. You were overwhelmed."

"I was pathetic."

"You were sixteen and dealing with more shit than anyone knew." His voice has gone serious in a way that makes you uncomfortable. "And I should have known better than to help her plan it."

"You were just being a good friend."

"I'm still trying to be a good friend," he says, and there's something in his tone that makes you look up from your beer.

This man who used to be a boy who used to climb through your bedroom window just to sit on your floor and read comics. Who used to walk you home from school even though his house was in the opposite direction. Who used to know exactly what to say to make you laugh when you were crying about some stupid teenage drama.

Who disappeared from your life for five years and somehow found his way back in the span of twenty-four hours.

"Fine," you say, and immediately regret it. "But I'm taking the couch."

His smile is so bright it should be illegal.

"Deal. But you're gonna love the surprise, Capy. I promise."

"I doubt that."

"You love being wrong about things."

"I love being right about you being an idiot."

"Same thing, really."

He signals for the check, already bouncing slightly in his seat with excitement.

You watch him count out bills with the kind of gesture that suggests his porn money isn't quite as abundant as he likes to pretend.

His apartment is probably just as small and depressing as yours.

He's probably just as lost and lonely as you are.

He's probably just as scared of growing up and becoming a real person with real responsibilities and real consequences.

But at least you can be lost and scared together.

At least for tonight.

"Ott?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you still like strawberry milk?"

The question comes out of nowhere, surprising both of you.

But something about the beer and the warm light and the familiar rhythm of your bickering has loosened something in your chest, some speck of control you've been maintaining since you walked into that izakaya.

His smile goes soft around the edges.

"Yeah. I do. Do you still put way too much sugar in your coffee?"

"Yeah."

"Good."

It's such a small thing—strawberry milk and oversweetened coffee—but somehow it feels enormous.

Like proof that some essential part of each of you has remained unchanged despite everything else that's shifted and grown and broken apart.

Like maybe those kids are still in there somewhere, waiting to be found again.

"Ready to go?" he asks, standing and pulling on his jacket.

"No. But let's go anyway."

"That's the spirit, Capy."

You follow him out into the cool Osaka night, where the neon signs reflect off wet pavement and streets are full of people pretending they know where they're going.

And for the first time since you moved here, you think maybe you don't need to know where you're going.

Maybe you just need to trust that wherever Hoseok is leading you, it'll be worth the trip.

Even if it scares the hell out of you.

Four flights of stairs later, you're questioning every life choice that led to this moment.

"Exercise," you mutter, gripping the railing as Hoseok bounds ahead like some kind of demented mountain goat. "Right. Because what this night needed was cardio."

"Almost there!" he calls back, not even slightly winded. "Just think of it as pre-modeling conditioning!"

"I'm thinking of it as cruel and unusual punishment."

His apartment door is covered in stickers—anime characters you don't recognize, band logos from groups that probably broke up in 2001, and what appears to be a holographic Pikachu giving a thumbs up.

It's aggressively juvenile and somehow perfectly him.

"Don't judge the door art," he says, fumbling with his keys. "It came with the apartment."

"It absolutely did not."

"Okay, fine, I may have added some personality over the years. Sue me."

The door swings open and you step into what can only be described as organized chaos.

The apartment is small but noticeably bigger than your shoebox—which isn't saying much, but still manages to feel spacious by comparison.

Manga volumes are stacked in towering columns against every wall, art supplies scattered across a desk positioned near the window, and clothes draped over furniture like fabric ghosts.

"Welcome to Casa de Ott!" he announces, spreading his arms wide and nearly knocking over a lamp in the process. "Home sweet chaotic home."

You scan the space, taking in the details.

The couch looks like it was salvaged from a 1980s office waiting room. There's a small TV balanced precariously on a stack of manga, and the kitchen is basically a corner with a mini-fridge and what might generously be called a stove.

"It's…" you start.

"Terrible? Depressing? A fire hazard?"

"I was going to say small."

"Small is a nice way of putting it. I prefer 'cozy' or 'efficiently designed.'"

Your eyes land on a red sketchbook lying open on the low table, pages covered in detailed drawings that make you stop mid-step. You can't make out the specifics from this distance, but before you can guess the contents, Hoseok is screeching.

"Oh shit," Hoseok says, following your gaze. He lunges forward and slams the sketchbook closed, clutching it to his chest like a shield. "Those are, uh, not for virgin eyes."

"Virgin eyes?" You raise an eyebrow. "I'm twenty-six, Ott. I've seen naked people before."

"Yeah, but not my naked people. These are my professionally naked people. Very different."

"I'm literally going to model for this stuff, remember?"

He freezes, sketchbook still pressed against his chest.

"So we're not doing hypothetical anymore?"

Shit, he's right—somewhere between the beer and the banter and the way he looked at you when you called him your friend, the theoretical became decidedly less theoretical.

"I…" You falter, suddenly aware of how close you're standing. "Beer. You mentioned beer."

"Right. Beer. Very important. Life-sustaining beverage." He's still holding the sketchbook like a security blanket. "Kitchen's over there. Help yourself. I'm just going to put this away where it can't traumatize anyone."

He disappears down a narrow hallway, and you make your way to the kitchen area.

The refrigerator is covered in delivery menus and what appears to be a drawing of a cat wearing a top hat.

Inside, there are exactly three items: beer, leftover ramen, and a container of something that might once have been vegetables.

"Your food situation is concerning," you call out.

"I survive on convenience store cuisine and pure artistic passion!" comes his muffled reply from what you assume is his bedroom.

You grab two beers and settle onto the couch, which is actually more comfortable than it looks.

The apartment feels lived-in despite its chaos—or maybe because of it.

There's something appealingly unpretentious about the space, like Hoseok just exists here without trying to impress anyone.

"Okay," he says, emerging from the hallway with his hands behind his back and a grin that should probably be illegal. "Ready for your surprise?"

Every muscle in your body tenses. "I told you I hate surprises."

"And I told you this one's different. This one's going to change your entire worldview on surprises."

"My worldview on surprises is based on sound psychological principles and extensive personal trauma. One cute whatever-it-is isn't going to—"

He brings his hands forward, revealing a small, furry creature with enormous dark eyes and a long, fluffy tail.

You stop breathing.

"Capy," he says, his voice soft with obvious pride, "meet Momo."

The sugar glider—because that's clearly what she is—sits perfectly still in his cupped palms, studying you with the kind of intense curiosity usually reserved for wildlife documentaries.

She's tiny, maybe the size of a hamster, with gray fur and cream markings that make her look like she's wearing a tiny vest.

"Holy shit," you whisper.

"Language," Hoseok scolds, but he's grinning. "She's a lady."

"You have a sugar glider."

"I have Momo. She's not just any sugar glider. She's the most perfect sugar glider in the history of sugar gliders."

As if hearing her cue, Momo shifts slightly in his palms, studying you with what can only be described as deep suspicion.

"Can I…" you start, then stop. "Is she friendly?"

"She's cautious with new people, but she's never actually bitten anyone. Well, except that one time with my neighbor, but he deserved it."

"What did your neighbor do?"

"Tried to pet her without permission. Momo has very strong opinions about consent."

You extend one finger slowly, and Momo sniffs it delicately, her tiny nose twitching as she processes your scent.

After a moment of consideration, she pulls back and immediately scurries up Hoseok's arm to perch on his shoulder, as far from you as possible.

"Well," you say, trying to keep your voice casual, "that's… fine. I don't care if a rodent likes me or not."

"She's a marsupial, actually. And she just needs time to warm up to new people."

"I said I don't care."

But there's something distinctly annoying about being rejected by something the size of a hamster.

You're a perfectly likeable person. You've never done anything to offend small mammals.

"She's very discerning," Hoseok says, clearly trying not to laugh at your obvious wounded pride. "High standards."

"So you rescued a sugar glider."

"I rescued the most perfect sugar glider."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it's true. Look at her little hands! And her tail! And the way she tilts her head when she's thinking!"

You look at him instead—at the way his entire face lights up when he talks about Momo, the gentle way he cradles her, the obvious pride in his voice.

This is a side of Hoseok you've never seen before, tender and protective and completely unguarded.

It's dangerous how much you like it.

"She's nocturnal," he continues, settling onto the couch beside you with Momo still in his hands. "So she's most active when I'm working late. She keeps me company during those long drawing sessions."

"Does she approve of your career choices?"

"She's very supportive of the arts. Aren't you, princess?"

Momo makes a soft chittering sound that might be agreement or might be a request for food.

Either way, you can't deny it's adorable.

"How long have you had her?"

"About eighteen months. She was really skittish at first—wouldn't let me touch her for weeks. But now…" He strokes her tiny back with one finger. "Now she's spoiled rotten."

You watch as Momo climbs onto his shoulder, then leaps gracefully to the back of the couch. The movement is so fluid it barely registers as motion—one second she's with Hoseok, the next she's exploring the cushions near your head.

"She's showing off," he says fondly. "She likes to glide around the apartment when she's skittish."

"Glide?"

"Sugar gliders have these membranes between their legs—see? She can glide from the bookshelf to the couch, couch to the desk, basically anywhere she wants to go. It's like having a tiny flying squirrel roommate."

As if to demonstrate, Momo launches herself from the couch back to Hoseok's shoulder, the movement so quick and graceful you barely catch it.

"That's incredible."

"I know. She's basically a superhero. A tiny, adorable superhero who costs me a fortune in specialized food and vet bills."

The beer is wearing off, leaving you feeling suddenly, acutely sober.

Clear-headed enough to realize what you've gotten yourself into tonight—agreeing to pose for Hoseok's hentai manga, coming to his apartment, letting yourself get charmed by his ridiculous pet.

"Ott," you say carefully.

"Yeah?"

"I was drunk earlier. When I said I'd… help with your reference situation."

His face doesn't change, but something shifts in his posture.

"How drunk?"

"Drunk enough to suggest something stupid."

"And now?"

"Now I'm sober enough to know it was stupid."

He's quiet for a moment, watching Momo explore the couch cushions.

When he speaks, his voice is casual in a way that doesn't fool either of you. "Too late, Capy. I'm already planning our first session."

"Hoseok—"

"Think about it. Professional artistic collaboration between old friends. Very sophisticated. Very mature."

"Nothing about this situation is mature."

"I'm hurt. Deeply wounded by your lack of faith in my professionalism."

Despite yourself, you feel a smile tugging at your lips. "Your professionalism in drawing pornographic manga."

"Adult-oriented sequential art with emotional depth and realistic character development."

"You keep saying that like it makes it sound more legitimate."

"Because it is more legitimate. You'll see when we start working together."

The assumption in his voice—that you will, in fact, go through with this insane arrangement—should annoy you.

Instead, it makes something flutter in your chest that you absolutely refuse to acknowledge.

"I didn't actually agree to anything," you say, but the protest sounds weak even to you.

"You suggested it. I accepted. Contract sealed."

"That's not how contracts work."

"It's how friendship contracts work."

Friendship contracts.

As if you're still twelve and sealing deals with pinky promises and shared secrets.

Except you're not twelve anymore, and this isn't about friendship.

Or maybe it is, and that's what makes it dangerous.

"I should get going," you say, making no move to actually leave.

"It's late. Train's probably stopped running."

"It's not even eleven."

"But you're comfortable now. Look, Momo likes you."

You glance down to find the sugar glider eyeing you from the floor.

"She's still giving me the cold shoulder."

"She usually hides when strangers are here, so this is actually progress."

"Great. I've been upgraded from 'immediate threat' to 'tolerable presence.'"

"It's a very exclusive club. You should feel honored. You've basically been officially approved for apartment privileges."

"What kind of privileges?"

"Sleeping on the couch when you're too tired to go home. Raiding my refrigerator. Critiquing my life choices in person instead of via text."

The casual way he lists these domestic intimacies makes your chest tight.

Like he's already decided you belong here, in his chaos, part of his routine.

"I'm not sleeping on your couch, Ott."

"Why not? It's surprisingly comfortable. And I'll be in my room working when you get lonely and need someone to bother."

"I don't get lonely."

He gives you a look that suggests he sees right through that particular lie.

"Fine," you say, because arguing seems more exhausting than just giving in. "Now shut up and give me another beer."

"Can't. You said you're sober now. Can't have you making any more questionable decisions."

"I make excellent decisions."

"Says the woman who just agreed to sleep on a stranger's couch."

"You're not a stranger. You're Ott. Annoying but familiar."

He grins at that, wide and pleased, like being called annoying is the highest compliment you could give him.

And maybe, in your particular language, it is.

goal: 100 notes.

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[slowdrawl]

| Material Interest | Pairing: Harry Castillo x F!Reader | 7.5K words | {1/?} ✨INITIATION✨

Summary: You take an internship at Legacy Capital, where everyone thinks you’re a nepo baby. Harry Castillo. Your mother’s boss. The CEO, shouldn’t be paying you any attention. He wasn’t supposed to touch you. You weren’t supposed to like it. “When he sets his mind on something…on someone. He won’t quit until it’s his.”

this fic is going to go absolutely crazy. I'm so damn excited about it! |WARNINGS| slowburn/angst/eventual smut/obsession/power dynamics/age gap/alcohol/grief/corporate rot/pov swaps/inner voice spirals (duh)/sd/sb themes/

The worst part about being an intern isn’t all the men who look at you like you don’t exist. It’s the ones who look at you like you’re the only person who does. You worked your ass off in business school to get here. Graduated with a 3.96 in your finance program at Berkeley, for God’s sake.

You earned this. But that doesn’t matter. Does it?

Because your mother is the CEO’s assistant. And your father was one of the firm’s original founders. A name they quietly erased from the history books.

Your entire résumé might as well be blank.

Doesn’t matter how many nights you didn’t sleep. How many times you studied until your eyes burned. Doesn’t matter that you applied under your mother’s maiden name. Anyone who’s been here long enough remembers exactly who you are. You thought about just saying no. Thought about applying to a different firm. Hell. Maybe even leaving Manhattan altogether.

But walking away from an opportunity at one of the most prestigious private equity firms in the state? That would’ve been suicidal. Career-wise, anyway.

They call it a fortress for a reason.

And Harry Castillo? He inherited the throne.

// The birds weren’t even singing by the time you woke up. Thirty minutes before your alarm was supposed to go off. 

First day nerves, you guess.

There’s been a pit in your stomach ever since the offer letter came in. Since your mom looked at you with that face and asked if you were really sure. As if anyone could turn down Legacy. You didn’t even have a choice. You rub the sleep from your eyes as the shower heats up, grabbing your toothbrush on the way into the stall. You let the water bead down your back and breathe deeply for a while; the warmth soothes your muscles, but it doesn’t do much to erase the tension in your brain. When you get out, your fingers are pruned, and you shiver at the sharp contrast of cool air hitting your wet skin. At least it offers a little relief. Fresh and clean, you drag yourself to the closet and sift through your limited options. Half of the tags are still attached. Three-quarters of them were paid for with money you don’t have. A credit card that you couldn’t even dream of paying off right now. 

You look at your reflection in the mirror and tell yourself you need to make sure you look the part.

Not that anyone in that glass palace would even care. They’ll take one glance and clock the difference immediately. You’re not like them. Not one bit. Even if your father's name used to be on the side of the building. 

He died before Legacy was even that. Before the name, before the fortune. Before the reputation. Your father, with the help of Henry and Harry Castillo, founded Castle and Co. a year before you were born. It didn’t start off with glass walls and coffee makers more expensive than your first car. No. It started as an idea between friends at a kitchen table. Eventually, that table would turn into a boardroom in an office smaller than this apartment. But they were eager, and they were smart; and between the three of them, they had just the right connections. The firm grew faster than any of them could have imagined.  

Your mother was hired at the beginning of year two. She was twenty-seven, without the slightest clue how to work admin, no knowledge of the finance world. She had been a hairdresser up until that point. Working at a Cost Cutters, just so they could make ends meet. But it wasn’t long before profits began to roll in, allowing your father to take enough of a draw every month to keep the bills paid without her needing to continue busting her ass for minimum wage plus tips. She worked reception, doing all the admin, acted as a personal assistant to the whole team, and then some. She worked endlessly through her pregnancy to prove to the men there that she deserved a place. 

And now here you are. Twenty-four years later. About to do the same thing.

Like mother, like daughter, you suppose. You take the first dress off its hanger, laying it out on the bed. Then the second. Then the third. And by the time the sun is bleeding through the blinds, your bed looks like a Macy’s clearance rack. Maybe something dark…Edgy, you don’t want to be too soft.Eventually, you settle on a grey sheath dress, throwing a matching blazer over top before strapping on your only appropriate pair of heels. They might be cheap by their standards, but hopefully nobody notices. They will. You do your makeup by muscle memory, a small black wing, still sharp enough to cut. The rest of your face practically bare, nothing too much, nothing too little.

Clean. Corporate. Pretty.The hallway is still dark when you head for the kitchen, your mom won’t even be awake for another half hour. ‘Interns are always expected to be early.’ Her words play over in your head as you press down the toaster lever. You’re out of margarine. Fuck my life. You grab your keys and bag, shrug on a coat that you pray looks expensive enough to pass, and head for the door, scarfing the toast down dry. The elevator groans when it starts moving. You stare at the number ticking by, your heart knocking against your ribs. The streets are surprisingly empty for a Monday in New York. It’s too early for traffic, apparently. It’s not too early for nerves, however. The whole drive is spent replaying your mom’s words. ‘Are you sure?’You weren’t. You still aren’t. Your fingernails are nearly folding over themselves from digging into the steering wheel as you pull into the parking garage beneath the building. Legacy Capital looms above. Glass and cold steel, harsh angles and hard attitudes. The fortress. Before you get out of the car, you flip your visor down and check your makeup in the mirror.

‘You have to look the part.’

A quick touch-up on the edges of your lip-liner, a bit of gloss. You re-curl your lashes and—fuck. The mascara wand slips out of your grip, smudging black across your thumb and onto the cuff of your blazer. Don’t panic!

You dab at it with a fast food napkin, with saliva, with anything you can find. It fades, mostly. You tell yourself it’s fine. The air in the lobby smells like freshly brewed coffee and money. People here move fast. They look fast, dress fast, all sleek lines and glinting watches. The heels you picked out click against the concrete in a rhythm that feels too loud for 7 AM. You hate how that makes you feel so small. A receptionist gives you a well-practiced smile while she hands you a security badge. 

You politely introduce yourself to the woman, Sherry, whom you learned has been here for 7 years. She gives wine aunt vibes. “I think you’re set to meet up with Fawn upstairs on the thirteenth floor. Have you met her? “No, I haven’t met anyone here,” you say nervously, “could you tell me what she looks like?”

She looks back at you and smiles again, and it reaches her eyes this time. “Short, blonde, you’ll know when you see her.” She gives you a wink. “Elevators are just to your left, good luck, darlin’” You thank her, with a voice tighter than you’d like. The badge feels like it weighs ten pounds on your chest. This elevator does not smell like sweat. It smells like citrus and cologne. It’s perfectly polished steel, you can see yourself in the door. Upstairs, the office is colder. Quieter. Floor-to-ceiling windows cast sterile, white sunlight through the clouds. Glass-walled conference rooms stand like cages, or maybe fishbowls. There is a tension on the floor that you can feel in your bones, dull in your molars. You’re looking for Fawn when you feel it. Before you even see him. Harry Castillo. He moves like a man used to being watched. Not loud. Not showy. Just…impossible to ignore. God. He even walks rich. His eyes meet yours. Your heart jumps to your throat. One look and he’s already made you nervous, scared. Intrigued. You’ve met Mr. Castillo a handful of times, maybe four or five. But it’s been many, many years. You were still a freshman in college the last time you saw him. When you were young, he’d come by when he was in California for work, he would come to your home and have dinner, drink wine, and talk with your mom about your father. He would ask you about classes, simple, easy. Conversation that you never thought twice about. He sent Christmas cards and gifts until you were a teenager. He and your dad had been close before his death, best friends even. Or so that’s what you were told. You’ve always figured that part of him felt guilty about your mom leaving the firm, about selling her shares, and taking you west. She had no idea that she was giving up millions of dollars by selling so soon. Nobody could have ever predicted just how much of a legacy Castle & Co. would become. Maybe that’s why he kept in touch. You don’t remember him being this handsome. Everyone else in the office looks like they’re drowning in starch and being strangled by their ties. 

Not him.

Dark brown suit, relaxed fit but tailored perfectly to his body. He has a lighter knit shirt under the jacket that’s cut barely low enough to show the edges of his collar. No tie in sight. The color palette complements his complexion so well that it should be illegal. His hair is brushed back slightly, curls falling perfectly messy… like he’s been brushing his fingers through it just right. He’s the kind of put-together that makes the rest of the floor look like they’re trying too hard. “Distracted?” You twitch, startled when a low voice drags you out of the daydream. And when you look to your left, he’s close, so close.  You feel your face heat up. “No, of course not, Mr. Castillo.” You immediately straighten your posture, “Good morning.” “Good morning. First day?” he asks, holding eye contact. “It shows.” “Yes, sorry. I’m just looking for Fawn.” You take the opportunity to break eye contact, scanning the office. You can still feel his eyes on you. It’s making your palms sweat, your pulse is kicking in your throat.

You try to slow your breathing. It doesn’t help. Now all you can smell is him. Cedar, grapefruit. Heat. “Ah. I think she’s just finishing up with a phone call,” he says, “Her office is down the hall on your right.” His gaze flicks down, slowly. Appraising. Your skin prickles under it. He doesn’t have to do anything more than look. Then his eyes stop on your blazer. Before you have a chance to react, his hand lifts. He wraps his fingers lightly around your forearm and draws it closer to him. Your breath gets caught in your chest. You go completely still. His voice is quieter now, less amused. “What's this?” he asks, dragging his thumb over the barely there stain. The mascara, the stain you thought nobody would notice. Your stomach drops. Of course he noticed, of course. Of course, you already look like a mess. Your first day and you’re already wearing your fuck-up on your sleeve. Literally. “Oh. It’s just…mascara.” Your voice just barely makes it out. “I—I must have missed it.” You so desperately want to pull your arm back. You cannot. Not until he lets you. He looks back at your face, his brow ever so slightly furrowing. “Be careful,” he says, thumb making one last slow pass before he drops your arm back down to your side. “Nobody will miss a detail in this place.”

Your skin burns where he touched it. He holds your gaze for just a second longer. Then straightens. “Good luck today, it’s nice to see you here.” You nod, “Nice to see you as well, Mr. Castillo.” And with that, he’s gone. 

Glides his way across the room toward the elevator. You exhale. It’s too fast, too shaky. Your heart refuses to slow down. Why does he smell good? Why does he feel like that? Why are you shaking like an idiot? Girl. Get it together. You square your shoulders and smooth your sleeve like that could undo what just happened. You do another sweep of the room, spinning now, just looking for anyone blonde at this point. You don’t see her, but you do catch one more glimpse of him. Just as the elevator door starts to close. Adjusting his lapel, still staring at you, an unreadable expression etched into his face. You need to find Fawn. Now.

// He couldn’t be in the same room anymore. He’d seen enough. Too much. She wasn’t supposed to look like that. Wasn’t supposed to look at him like that. She was frozen, still in his mind as eighteen. Spitting image of her parents. Michael’s daughter. The quiet kid from dinners with Janey in California. Not this. Not a woman who would stop him cold in the middle of the damn floor. First day. Of course it was. Of course, she was nervous. He should have walked past her. Should have let Fawn handle the introductions. Shake her hand at some formal moment, say something forgettable, keep the distance where it belonged. Instead, he waited for her to come in. Instead, his feet carried him closer before his mind caught up. Instead, he’d touched her, looked too long. Felt the kick of her pulse. A metronome under his hand. His fingers flexed against his side. Careful. That one had been for him. Not her. Harry reached the door to his office. Rested a hand against the handle for a moment, collecting himself. Then stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. And exhaled the breath he’d been holding since he smelled her shampoo. // The glass walls are half-frosted, half clear. The light filters through in bands. The Legacy insignia is etched clear, towers and all; clean through the center in a perfect strip of glass you can’t help but glance through. It’s hard to make out, but through those letters, you see her. Fawn is standing with her arms braced on her desk, palms flat. She’s leaning over her phone with her head tilted slightly, mouth moving fast as she speaks. She looks sharp. Focused. Someone used to running at this pace. You shift your weight around, waiting for her to finish. Being sure not to fidget too much. Trying to ignore the way that your pulse is somehow still climbing. Focus. You need to stop thinking about how he looked at you. Fawn sees you peering into the office, and you watch as she hangs up the phone and waves you inside.

Closer up, she’s a bit softer, but in an almost… artificial way. She must be in her late thirties; it’s hard to tell. Her face is half expressionless from the filler and Botox in it. Her cheeks and lips are full and youthful, teeth sitting in her mouth like they were manicured just for her. “Hello! It’s so nice to finally meet you,” she says, rounding the desk to walk toward you. “I’m Fawn, Janey said you’d be starting. You look so much like her!” She reaches a hand out toward you, and you take it, giving it a firm shake, trying to fight back the cringe from the mention of your mother. “Thank you.” You fight the cringe that hits your spine. “I’m excited to learn.” “That’s what we like to hear.” She picks up a stack of paperwork from the desk and shuffles it into a black Legacy-branded folder, and holds it out to you. “Your onboarding packet. Intro materials, HR paperwork. Your Slack info. Most of it’s digital now, but they still like burning ink, just for us to have something to hand over.” You take it, gripping the edges. Something solid to hold onto. You’ll take it. “Have you been shown around yet? Met anyone?” “Just reception,” you say, lifting up the badge Sherry gave you earlier. “Oh, and Mr. Castillo.” Fawn grins, but it's brief. When you mention him, her eyes narrow a bit. Furrowing. Confused. “Harry—Mr. Castillo’s rarely down here this early, someone here must have…” She trails off, mouth tightening for just a moment. You can see her weighing her words. Then she shakes her head, clears her throat. “Well. Doesn’t matter.” But it does. You can feel it in the way she straightens out her shoulders, the way her voice goes a shade cooler. “Come on then. I’ll show you around,” she says, ushering you out the door. You trail behind her as she walks through the hallway, briefing you.

“You’ll spend most of your time here in Portfolio Ops,” she says, swiping a key card to get through to a separate corridor, “You’ll shadow me, pick up some project work, sit in on some internal sessions whenever possible.” It’s going to take some time to get used to this place, to really learn the lay of the land. It feels like being in a snow globe. You’re trying to focus on what she’s saying, trying to make a mental map of the place, but you’re already fighting overwhelm. She hits the down arrow on a different set of elevators than you came in on. She presses the lobby button once you’re inside. “A few other interns were hired alongside you. You’ll be spending a lot of time with them, so play nice. I know it’s competitive out here—” The door opens. A man in a suit that probably costs more than your rent steps inside, coffee in hand, looking annoyed. Fawn slides you down to the corner of the elevator and leans closer to you, dropping her voice a bit. “Just don’t feed into it, we keep notes. It’s always going to be in your best interest to rise above.” The door opens up to the main floor, you’re on the opposite side from when you got here this morning. Sherry lifts her head and gives you a slight smile as you pass her. You return it and keep moving. You struggle to keep up. Her heels click like an angry keyboard through the lobby. She’s so tiny, how do her legs move so fast in those shoes? “We run fast here. I don’t expect perfection.” Fawn stops suddenly, you almost walk into her while she turns to look at you, “I expect effort.” You nod. Tight. She continues on. “People will watch you…you especially.” She raises a brow, knowingly. You can feel your expression tighten. Yes, Fawn. I know that people think I’m a fuckin’ nepo baby. Story of my life. “Ignore it. Just work clean. Keep your head down.”

“And this is the cafe,” Fawn says, nodding her head toward the far side of the floor past reception. “Don’t expect privacy. Everyone passes through here eventually.” She’s calling it a cafe, but it feels a lot more like a stage. More glass walls, black marble, and steel. Nowhere to hide, the kind of place people go to caffeinate, heat up something fast, and get the hell out. Unless you’re into being watched by everyone who walks through… It’s tucked near the east windows, the espresso machine looks like it belongs in a Bond villain’s kitchen. There are a few low black tables and too few seats. It was designed to be functional, not comfortable. There's a long polished bar along the wall with high stools and a very intimidating-looking microwave. “This is where our interns usually eat,” she says, pointing to the higher corner table. You nod again, still trying to absorb it all. Before you can say anything, a woman approaches from the far side of the floor—dark hair pinned back slick, a crisp white blazer that contrasts beautifully against her skin. She has a tablet balanced in one hand and an iced coffee in the other. Fawn looks toward her, waves her down. “Perfect timing. This is Patel—she’s been with us a few weeks. She can help get you settled in, yeah?” She looks at her and nods her head as if she’s already accepting the offer for her. Navleen looks at you for a moment, then a smile tugs at her lips, maybe a bit forced. “Nice to meet you,” she says, reaching out. “I’m Navleen, you can call me Nav, or Patel, whichever.” You shake her hand. “Don’t worry, it’s a lot at first. You’ll catch up.” “Thanks.” Fawn checks her watch.

“I’m going to leave you two to it. I’ll see you back upstairs, first meeting is at ten.” She goes to turn toward the elevators but stops and looks back at Navleen, “Patel, there's a free desk next to yours. Go get her settled in.” And just like that, she hands you off. “So, how’s your first morning going? Need coffee?” Navleen asks. “Actually, yes. I haven’t met my caffeine quota yet.” She grins. “Good. You’ll need it if you’re planning on surviving the rest of the day.” You glance around while you wait for your coffee. No one here looks relaxed. Even the way people sip their coffees feels performative.

She leans in. “There’s a Nespresso on Port Ops, the coffee from it tastes like burnt plastic. Most of us just get it down here, it’s no fun pulling a ten-hour day running on bad coffee.” “Good to know,” you say, smiling back at her.

You order, and Navleen leans back against the marble bar while they make your drinks. “So. You already met Harry?”

Your stomach twists. “Mr. Castillo?”

She raises a brow. “Saw you two talking earlier.”

You steady your voice. “He just said good morning, introduced himself. That’s all.”

“Mmhmm.” Navleen sips her drink, eyes flicking to you. “Takes a few days before you stop feeling like you might faint in front of him.”

You look down at your cup, “I didn’t expect to run into him.”

She shrugs. “No one ever is.”

Another sip. “But hey—it looked like you handled it. Not everyone does.” You grip your cup and give her a smile you don’t quite feel. She hums, tilting her head. 

“Just sayin’. People watch. You’ll figure that out.” A second passes, and her smile turns into a smirk. “Not always for the reasons you think.” The nerves you’d managed to calm set back in as you sit and drink your coffee.

She glances at her watch. “We should head back up. You’re in the bullpen for now—across from me and Isaac. You’ll meet him. He’s nice. A little too nice sometimes. Never shuts up about his partner. You’ll see.”

You laugh softly. “ he sounds harmless.”

“Harmless is usually where the real stories start.”

She pushes off the bar, coffee in hand, and heads down the hallway, looking back at you to encourage you to walk with her.

“Biggest tip? Keep your head down this week. Make friends,” she pauses for a moment as you step into the elevator, “Don’t outshine anyone.”

The door opens, and she nods for you to follow her. “Walk faster. We don’t linger in the halls. It’s a thing.” You speed up. “This section’s mostly juniors and interns,” she says, quieter now. “You’ll sit across from me, which is tragic for you, but good for me.” You pass through the offices, and a lot more people are here now. Most of the doors are closed, a few open just enough to offer a glimpse of someone hunched over a desk, whispering into a headset. The layout of this area is too open to feel safe, too quiet to feel casual. It feels like the kind of place that everyone could hear it if you fucked up.

Navleen gestures at a clean workstation, the desk is minimalist, and dual monitors are already set up.

“Here you go. Welcome to the fishbowl,” she says. “We pretend we’re not watching each other, but we are. It’s part of the fun.” Okay so it’s not just me who feels like a fucking beta fish. You give her a polite smile, pulling out the plush, leather office chair and putting your purse below your feet. Okay, this is fine. I’ve got this, I didn’t dissociate the entire morning at all. You drop into the chair at your new desk, coffee within reach, fingers twitching against the edge of the folder that Fawn handed you earlier. You take a few deep breaths and open it.

The first page is a welcome letter printed on heavy cardstock. The Legacy Capital logo is embossed into it with gold foil; the cardstock probably costs more than your printer back at home. The wording is formal and robotic: “We expect excellence, discretion, and professionalism from all of our team members, regardless of tenure.” It’s just a letter, but it feels like a warning. You turn the page. Org Chart. You freeze for a second. His name is printed right there at the top of the pyramid, also in gold foil. Harry Castillo. Your mother’s name is there too, tucked near the bottom under Executive Assistant to the CEO. You scan through the names, nobody notable, not you or Navleen, just a block labeled Intern Pool.

Figures. Next is a sheet of systems and logins—Slack, internal drives, and different formatting guidelines. Specific brand fonts for decks, company colors, black, gold, and white. There’s a section of file naming protocols that’s two damn paragraphs long. Communication Guidelines: ‘Transparency is key. Digital communication is monitored.’ You hum to yourself. Most of this certainly reads like a threat.

The HR packet is next, there’s benefit info that doesn’t apply to you yet, a copy of the NDA you already signed before starting, and an Ethics Compliance Form. You close your eyes tight for a second, then push past it. A small black and gold enamel pin slides free from one of the inner pouches. Legacy’s tower insignia stamped into it like a seal. A talisman. Did I just join a cult? You set it aside.

Lastly, on the bottom of the stack, there’s a Legacy-branded notebook—satin black cover, thick paper. On the inside of the cover page, written in gold: ‘Build your Legacy. Leave your mark.’ A bit ominous…but very on brand for this place. When you flip to the back of the notebook, you see your mother’s handwriting. ‘Proud of you. Keep your head down. — Mom x’ You stare down at the notebook for another few seconds. Build your Legacy. Leave your mark. The floor still feels like it's buzzing beneath your feet. Your head is still swimming. When you glance up, Navleen is already in deep conversation across the room, headset half on, fingers flying over her keyboard. You should be doing something. You pull your laptop toward you, tap it awake, and start clicking through Slack. Channels. Messages. Too many messages already. You try to focus. Try to look busy. A message pops up on the screen. Fawn: Ready? Meet me at Conference 2. Ten sharp. Instantly, your heart kicks up. You straighten your blazer, shove the onboarding folder into your purse, and pick up the notebook. And stand. First meeting. Deep breath. Don’t fuck this up. Conference rooms are on the floor above Port Ops. The floor layout is basically the same, a little more spread out, fewer people crammed in there, bigger rooms. You walk down the hall, all half-frosted glass walls like everywhere else. Your mother is already inside the office. Through the tower emblem, you can see her, seated perfectly upright, laptop already out on the table in front of her. Next to her—Harry. He’s standing, his jacket off now, the shirt he’s in is short-sleeved, he looks almost scandalous compared to the folks in crisp suits and dress shirts around him. He’s talking to someone on the opposite side of the table. Your stomach knots. Of course. First real meeting, and my mother and him are both here. Please kill me. Just as you start to force your feet forward, Fawn appears beside you. “Hey!” she says from behind, “you ready?” “As I’ll ever be.” You push down the nausea and clear your expression. Both heads turn toward you the moment Fawn pushes the door open. Your mother gives you a soft look, her lips ever so slightly curving up. Harry’s gaze slides over to you, slow. Then he steps back, casual, hands in his pockets. “Here she is,” Fawn says. “Our new addition.” You force a polite nod to the room. “Good morning.” “Morning,” your mom says quickly, like she’s trying to fill the space before anyone else can. She gestures lightly. “Have a seat, sweetheart.” The word hits your ears like nails on a chalkboard. Fawn motions for you to sit, conveniently across from Harry. Why am I sweating? He doesn’t say a word. He just watches for half a second too long before sliding into the chair beside your mother. The meeting begins. It’s part orientation rundown for the other interns and yourself, half schedule discussion.

You do your best to pay attention, writing down meaningless notes in your notebook, but your pulse keeps doing something weird every time Harry shifts in his seat. Every time your mother mentions “Legacy culture” or “building relationships within the firm,” your skin crawls. You can feel Harry’s eyes flick toward you again and again. You don’t dare meet it. When he finally speaks, i’ts low, calm, and smooth. You nearly drop your fucking pen. “Intern schedules can stay in Ops. Let's keep it clean.” Fawn just nods along. Your mother types something on her computer, brow furrowed in concentration. You stare at the words, leave your mark inside your notebook cover, and fight the urge to laugh. Or cry. The meeting starts to wind down, and people begin to gather their things. Harry stands up first, shrugging his jacket back on, movements smooth as ever. When he passes your chair, he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t say a word.

But as he rounds the glass door, you glance over. He’s already looking back. The door clicks shut behind him, and your shoulders sag before you can catch it. Around the table, chairs scrape, and voices pick back up. The meeting is officially over. Fawn gives you a quick smile as you reach for your notebook. “Good first round,” she says under her breath. “You’ll get used to these quick.” “Thanks.” Across the room, your mom is still gathering her things up, just taking her time. Of course. She crosses to you just as the others file out. “You okay?” she asks quietly, her voice is bright, too practiced, too corporate. Then it drops lower, “You looked a little nervous.” “I’m fine. First day jitters.” You say, forcing a smile. Her gaze lingers a moment, searching your face. “Just keep your head down,” she says softly. A repeat of the note she left. “Don’t let them see you sweat.” You nod at her. She exhales. Then, says, “Come on then. I’ll walk you back up.”

You fall into step beside her, both of you moving through the halls like it’s normal. Like you’re not being watched already. Like people aren’t already thinking it. The rest of the day passes by in a blur. Emails, Slack messages, and system tutorials you could barely absorb. Patel tried to pull you into a few casual chats after introducing you to Isaac, who seemed nice. But she was right, he might actually be too nice. Fawn threw projects at you faster than you could even begin to process them. You smiled. You nodded. You didn’t breathe. Your stomach starts to growl loudly. You look over to the clock at the corner of your screen and— Shit, how is it 5 PM already? No wonder you’re hungry, you survived the day on dry toast, two cups of coffee, and a handful of hopes and dreams.

//

By the time you finish up your onboarding checklist and reread through the code of conduct four more times, it’s 7 PM. The office has thinned out considerably. Only a handful of people remain on the floor as you throw your blazer over your arm and walk out the door. The parking garage is spookier in the evening light. Emptier too. Before you’ve even buckled in, your cellphone starts to ring. You put the key in the ignition and turn. Pulling your phone out of your purse and smiling when you see the photo lighting up the screen. Emeryl. You slide to answer and slap the phone into the dash mount just as their face fills up the screen—grainy, 480P calculator quality, garage reception already choking the call. “Hey! I’m so glad you’re done at wor—oh my god, you look exhausted.” “Thanks, jerk. I am.” You throw the car into reverse, one hand braced on the wheel. “I survived the day. Just barely, but I survived!” They grin at you through the lens. “You better spill. Full report. I need this.”

When you start to speak, you get distracted before the first sentence is out. Out of the corner of your eye, headlights flash, and you hear the doors beep unlocked. Adrenaline shoots through you. A very shiny, very expensive-looking, very black Bentley. In a reserved spot. You mutter under your breath without thinking, “You have to be kidding.” The door swings open. And Mr. Castillo is right there, sliding into the driver’s seat. Still terrifying. Still too good-looking for your blood pressure. “...Hello?” Emeryl’s voice cuts in. “Why aren’t you talking? What’s happening?” “He’s here,” you whisper. “WHO?” You don’t answer right away. “Who is there? Jason fucking Vorhees?” they yell through the receiver, “You look like you’re about to be murdered.”

“My boss. The CEO. He’s…here. In the garage. Getting into his car.” Silence, then— “WHAT IS HAPPENING?” Their voice pitches up. “TURN ME AROUND. I WANT TO SEE.” . “I’m not turning you around, Jesus Christ,” you say, stifling a nervous laugh with your hand. “You’re so rude! I demand visuals. This is crucial information.” Your eyes dart back toward the Bentley just as it pulls into motion. “He’s leaving. It’s fine.” Emeryl groans. “Fine? You sound like you’re going to pass out. What the hell happened in there?” You grip the wheel tighter. “He just walked out when I was leaving. That’s all.” “You’re so full of shit. Start from the top. Did he look at you? Did he say something? Why are you being cryptic?” An exaggerated sigh heaves its way from your chest as you rub at your temple. “It’s nothing…I think. I don’t know.” “Girl.” “Okay fine. This morning, when I got in, he was like…staring at me.” “Okay, I’m intrigued, go on.” “I dropped my mascara wand on my blazer this morning and it stained it.” As you pull onto the street, the call audio crackles, clearing. You glance down, and Emeryl is now in at least 1080P. “This seems super irrelevant right now.” “Sorry. When we met, he got weirdly close to me and grabbed my wrist to look at the stain.” “In like…a hot way, or a murder way?” “Both?” You make a face, “anyway, he also told me to ‘be careful’ and it kinda made me feel some sorta way.” “Is he hot?” “He’s…old.” “That doesn’t mean anything. How old is old?” “Well, considering he was friends with my dad before I was born. I’m gonna have to say, he’s at least fifty-ish.” Emeryl repeats themself, “Okay, but is he hot? You sound like you’re still shaking?” “He’s definitely better looking than I remembered. He’s kinda giving—” you pause. “Wait, did you ever watch NARCOS?” “I don’t think so?” “Oh, okay. Never mind,” The line is silent for a solid thirty seconds. “So he’s hot?” “Oh my god, yes. Yes, Emeryl, he’s hot.” “Sorry, I’m just trying to live vicariously through you. I need office romance drama in my life somehow.” “You’re dumb.” “NO. You’re dumb. What did he smell like?” You’re blushing now. “Rich. Next topic.” “Of course he does,” Emeryl mutters.

“Everyone there looks perfect, too. It’s nauseating. My desk is literally in a glass box, people can see everything, including my $150 Nordstrom Rack blazers.” Emeryl snorts, “Sexy corporate surveillance kink, love that for you.” You say nothing, just shake your head. “Baby, you dress perfectly fine. Don’t worry about that part,” they say. “No, you don’t get it. I already want to burn half my wardrobe. Everyone there looks like they’re on the cover of Forbes.” // Harry all but peeled out of the parking garage. Took the corner too fast, fingers curled tight around the wheel, knuckles white. He hadn’t meant to watch her leave. Tried to look away, failed. She’s in his head. The whole damn drive home he’d barely seen the road. All he could think about was her face, tilted toward him in the office. Her profile in the meeting. The curve of her jaw. Her lips. That little sound she made when he took her wrist in his hand. Idiot. Fucking idiot. Don’t do this. Don’t do this again. He shouldn’t have let Janey convince him to give her the internship. Should have said it was a conflict of interest. Because this is a fucking conflict of interest. He gripped the wheel tighter. Had half a mind to pour a drink when he got home. Maybe two. But even he knew that wouldn’t wash her out. Because that feeling had already crept in, and he knew. It’s going to take more than the top shelf to stop it. When he sets his mind on something…on someone. He won’t quit until it’s his. Regardless of how terrible an idea he knows it is.

//

At this point, you’ve been in the car for 45 minutes in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Getting back has been a total nightmare compared to this morning's ten-minute commute. Emeryl’s been grilling you the entire time about your day. Asking for every single detail. “So. I have a proposition.” “Oh god. Do I even want to hear it?” you groan. There's a small pause, then they say it so casually, like it's the most normal thing in the world. “Have you ever considered just…making one of these rich assholes pay your bills?” You blink. “Pardon.” “I’m serious.” Their voice perks up. “Join one of those sugar baby websites. I had a friend from Twitter in Oakland who did it. They made enough bank to pay off their student loans in like…three months.” You laugh, half-horified. “Em. No.” “Why not? Look at where you’re working. They’re all walking mother wounds with expense accounts. I think you’d be perfect.” “Absolutely not.” “Just look. At least I’m not like…telling you to sell toe pics again. Just make a profile. Window shop. Empower yourself!” “You’re out of your damn mind.” “You love me.” You sigh, rolling your eyes. “Maybe.” “That’s not a no. I’m texting you the site.” “You are not.” “Too late.” The phone buzzes with a new text notification from them. Of course, they sent that. You shift the mount a little, watching the traffic crawl. “Why are you like this?” “Please. You knew what you were getting into when you left me here for the wolves.” “God, I didn’t leave you for the wolves.” You protest. “You left me for New York. Same thing.” They lean in closer to the screen, grinning.

“You’re the only bitch I know who could ace a finance degree and still get tangled up with half the wolves on Wall Street. I’m just trying to make sure you survive it.” Your throat tightens, just a little. You missed them more than you let yourself think. In your first year at Berkeley, you met Emeryl. You were both at the same awful Halloween party. Neither of you knew the host. They found you smoking a cigarette on the balcony and said, “You look like you hate everyone here. Me too.” And that was that. Been each other’s lifeline ever since. This isn’t even the first time Emeryl has suggested you sign up for a website like this. They told you to make an account on Feetstagram a month ago and said, “You have nice arches,” like it meant anything. You considered it. Briefly… But unfortunately for them—and for the internet, you don’t do feet, don’t do feet stuff. Not that you’re gonna yuck anyone's yum. But for you? Nope. Not your thing. You finally make it home and park. Still both caught in conversation, yapping away as you walk into the apartment. One hand is still on the phone as you kick the door shut behind you. “I swear to God, LA traffic is miles better than this place, there are too many fucking bridges.” you groan. “Maybe you should carpool with your mom,” Emeryl suggests, holding back a snicker. “Maybe you should shut the fuck up.” They cackle. “Okay, okay. I’ll let you go. But—” their voice drops, teasing, “don’t forget what we talked about.” You roll your eyes, kicking off your heels. “I’m literally not doing that.” “You promised you’d look.” “I didn’t promise anything, I just said maybe.” They wink at you, grinning. “Let me know what username you choose!” You sigh—half laugh, half exhaustion. “I’ll call you tomorrow, love you.” They blow you a kiss and end the call. When you make it up to your room, you strip off your clothes and drop them straight into your hamper. You pull on an oversized tee and some PJs. You grab a glass of water from the kitchen and flop down on the couch with your laptop. Then you open a blank incognito tab, already shaking your head at yourself. You grab your phone and look at your text thread with Emeryl. Gilded. That’s the website name. It sounds…expensive.

You sigh, murmuring to yourself as you begin to type. I can’t believe I’m doing this. The URL auto-fills, and you exit the page before hitting enter. I am not doing this. Instead, you open Slack. Check your messages. Stare at your onboarding checklist again. Close it. You tap your fingers on the side of your laptop. Emeryl’s voice itches in your brain. ‘You promised you’d look’ You stare at the screen for a hot minute, debating, holding your face with one hand. “Fine.” You type it back in and actually hit enter this time. When the site loads, it's black and sleek and a little too inviting. You hesitate. I’m just looking. Just for fun. Not serious. When you finally click Sign Up, your heart flutters. Do I doxx myself completely? Or do I not… Instead of choosing a photo that shows your entire face, you pick a very sexy, very ominous photo that one of your film major friends took of you in school. It’s you posed leaning back on a sofa. All silhouettes in red light. Only your side profile is showing. Dark enough to stay relatively anonymous, visible enough to pass the website's standards. Now a username. You look around the living room for inspiration, There's a stack of your textbooks on the shelf. FinanceNerd? Nope. Absolutely not. Your eyes land on the old film camera sitting on the table. ShutterBaby? God, that sounds like a cartoon character. No. You chew on your lip, fingers tapping away again. Alumni hoodie. BerkeleyGrad? Kill me, I should give up while I’m ahead. Your gaze drifts toward the bookshelf again. Tucked between your other reads is a battered copy of Inferno. You’ve been slowly working your way through it again, mostly because Hozier sent you through a literary rabbit hole with his last album. You tilt your head. Francesca. Rimini. You hum. Both pretty. But… Your eyes shift to the fridge. There's a crooked little I <3 LA magnet—half a gag gift from Emeryl before you left, half a reminder of home. You laugh under your breath. La Rimini. It’s got a ring to it. A little mysterious. A little old-world, smart. You type it in. LaRimini. Click. You enter your ID information, then check the box that assures you that your full name is only ever made public if there’s a court order. You hit enter one more time and exhale. The profile accepts, and the screen instantly floods with profiles. Men in suits. Men on yachts. Men with smiles that they definitely bought. You scroll. Why did I put myself into this circle of hell right now? You scroll again. And then—

You pause. A profile catches your eye. Your pulse ticks a little faster. You lean in closer to the screen. No way. No FUCKING WAY. If you liked this please leave a comment! it really encourages me to keep writing these fics for yall. if you want to be added to the tag list also comment or send me an ask!!! love you all sm. -Liv

[juiceeypeach]

𓆉 lads fic recs 𓆉

[★] peach’s pick

[♡] fluff

[𖤐] smut/suggestive

[☾] angst

[𖦹] crack

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𓇼 ࣪ 𓈒ㅤׂㅤ⭒ S 𓆡 ⭒ㅤ𓈒ㅤׂ

★ (UN)PROFESSIONAL. chuluoyi.

𖤐☾.

5.2k

master and servant. man and his right hand woman. you and sylus are labeled many things, but does love exist in many labels of your relationship?

★ JEALOUSY INCARNATE. chuluoyi.

♡𖤐☾𖦹.

3.8k

part two to STRICTLY (UN)PROFESSIONAL. more than friends with benefits, definitely lovers. your relationship is one filled with banters, steamy nights, and secret strings attached... but when someone shows an interest in you, sylus won't hesitate to stake his claim for everyone to see.

★ BANE OF EXISTENCE. chuluoyi.

♡𖤐.

unk. word count

part three to STRICTLY (UN)PROFESSIONAL. you and your lover are hailed and feared, but who would have guessed that behind closed doors, both of you are just that — lovers?

★ THE MAN & HIS LADY. chuluoyi.

♡𖤐☾.

unk. word count

part four to STRICTLY (UN)PROFESSIONAL. everyone acknowledges you as his woman, but how far will he go for you when he realizes you are in danger?

★ WINNERS KEEPERS. chuluoyi.

♡𖤐☾.

unk. word count

part five to STRICTLY (UN)PROFESSIONAL. you suspect something’s off when you catch your lover with the hunter girl, so you decide to give him the cold shoulder. his way of winning you back? trapping you in a bet—if he wins this underground fight match, you’re back to being his.

★ CATCH ME IF YOU CAN. chuluoyi.

♡𖤐𖦹.

unk. word count

part six to STRICTLY (UN)PROFESSIONAL. when your husband went away without so much as a proper notice, you thought you wouldn't forgive him so easily. but he tries everything to capture your heart back: spoiling and indulging you… little do you know that he expects a reward in return.

FORGIVENESS. poisonf0rest.

𖤐.

2.4k

reader ignores sylus and refuses to moan for him, after he playfully mocks her, so he does everything to get her to make noise in bed.

★ ERROR 404. ittybittyfanblog.

♡☾𖤐.

unk. word count, 10 chaps.

self aware!sylus au

BETTER THAN THE DEVIL. syluss-littlecrow.

𖤐.

2.9k

reader finds out that sylus has horns and that they are.. sensitive.

OBSESSED. tojicide.

𖤐.

4.6k

reader’s bodyguard is just SOOO obsessed with her.

PLEASE & THANK YOU. aeyumicore.

𖤐.

7.5k

what happens when you handcuff sylus to a bed?

KITTEN. rink-eko.

♡.

unk word count

sylus calls you kitten for a reason.

REMIND ME. tojicide.

𖤐.

6.1k

sylus finds out that you’ve moved on six months after your breakup.

★ SLEEP ON HIM. blueberrisdove-sideblog.

♡𖤐.

unk. word count

cockwarming sylus while you’re sleepy.

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𓇼 ࣪ 𓈒ㅤׂㅤ⭒ Z 𓆡 ⭒ㅤ𓈒ㅤׂ

★ PLEASURE PRESCRIPTION. unintentionalseductress.

𖤐.

unk. word count

the hunter’s association deems that in order to keep stress levels low, hunters must participate in medical masturbation.

★ DISOBEDIENT WIVES. illou-sainte.

𖤐.

unk word count.

you tend to forget to put on your wedding ring and zayne punishes you for it.

★ EVERY ANSWER, ALWAYS. iraot.

♡.

5.2k

dr. “if my wife is an over thinker, i’ll be an over explainer..” zayne

HEARTBREAK ANNIVERSARY. mephisto-reporting.

☾.

unk word count

zayne had to cancel your anniversary dinner and it all goes downhill from there.

★ DOCTOR, DOCTOR. shouyuus.

𖤐.

3.3k

zayne participates in an antidote trial for a new underground love drug, the antidote is ineffective.

★ NOCTURNE TWILIGHT. chuluoyi.

𖤐☾.

8k

he is your husband and you are his wife. but of course you know the bitter truth—you will never be able to replace her..

DAWN’S FIRST LIGHT. chuluoyi.

♡☾.

8k

part two to NOCTURNE TWILIGHT. as dawn breaks, a new chapter begins. now husband and wife in the truest sense, both of you embark on the path of happiness together. yet, bittersweet loose ends remain still. will they eventually stay in the past for good, or cast a permanent shadow over your lives?

THE LADY WIFE. chuluoyi.

𖦹♡.

unk. word count

part three to NOCTURNE TWILIGHT. everyone knows dr. zayne is cool as a cucumber, and it's a given for him that you're known as his wife, but when a fresh-faced new resident seemingly makes a move on you... what will he do?

BODY SHOT. luvzayne.

𖤐.

5.9k

you HATE TA!zayne and he hates you.. you think.

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𓇼 ࣪ 𓈒ㅤׂㅤ⭒ R 𓆡 ⭒ㅤ𓈒ㅤׂ

★ INTERDIAL ZONE. poisonf0rest.

𖤐.

6.7k

the nightly rendezvous card but from rafayel’s POV.

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𓇼 ࣪ 𓈒ㅤׂㅤ⭒ C 𓆡 ⭒ㅤ𓈒ㅤׂ

ROTTEN TO THE CORE. latrespada.

𖤐.

6k

caleb punishes you due to his own jealousy from you being surrounded by men.

LIE. humanjarvis.

𖤐.

3.9k

caleb catches you in a lie and you suffer the consequences, immediately.

★ CUM HOME. aomiiine.

𖤐.

unk. word count

after being gone for service for almost a full year, your husband returns home.

GOOD ENOUGH. cinnamorollcrybaby.

𖤐.

unk. word count

caleb finds out you’re stringing along 4 other guys and makes it his mission to piss off xavier.

RUN AWAY. yandere-sins.

𖤐☾.

unk word count

caleb catches you trying to run away and uses his evol on you.

YOUR MAN. plutotheplum.

𖤐.

5.8k

caleb doesn’t like that your tutor is a guy.

EYES ON YOU. kutepil.

𖤐.

2k

caleb has hidden cameras all over his house so you decide to put on a show for him.

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𓇼 ࣪ 𓈒ㅤׂㅤ⭒ X 𓆡 ⭒ㅤ𓈒ㅤׂ

POSSESIVE. slapmeshigaraki.

𖤐.

unk. word count

xavier gets off on you being jealous.

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𓇼 ࣪ 𓈒ㅤׂㅤ⭒ MULTI/POLY 𓆡 ⭒ㅤ𓈒ㅤׂ

FLASHING. tbaluver.

𖦹𖤐.

unk. word count

flashing the LADS men during an argument. (separate)

COMFORTING. kirbmey.

𖤐.

unk. word count

couple, reader & sylus both want rafayel. reader x poly!crowfish.

BEST DREAMS. poisonf0rest.

𖤐.

7.5k

reader wakes up from a nightmare so rafayel comforts her while xavier sleeps next to them in bed. poly!starfish x reader.

SWEET DREAMS. sinstae.

♡𖤐.

2.7k

sylus and reader have a good time while zayne watches after a hard and long day. poly!snowcrow x reader.

★ FLAMES & SHADOWS. poisonf0rest.

𖤐.

10.6k

rafayel helps smuggle reader into the N109 zone not knowing it would lead you into sylus’ arms. while she is passed out, they both discover she has a past life with the both of them. poly!snowcrow x reader.

COOKOUT. chibichibi-mia.

𖦹♡.

unk. word count

when the lads boys get invited to the cookout. (separate)

BITING. oncasette.

♡.

unk. word count

how the lads men react to an s/o that bites them as a way of showing their love. (separate)

RAMBLINGS. alynnia.

♡ 𖤐.

unk. word count

long drabble of HCs for poly!crowfish x MC, but mainly CF.

SAY MY NAME. dadddybangtan.

𖤐.

3.3k.

xavier overhears reader & sylus together and wants to join in on the fun. starcrow x reader.

FRAT LADS. onacasette.

♡𖤐.

unk word count.

frat boy!LADS HCs

★ WHY CHOOSE. cinnamorollcrybaby.

𖦹♡𖤐.

unk. word count

poly!LADS x reader/MC series.

★ WELCOME HOME. lovegasmic.

𖤐.

unk word count

caleb is back in you life and he and zayne are back to fighting over you. poly!snowapple x reader.

ZAYNE TEACHING. deepspacenova.

♡𖤐𖦹.

unk word count

now that caleb is back and you & zayne are together, he has to learn from zayne all the things you like. poly!snowapple x reader.

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𓇼 ࣪ 𓈒ㅤׂㅤ⭒ blurbs/drabbles 𓆡 ⭒ㅤ𓈒ㅤׂ

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𓇼 ࣪ 𓈒ㅤׂㅤ⭒ visuals 𓆡 ⭒ㅤ𓈒ㅤׂ

borders : dollywons

[clementineinn]

before you fade, 2.

abstract: a string of disappearances in a snowbound town pulls the BAU into a chilling case — one that hits too close when the next target is personal. chosen not for weakness, but for the strength that's been buried, hidden away in the depths of a person. as a team races against time, secrets resurface, and the line between subject and survivor begins to blur.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (some usage of Y/N)

genre: angst / fluff

word count: ~7.5k

note: i finally finished up the second part to this story! ill link the first part in case anyone wants to check it out as well :) thank you sosososo much to all of you who liked, commented, reblogged my previous post, it was so heartwarming to see!! thank you, you beautiful community who accepted me w open arms. KISSES tO ALL OF U MWAH!!!! enjoy! :)

She woke to cold metal beneath her skin.

It wasn’t the kind of cold from snow or air — it was worse. The sterile, dead cold of stainless steel. Her head throbbed in pulses, and her limbs wouldn’t move the way she wanted, the way her mind willed them to. Her hands were restrained — not roughly, but with precision. Cuffs attached to the bed. Her ankles were the same. She could flex her fingers, but her strength felt distant. Detached.

Lights burned overhead. Fluorescent. Harsh.

She blinked, once, twice, vision adjusting.

The room around her was wrong. Not a basement. Not a dungeon. Something worse. It was clean.

She was on a surgical table — straps across her torso, her legs, her arms. Her jacket was gone. So were her shoes. She wore a plain, gray hospital gown that didn’t belong to her.

The walls were white. Immaculate. To her left, she saw a counter lined with metal instruments, each laid out in careful rows — forceps, syringes, scalpels – tools that made her stomach flip. To her right, a tray with a notepad and pen. A recorder.

And against the far wall — cages.

Three of them. Stainless steel. Empty. Animal enclosures.

Her heart lurched.

Then she heard it.

Footsteps. Soft. Measured.

A figure emerged from the shadows beyond the door. A man — maybe late 30s, lean, gloved hands. No rage in his face. No glee. Just curiosity. Calm, clinical interest.

He didn’t look like a monster. He looked like a doctor.

“Hello, Agent,” he said gently.

She didn’t speak.

He smiled a little. “I’m glad you’re awake. I didn’t expect to take you this soon. But… you fit.”

He approached slowly, his eyes scanning her face the way someone might scan a page in a textbook. She turned her head away, her jaw locked.

“I know you’re scared,” he continued, voice as smooth as glass. “But this isn’t about pain. I’m not interested in hurting you. I’m interested in understanding you.”

She didn’t respond.

“I’ve read your file,” he said. “Not the Bureau one — not the sanitized version they handed you when you joined the BAU. I mean the real one. The one Interpol tried to bury after Prague.”

Her stomach clenched.

He smiled, not cruel — but pleased. “That got your attention.”

“I know what happened to you there. The explosion. The agents you lost. The three weeks you spent in a burn unit. The trauma counseling. You were broken once — not just physically. Psychologically. But you survived.”

She glared at him now, eyes narrowing.

He leaned closer. “That’s what made you perfect. You know how to fracture and rebuild. That’s what fascinates me. Not weakness. Not fear. Reconstruction. I want to see what happens when all that strength… finally stops holding.”

“The team will find me,” she said, voice raw but firm. “And when he— they do—”

“I’m counting on it,” he replied brightly, his expression almost gleeful now. “I want them to see what happens to the unbreakable ones.”

Then he pressed record on the tape deck.

And turned off the lights.

Time didn’t exist in the white room. Not in any way that mattered.

There were no windows. No clocks. No day or night. Just the endless, sterile glare of fluorescent lights that never dimmed — a brightness so constant, it began to erode the edges of thought. Shadows didn’t shift here. Time didn’t pass. It hovered, oppressive and still.

The hum of electricity behind the walls was constant. Not loud, but invasive — a subtle, vibrating presence that crept under her skin and coiled in her skull. The air was dry, recycled, and carried the faint, inescapable scent of antiseptic and metal. It wasn’t cold enough to kill — he’d made sure of that — but it was cold enough to numb. Cold enough to make her body forget how warmth felt.

Everything in the room was curated. Precise. White walls. White floor. Stainless steel. The kind of blankness that invited madness. That erased identity.

She didn’t scream — that would’ve given him too much. She didn’t beg — that’s what he wanted. She didn’t cry — not because she didn’t want to, but because she wasn’t sure she could anymore. The tears had dried up somewhere between the restraints and the silence— and the bruises.

They covered her jaw, her ribs, the tender skin at her temple where his knuckles had struck hard and fast in the dark. He never hit her with rage. Never while yelling. No warning. Just methodical strikes — knuckles to cheekbone, heel of the hand to sternum — meant to test reflexes. To study how pain shifted the body’s defenses. How silence buckled under pressure. Every hour that passed was another test of will, another slow-motion sparring match with a man who didn’t want chaos — he wanted collapse.

And she had spent years learning how to outlive collapse.

She focused on the details. The click of the lock before he entered. The shuffle of paper. The faint scent of latex. She counted them like lifelines, cataloged them like patterns. Because patterns meant control. And control — even the illusion of it — could mean survival.

Ben Milburn entered the same way every time.

No wasted motion. Clipboard in hand. Gloves already on. A white coat worn not for warmth, but for theater.

He didn’t look at her like a person. He looked at her like a subject. His gaze was clinical, dispassionate — the kind of stare she’d seen in war footage, in documentaries, in predators. And when she didn’t respond, when her defiance lingered too long behind swollen eyes, he would lean close and, in that same gentle voice, say, “Let’s accelerate the variables.”

Then he’d strike.

One night, it was a fist to the temple — sudden and sharp — that left her dazed, blinking blood from her eyelashes. Another, he backhanded her hard enough to split her lip and knock her head sideways into the metal frame. When she coughed from smoke in her lungs, he struck low, right below the ribs, to hear how breath sounded when it shattered.

He watched her every time. And he wrote it all down.

“I notice your sleep cycle hasn’t reset,” he said after being gone for — she didn’t know. A day? Maybe less. The lights never changed. Time bent strangely here.

She didn’t know how long it had been since the last blackout — since he turned off the lights and struck from the dark, his fists meeting bone and skin in clinical rhythm.

“You’re still trying to control time. That’s interesting.”

She didn’t respond.

“You’re still regulating your breath rate, too,” he mused, circling the table. “That’s a primitive defense. Mind over body. But eventually, that’ll crack, too.” A wicked smile played on his lips, the corner of them twitching as if trying not to laugh, and his eyes looked far away, as if he was reliving a distant memory. “It always does.”

Her face throbbed. The skin under her left eye was tight and hot. A bruise swelling beneath it like a second heartbeat.

Still, she kept her eyes on him. Calm. Steady. She refused to give him the sound of pain.

“It’s fascinating,” he murmured, gaze drifting down her body like she was a medical scan. “I’ve read your file. Childhood trauma. Strict self-regulation. Authority issues. Emotional isolation. But still… you became someone. Highly functional. Brilliant, even. Your pain made you exceptional.”

He circled slowly, his steps soft on the tile. A man who lived in silence. Who fed on it.

Her lips curled — not into a smile, but something sharper.

“Yours,” she said, voice low and razor-thin, “just made you boring.”

He stilled.

Just for a moment.

His hand paused above the tray of instruments — a needle halfway to its case. He didn’t react violently. His expression didn’t twist with rage. That wasn’t his nature. But something shifted. A flicker in his gaze. The illusion of total control cracked.

It was the smallest tell. And Y/N saw it.

She filed it away like a weapon. Because she knew now — he wasn’t unshakable.

The injections were mild sedatives. Nothing paralyzing — just enough to loosen the mind, distort time, make fear crawl more easily under the skin. He was too careful for brute force. That wasn’t his style. He wanted surrender, not obedience. Collapse, not compliance.

But he underestimated her.

Every time she drifted under the haze, she forced her mind to focus — on Spencer’s voice, on the rhythm of profiling exercises, on the feel of her badge in her hand. Anchors. Things that tethered her to herself.

She noticed patterns. He entered every hour. Always from the left-hand door. He avoided the cages when she watched. There was something beneath the floor — once, when he left, she heard machinery start humming under the metal table.

This isn’t a basement. It’s something else. A lab? A clinic?

The third time he brought food, she noticed the smell: antiseptic, animal dander, faint but distinct.

Veterinary clinic.

Old. Repurposed. Out of sight.

She tucked the thought away like a blade in her pocket.

He sat in the corner that time, not looming or circling. Just sitting. Like they were having a late-night conversation in a quiet study. Like this was something intimate.

Y/N lay still on the table, one wrist still cuffed, the sedative fading from her bloodstream in slow pulses. Her mouth was dry. Her face throbbed. But her eyes — bloodshot, bruised — stayed locked on his.

“You know,” he began, his voice calm, “they’re searching. The way your team always does. Brilliant minds. Cracking timelines. Profiling patterns.”

He tapped the pen against the clipboard — rhythmic, idle.

“They found the old facility on Claremont Road. The one with the rotted subfloor and the leftover cages. I knew they would. That was intentional.”

Her breath hitched.

He smiled, small and patient. “They think that’s where I brought you. That’s where they’re focusing now. Grids. Maps. K-9 units.”

She clenched her jaw. “They’ll find this place. They always do.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Eventually, maybe. But this clinic isn’t in any current zoning records. No satellite imagery. No listed utilities. You don’t stumble on this one unless you already know it exists. It’ll probably take them days.”

He leaned forward now, eyes glittering in the light.

“Only locals know this land. People who were born here. People who remember the vet that used to run this place — back when it was a roadside barn before the county paved the forest around it.”

He said it almost wistfully, like he was recounting folklore.

“I used to come here with my father. We’d bring in raccoons, injured strays. I remember the smell of iodine. The way the walls would sweat in summer. It’s always been quiet here.”

Y/N swallowed hard.

“You planned all of this.”

“Of course I did,” he said, almost offended. “You don’t trap someone like you without planning every inch of it.”

Her pulse spiked. He glanced toward the monitor and smiled.

“You see, Agent, they’re close. But not here. And that’s what makes this perfect. You’ll still be alone… right up until the end.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak.

But inside, her brain raced.

Claremont Road — that’s where they were. But this wasn’t Claremont. He’d led them there. On purpose.

And unless she found a way out, they wouldn’t find her in time.

Milburn entered in silence this time, no clipboard, no syringe. Just a chair in hand.

He placed it beside the table and sat like they were about to begin a therapy session. His gaze moved over her not with hunger, but reverence. The reverence of a man studying a masterpiece.

“You’re stubborn,” he said quietly. “It’s admirable. Most subjects began showing cracks by the first 10 hours.”

Y/N didn’t respond. She’d learned that silence provoked more than resistance.

“I imagine the team thinks they’re close,” he continued, almost conversational. “I left enough in the decoy site to suggest activity. Staged prints. Traces of sedatives. A broken monitor. The perfect crime scene for a partial timeline.”

He glanced at her, waiting for a reaction.

She blinked slowly. “The Claremont Road clinic.”

His smile widened, pleased that she knew. “Exactly.”

“You wanted them to find it,” she said.

He leaned in, tone soft and smug. “Of course. Letting them believe they’re closing in — that’s part of the breakdown. Hope, then disappointment. Over and over. The mind eventually lets go.”

She tilted her head, blood still dried on her lip. “You always this theatrical?”

He let out a soft chuckle. “I like design. I like when things fit.”

“And you’re sure they haven’t figured it out?”

He looked faintly insulted. “This property isn’t in any active database. The original veterinary license expired before digitization. No power grid, no plumbing registry, no road signs. Just a gravel trail locals used to know. They’d have to know this land the way I do.”

Y/N swallowed, keeping her expression neutral. “And you’re fine with dying here?”

“If it completes the study,” he said, voice low and even. “If it finishes the arc, yes.”

She let the silence stretch.

Then, with deliberate care, she said, “You know, I’ve profiled men like you. Not exactly like you — but close. The ones who claim they don’t need an audience… always want one most of all.”

His jaw tensed. Subtle. But there.

“I think,” she added, shifting slightly against the table, “you want them to see what you did. Not read about it in a case file. You want your final subject to be found. Otherwise, it’s just… wasted data.”

Milburn’s expression flickered. Not rage. But doubt.

And she smiled through the ache in her jaw.

“Maybe you’re not as certain as you pretend to be.”

He stood slowly.

He didn’t speak.

But he walked out without administering another dose.

And for the first time, she felt him slip.

The room was humming now. A different kind of hum — not the sterile buzz of lights or the faint static from the speaker, but a pulse. Mechanical. Deep.

Like something buried beneath the floor had woken up.

Y/N sat hunched on the edge of the table, one wrist still cuffed, lip split from the last blow, eyes locked on the glowing red light in the upper corner of the ceiling — the camera. Her breath was shallow. Her limbs were shaking. Not from fear, but from calculation.

She knew she’d only get one shot. Flashes of his previous victims flashed through her brain, grimace coming on her face as her lip quivered. Charred bodies, burnt all the way through, only recognizable through dental records. 

The lights had dimmed, but she could still see — just enough. The tools were gone – in fact, it seemed like the room had been sterilized again. Everything reset. Everything perfect.

Except her.

The loop of her own voice still echoed overhead.

He watches them fall apart.

Over and over. Warped now, slowed like a vinyl melting.

She yanked again at the last cuff, teeth gritted, blood now wetting the strap from where she’d cut her wrist on the metal. Her hand limped to her side, strength quickly depleting, hopelessness starting to kick in every time she tried to take a breath through her nose only to be met with a clogged, bloody mess. 

Then — a different sound.

A relay snapped. Mechanical. Below the floor.

And a low, rhythmic beeping began.

She froze. That wasn’t part of the sedation system. 

Her eyes snapped to the vent in the corner — a faint plume of smoke, barely visible in the dim light. Chemical, not fire. But spreading.

The speaker cracked to life, the static sharp against the hum of failing vents.

Then his voice came through — calm, steady, disturbingly warm.

“I always knew I’d be caught.”

A pause. Just long enough to make her blood chill.

“People like me don’t get away with it forever. That’s a myth. The smart ones, the ones who study—they know there’s no such thing as forever. There’s only timing. There’s only design.”

His voice moved with a strange rhythm, like he wasn’t just speaking to her — like he was reading aloud from a thesis only he understood.

“I’ve seen how it ends for others. Reckless monsters with blood on their hands and panic in their veins. They get sloppy. They get loud. They get stupid. They burn out in chaos.”

He paused again, then continued, even more softly.

“But I… I never wanted chaos. I wanted clarity.”

Another relay snapped behind the walls.

“You weren’t supposed to die in rage or fire. That’s not what this was for. I brought you here because I believed you’d last. I believed you’d show me the precise moment where resilience fractures into surrender. I wanted to see you break — slowly. Completely. And maybe you would’ve. If I had more time.”

The smoke thickened in the corners. The beeping quickened.

“I always planned for this. Every subject was a step. Every cage, every dose, every silence — all of it leading to you. The perfect profile. The cleanest mind. You don’t scream. You calculate. And I thought, maybe... if I could break you, then I’d understand how it all ends.”

His tone shifted — brighter, almost breathless.

“And now it does end. Not because I lost. But because I chose it. I’ve seen what happens after they catch people like me. The cage. The headlines. The slow rot of purpose. No thank you.”

The beeping was constant now. Almost shrill.

“This way, the story stays mine.”

Then one final pause.

“And if you survive this, Y/N — if you crawl from the fire — then you’ll live knowing that I got inside your head. That I chose you as the last page. And that everything after this moment... belongs to me.”

The speaker went dead.

And the door unlatched.

The lock gave a soft, mechanical click — almost casual.

The kind of sound you could miss if you weren’t listening for it.

But she heard it.

And she moved.

Y/N surged upright, her world a blur of blood and smoke and failing light. Her legs nearly gave out as her bare feet hit the freezing tile. Her right wrist was still shackled — the torn flesh around it slippery with blood — but she didn’t hesitate. She gripped the metal base of the restraint with her free hand and ripped, screaming through clenched teeth as she tore the cuff off the rail with brute force and adrenaline.

The torn metal edge sliced deeper into her wrist, hot blood spurting down her forearm. But the pain didn’t register. Not really. It was just another noise in the growing cacophony.

The hallway outside the room was blinding white — too clean, too bright — but the air was already sour. Smoke poured from the vents in ribbons now, curling along the floor like fingers searching for skin.

Beep. Beep. BeepBeepBeep.

The emergency lighting strobed red overhead — a pulsing countdown that painted her body in flashes of panic.

She stumbled forward, one arm pressed to her chest, the other swinging wildly for balance as she bolted down the corridor. Each step burned. Her right thigh screamed with every movement — the wound he had carved there was now a deep, wet gash. Her lungs convulsed. Her skin felt like paper.

She slammed into the wall, rebounded – kept going.

Every door she passed was shut. Sealed. Designed not to open from the inside.

She reached a T-junction in the hallway — and for a second, she froze.

Left? Right? She turned right.

A gust of heat struck her — the fire had reached the lower floors. Somewhere in the building, structural integrity had begun to collapse. A ceiling tile fell behind her with a crash. Smoke turned black.

Then she saw it — the red glow of an EXIT sign through the haze.

A steel door. No lock. No keypad. Just a crash bar.

She sprinted, half-limping, half-collapsing with every step. Her ears were ringing. Her vision dimmed at the edges. The beeping was almost constant now — so fast it became one unbroken shriek.

She hit the door with her shoulder.

It didn’t budge.

She hit it again — harder. Her body screamed.

Then she threw herself at it with everything she had.

The latch gave. The door burst open.

And she flew forward — into snow.

She tumbled face-first into the ice, her breath wrenching from her lungs in a broken sob. Cold air shocked her lungs, crisp and clean and real. Finally real.

She scrambled up, hands sinking into the drift. Her legs collapsed again — but she crawled.

Three feet.

Five.

Ten.

Behind her, the clinic trembled.

And then — it erupted.

The explosion hit like a living thing.

The entire back wall of the building lifted first, bricks and steel shrapnel exploding outward in a wave of orange fire and debris. The shockwave followed — concussive and furious.

Y/N was thrown like a rag doll. The world tilted sideways.

She hit the ground hard — skidded across the ice, body twisting midair — then slammed into the base of a snowbank, the breath knocked out of her in one violent rush.

Everything went silent.

For a few seconds, she didn’t know if she was dead.

Ash began to fall like snow.

The sky flickered, flames roaring behind her. She blinked slowly, her left arm twisted under her. Her shoulder was dislocated. Her thigh oozed blood. Her face was burned — just barely — along the temple and jaw.

But she was alive.

The air was sharp and frozen and she breathed it.

The explosion had blown Milburn’s empire into dust.

And somehow, she had crawled out of it. His words replayed in her mind, foreboding and haunting: “And if you survive this, Y/N — if you crawl from the fire — then you’ll live knowing that I got inside your head. That I chose you as the last page. And that everything after this moment... belongs to me.”

The SUV skidded to a halt on the icy road, tires crunching through snow and ash.

The roar of the explosion still echoed in the trees. Flames licked at the sky from the collapsed roof of the old clinic, casting long, flickering shadows across the snow – as if trying to burn the stars out, setting the sky aflame. Debris crackled in the wind. The smell of scorched chemicals, wood, and something acrid hung thick in the air. Smoke bloomed up ahead like a black wound in the trees. The remains of the clinic glowed in the distance — not just burning, but obliterated. The structure was gone. Collapsed inward. 

Spencer was out of the car before it fully stopped.

“Y/N!” he screamed, boots slipping as he tore across the snow.

Morgan followed fast, radio in hand. “We need medics now. Structure’s gone. Repeat — the clinic is gone. We’ve got fire and active ground collapse.”

They crested the ridge behind the ruins just as the wind shifted — and Spencer saw it.

A shape. Small. Slumped. Barely a shadow against the snow.

“There!” he shouted, voice cracking. “She’s there—Morgan, she’s there!”

He dropped to his knees beside her, sliding the last few feet. Her body was twisted at the edge of a snowbank, half-covered in soot, her skin streaked with blood and ash. Her right arm was limp. Her leg was slick with deep red. Her lips were cracked and blue, and one side of her face was bruised and blistered.

But her chest rose, even if barely. 

“Y/N,” Spencer said, voice shaking as he leaned over her. “Hey—hey, it’s me. You’re okay. You’re safe now.”

Her eyelids fluttered just a little. Her lips parted — but no words came out. Just a sound. A raw, rasping breath.

Morgan slid in beside them, pulling off his jacket and pressing it over her. “She’s in shock. We’ve gotta stop the bleeding. Pulse is weak, but it’s there.”

“I’ve got you,” Spencer whispered, brushing damp hair back from her face. “We’re right here. You’re not alone.”

She blinked once — slow and painful — and focused on him. Recognition hit like a gasp of air underwater. She tried to speak. Her mouth moved.

He leaned in.

“I made it.”

It was nothing but breath. But he heard it.

And then she passed out.

Fifteen minutes later, the sirens pierced the silence.

A wall of red and white light cut through the trees as the first ambulance skidded onto the scene, tires fishtailing slightly on the packed snow. EMTs leapt out before the vehicle had fully stopped, rushing toward the figures crouched near the base of the ridge.

“She’s here!” Morgan called, waving them over with one hand while the other remained pressed firmly to Y/N’s thigh, trying to slow the bleeding. “She’s in shock, multiple lacerations, third-degree burns on her left side, possible dislocated shoulder—”

“Airway’s clear,” another medic confirmed, kneeling at her head. “Breathing is shallow but present. BP’s dropping.”

Spencer barely registered the shouts and movements around him. His focus never left her face.

She was unconscious now. Still. Her skin ghostly pale beneath the smears of ash and blood. Her hair was damp, matted to her temple. Her lashes were dusted with frost. Every rise and fall of her chest felt like a war waged by her body to keep going.

He held her hand in both of his — fingers cold and shaking — and kept whispering her name, over and over, like he could keep her tethered just by saying it.

“Y/N, stay with me. You’re almost there. Just a little longer, please—”

They moved fast.

An IV line was secured with shaking, practiced hands. The EMTs slid a mask over her nose and mouth, oxygen hissing softly into her lungs. A cervical collar was fixed around her neck. One of them wrapped her bleeding arm with quick, efficient pressure while the others readied the gurney.

“We need to move now. She’s crashing.”

Morgan helped them lift her.

Spencer didn’t let go.

Even when they strapped her in, even when they wheeled her toward the back of the ambulance, even when the medic had to gently tap his arm and say, “Sir—we need space.”

He only released her hand when the doors closed.

And still, he stood there, staring after her like he could follow her with just his breath.

Hotch came to stand beside him, silent.

The fire behind them had begun to collapse inward — a thunderous groan of bending metal and concrete giving way. Sparks cracked into the sky as another wall folded in on itself. The building was all but gone now — reduced to flame and ruin.

“She survived him,” Spencer said, his voice raw, barely audible.

Hotch didn’t look away from the wreckage. “No,” he said. “She beat him.”

And together, they watched the last of Ben Milburn’s empire dissolve in fire.

All that control. All that calculation.

Reduced to ash. Swallowed whole by the dark.

36 hours later, the world came back slowly.

First sound — a low, rhythmic beep. The quiet hiss of oxygen. Distant footsteps. The soft hum of fluorescent lights that didn’t buzz like the ones in the clinic.

Then feeling — heavy limbs, warm blankets, a dull ache in her leg, her arm wrapped in something stiff and unmoving. Dry lips. A throat that burned from breathing in smoke.

Then finally — light.

She blinked once. Twice.

Everything was white, but not like his white. This wasn’t sterile silence. This wasn’t a cage.

It was a hospital. Safe.

Her heart rate monitor chirped a little faster.

“Hey—hey, it’s okay.”

The voice was gentle. Familiar. Real.

She turned her head — slow, careful, her neck protesting, every nerve stiff — and found Spencer sitting beside her bed. His tie was askew. His hair a mess. There were faint smudges under his eyes — the kind you only got from worry and no sleep. His fingers were wrapped around hers, careful but unrelenting.

“You’re awake,” he said softly, voice frayed at the edges.

Her lips parted. It took her a second to find her voice, to summon the breath. “Spence,” she rasped, trying her voice for the first time by saying his name – her mantra that kept her alive through the cold, desolate clinic. “You stayed.”

“Of course I stayed,” he said quickly, as if the alternative had never occurred to him. His voice was quiet, but still, the end of his sentence cracked.

She closed her eyes briefly. A tear slipped down the side of her temple, vanishing into the pillow. 

“It’s over.”

Spencer nodded, but his throat tightened. “You got out. You saved yourself.”

“I knew you guys would find me,” she whispered.

He leaned in slightly, his hand brushing hers on the blanket.

“There was a moment,” he said, his voice rough, “when we found the cruiser. Your phone was gone. The snow was already covering your tracks. I thought—” He stopped, swallowing hard. “I thought I was too late.”

Her fingers moved. Slow, trembling.

But they curled into his.

“You weren’t,” she murmured.

And they sat like that — hand in hand, hearts syncing in the quiet — not as agent and profiler, not even as survivors, but simply two people who had almost lost each other.

She was the first to speak again. “The others?”

“They’re okay,” he said. “Hotch and Rossi are working with local PD to clear the site. JJ’s been here every few hours. Garcia’s already set up a 24/7 alert on every case with a similar profile. And Morgan’s…” Spencer chuckled faintly. “Pacing holes into the floor of the waiting room.”

A weak smile tugged at her lips. “Tell him to stop. He’s going to hurt those precious muscles of his.”

Spencer laughed — hoarse, but real.

Then his expression shifted, suddenly, so fast even she couldn’t place exactly when it had happened. Darkened.

“He was going to kill you.”

“I know.”

“He wanted to take you with him. End it on his terms.”

“I know,” she repeated, more softly this time.

There was a pause. Then her fingers pressed a little tighter around his.

“But he didn’t,” she said. “And that matters.”

Spencer looked at her for a long time, and in that silence, she knew he saw it — all of it. The pain she hadn’t shared. The fight she’d endured. The scar tissue behind her voice.

And still, she wasn’t done.

“Before anyone else asks. Before someone digs it up. I know you guys are aware of my general backstory, but I haven’t told you guys everything.”

He straightened slightly, sensing the shift in her tone.

“I wasn’t just some profiler who fit the behavioral sketch,” she said. “He picked me for a reason.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I do,” she said. “You deserve to know everything.”

Spencer stayed quiet. Open.

She took a breath that rattled. “Before Quantico… I worked with Interpol. Undercover intelligence. Blacklist operations. I was embedded for over a year with an Eastern European trafficking network. A weapons cell. It was brutal. I made it out during a final sting — barely. There was an explosion. Two agents died. I was inside when the roof collapsed.”

Her voice cracked, but she pushed through it.

“I crawled out over one of my partners’ bodies. Spent three weeks in a burn unit. Three months in trauma counseling. I was broken. Physically. Mentally. They sealed the records before I transferred to the BAU.”

Spencer said nothing, but his hand never left hers.

“He found them,” she continued. “The unsub. Milburn. He found pieces of the files — enough to know I’d already been through hell. That I’d survived it. He wasn’t just picking women who fit a profile. He was choosing survivors. Ones who wouldn’t go quietly. He wanted to see what happened when people who already crawled out of the fire… were pushed back into it.”

Spencer exhaled like he’d been holding it since the moment she started.

“You weren’t meant to break,” he said. “You were meant to end.”

“I think he wanted to study that moment,” she said. “Where strength breaks. Where pain rewrites people. And I was the perfect study.”

“But he failed,” Spencer said. “You didn’t breaks. You held on.”

She blinked slowly. “Only because I had something to hold on to.”

Their eyes locked.

“You,” she whispered. “You were my anchor.”

Spencer’s own eyes welled, but he didn’t look away. Didn’t blink.

“You’re not allowed to scare me like that again,” he said quietly, a shaky smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

She let her eyes close, the weight of exhaustion finally overtaking her. But her grip on his hand didn’t loosen.

“I’ll try not to.”

They both knew it wasn’t a promise she could keep. Not in their line of work.

But for now — for this moment — it was enough.

She was alive.

And he was still holding on.

The elevator doors slid open on the sixth floor with a soft ding that echoed through the corridor like a memory.

Y/N stepped out slowly.

Her shoes met the polished tile with quiet, deliberate weight — not hesitant, but grounded. She wore her long coat, the collar turned up slightly, and her badge clipped at the chest, just where it used to be. Outwardly, she looked the same.

But something in her was different.

Not diminished. Not broken. Just heavier.

Each step down the hallway was familiar, but her body felt new inside it. Slightly off-axis. She could feel the line of scar tissue beneath her shirt tug with every movement of her shoulder, where pins and plates still held healing bone. Her left thigh ached subtly with each shift in weight — a dull reminder of shrapnel buried and removed. And in her chest, behind the steady rhythm of breath, lived a quieter wound: the memory of a room built for her to not survive.

And she had.

The overhead lights buzzed faintly. A printer churned somewhere in the bullpen. A phone rang twice and stopped. It was all so normal. So mundane.

And then—

“HEY!”

Garcia’s voice rang out like the sun breaking through clouds, full of warmth and sugar and uncontainable emotion.

Y/N barely had time to inhale before she was engulfed in a hug that smelled of citrus and lilac and safety. Garcia’s arms squeezed tight around her middle — careful not to jostle her shoulder — her voice a rush of words against Y/N’s temple.

“Oh my God, you’re actually here, I didn’t want to text because I didn’t want to push but I’ve been counting down the days and oh my God you’re really here—”

Y/N let out a breath that trembled at the edges, and her arms came up slowly to return the embrace. Her fingers clutched Garcia’s shoulder, a little tighter than she meant to.

JJ appeared next, quiet as always. She waited for Garcia to step aside before reaching out, pulling Y/N in with gentle arms. The hug was softer — but no less fierce. JJ’s hand pressed lightly against the back of her head like a mother with a child returned home.

Y/N didn’t realize she was holding her breath until JJ whispered, “It’s good to see you.”

Then it released. Just a little.

Morgan stepped up next, towering and warm, his expression unreadable for a moment.

Then he gave her a single clap on the back — light, but firm — and held her at arm’s length just long enough to look her in the eyes.

“Good to have you back, warrior.”

She offered him a faint smile. “I missed you guys.”

Morgan didn’t say anything else — but his jaw flexed. His eyes lingered on the fading bruise along her jawline. The slight wince when she moved her shoulder. He saw all of it.

Then he nodded and stepped aside.

Across the bullpen, Hotch stood in the doorway to his office. His arms were crossed, his expression as composed as ever — but even that cracked slightly when his eyes met hers.

“We cleared your desk,” he said. “You have full discretion over when — and how much — you take on.”

Y/N gave him a quiet, grateful half-smile.

“Thanks, Hotch.”

His gaze softened, just enough to register.

“Take the space you need,” he said. “But know that we missed you.”

She nodded.

Her throat tightened, but she held it down. She hadn’t cried in weeks. She wasn’t ready to start here.

Then, as the laughter and chatter faded around her, she glanced down the hall.

Her eyes searched, almost involuntarily.

But he wasn’t there yet.

And somehow, she already knew he would be.

She didn’t hear him at first.

The buzz of the bullpen had resumed — Garcia chattering excitedly about reorganizing the “entire sparkle-driven filing structure” of the case board, JJ subtly blocking Morgan from sneaking one of the cinnamon scones she’d brought back from her morning run. Everything was soft chaos. Familiar.

But Y/N felt it before she saw him.

That shift in air.

The way the sound around her dulled — not in volume, but in focus.

She turned — slowly.

And there he was.

Spencer stood just beyond the corner of the corridor, leaning ever so slightly into the threshold. He hadn’t said a word. He didn’t need to. His eyes said everything.

He looked different. Not in the way clothes or hair changed someone, but in the way grief and fear etched themselves into the quietest places of a person. His tie was loose. His curls slightly disheveled. And his eyes — those eyes — were full of so much relief, she had to look away before she drowned in it.

He stepped forward, cautiously, like he didn’t want to startle her.

“Hi,” he said softly.

She blinked. And smiled — tired but true.

“Hi.”

The distance between them was ten feet. But it felt thinner than breath.

He didn’t rush her. Didn’t reach out. He just stood there for a second, watching her like she might disappear again. Like the smoke and flame and snow might reclaim her.

“I didn’t want to interrupt,” he said. “I just… needed to see you here. In this hallway. Alive.”

Her chest tightened.

“I wasn’t sure I’d ever walk it again,” she admitted.

Spencer nodded, his throat working around words he hadn’t yet found. “You did,” he said eventually. “And it’s different now. But that’s okay. You’re allowed to come back different.”

She looked at him.

Really looked at him.

And this time, the silence between them felt sacred. Not hollow. Not strained.

He stepped closer — just one step — and then hesitated.

Y/N met him there. Two more steps forward. Not quite touching, but almost.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said, voice low.

His response was immediate. “I never left.”

Her breath hitched.

But instead of speaking, she reached for his hand — quietly, without a word — and he took it, like he’d been waiting every hour since the fire for that moment.

No theatrics.

No declarations.

Just presence.

And that was enough.

Rain whispered against the windows in soft, steady waves — the kind of rain that quieted the world, smoothed the edges of thought. It blanketed the city like a hush. Like the kind of silence that asked not to be filled, only felt.

Y/N stood at her kitchen sink, rinsing out her tea mug with one hand, the other resting lightly on the counter to ease the pressure from her still-healing leg. The ceramic clinked gently against the basin, hollow and distant. The candle on the table flickered, casting the living room in warm, golden light that painted soft shadows on the walls.

Her apartment was calm. Clean. Almost peaceful.

But inside her chest, something stirred.

Then— A knock.

Soft. Hesitant. Two beats. A pause.

Not the knock of someone making a delivery. Not a neighbor. It was careful. Intentional.

She already knew.

Y/N moved to the door, her heart beginning to beat a little faster beneath her ribs. She paused, just long enough to press one hand to the wall beside her — a grounding touch — then unlatched the deadbolt.

Spencer stood there.

His coat was damp from the rain, curls clinging in ringlets to his forehead. His glasses were slightly fogged. His cheeks were pink from the cold, but it was his eyes that stopped her. They were soft, tired, and filled with something he didn’t know how to name. Something quiet and aching.

He looked like a man who had walked through a storm he didn’t fully survive.

“Hi,” he said, voice low. Again.

She stepped aside, her voice matching his. “Hi.” Again.

He entered without a sound, toeing off his shoes as if even the sound of rubber on tile might shatter the fragile quiet between them. He stood just inside the entryway for a long second, fingers still buried in his coat pockets. He looked around slowly — the dim lamp, the steaming tea, the blanket folded over the edge of the couch. The evidence of her living. Surviving.

“You’re walking better,” he said quietly.

“You’re still worried,” she replied.

A soft smile tugged at his mouth. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I wasn’t sure if I should come. Or if it was too soon.”

“You’re always allowed to come here,” she said gently, her voice barely more than breath.

He took a shaky breath and stepped forward. “I wanted to tell you something.”

She turned to face him fully now, watching him carefully. “You kind of already did. In the hospital. In the snow.”

His gaze met hers.

“This is different.”

She didn’t move. She waited.

Spencer’s voice wavered, just slightly. “When we found the cruiser and your phone was gone… there was a moment when I thought we were too late. And all I could hear was this voice in my head screaming I never told her. Not really. Not the way I wanted to.”

He stepped closer. Not invading. Just near enough that she could feel the change in air between them.

“I’ve spent months—years, maybe—waiting. Telling myself it was too complicated. That work made it dangerous. That maybe you didn’t feel the same. So I stayed quiet. I watched you be brilliant and brave and haunted and I told myself I could live with loving you from a distance.”

She blinked slowly, breath caught in her throat.

“But I can’t,” he said. “Not anymore.”

His voice cracked at the edges now, the words spilling out like something that had built behind a dam too long.

“When we thought you were gone, something in me broke. Because I didn’t just lose you in theory. I felt it. I imagined every second I hadn’t said it out loud. Every smile I hadn’t kissed. Every moment I wasted thinking there’d be more time.”

He stepped forward again.

“I care about you. So deeply I don’t think I even know where the caring ends and the love begins. I think I’ve been in love with you longer than I’ve known how to admit it. And it scared me. But not saying it scares me more.”

Silence.

Then—

“I love you,” he said, a little louder now. “I love you, and I don’t want to spend another day pretending that I don’t.”

Tears welled in her eyes, sudden and unbidden. She didn’t try to stop them.

She reached for his hand.

Her fingers slid into his — warm, familiar, grounding.

“You didn’t wait,” she whispered. “You showed up. You always show up.”

He smiled — but this one was real. Open. Vulnerable.

And then, without hesitation, she stepped forward and kissed him.

It wasn’t urgent. It didn’t need to be. It was slow and trembling, the kind of kiss that was built from pieces — of fear and relief and every unsaid word that had finally found its way to the surface. His hand curled around her waist like he was afraid she might disappear, but she pulled him closer, breathless and solid and here.

When they finally parted, their foreheads pressed together, and she exhaled against his mouth.

“It’s okay now,” she said softly.

And it was.

It was raining again.

The steady kind — soft against the windows, more of a hush than a storm. The kind that wrapped the city in gray light and made the world feel a little slower, a little closer.

Spencer stood at her kitchen counter in socked feet, brow furrowed slightly as he read the instructions on the side of the French press. He’d made it perfectly for weeks now, but he still double-checked — out of habit, out of reverence.

Behind him, Y/N sat curled on the couch, one leg tucked beneath her, a well-worn copy of The Secret History open in her lap. A fleece blanket draped over her shoulders. She wasn’t reading, though. Just holding the book. Listening to the rain. Watching him.

It had become a rhythm.

Sundays were slow. Their safe place. No work. No trauma. No unfinished case files or briefing folders or hospital check-ups. Just the two of them, in borrowed stillness.

“I think I used too much water,” Spencer muttered.

Y/N smiled softly. “You didn’t.”

“I always use too much water.”

“You also always say that. And it’s always fine.”

He glanced over his shoulder. Her eyes were tired but warm. The scar on her temple had faded into a thin, pale line. The gash on her thigh still ached on colder mornings, but the limp had almost vanished.

Emotionally, she was still healing. Some nights she still jolted awake at sounds no one else heard. Sometimes the quiet pressed in too close.

But she had found something steady in Spencer’s presence. Not safety, exactly — because she didn’t want to be protected. Just seen. And he did that, without asking her to hide anything.

He brought her coffee and crossword puzzles and hand-scrawled notes about obscure philosophers. He sat beside her when the nightmares left her breathless. He didn’t fill the silences — he just waited in them.

He walked with her. And never ahead of her.

Spencer poured two mugs and brought hers over, setting it on the table beside her book.

She looked up at him.

“I never thought I’d feel normal again,” she said softly, as if the words surprised her.

He didn’t sit immediately. Just studied her.

“You’re not normal,” he said. “You’re you. That’s better.”

She smiled. This one fuller.

He sat beside her, their knees brushing. She reached for her mug but didn’t drink it — just wrapped her hands around the warmth.

The rain kept falling.

Their fingers found each other again — naturally now, without ceremony — and neither of them spoke for a long time.

Because some love stories didn’t need declarations or dramatic moments.

Sometimes, they just needed two people who chose each other. Again and again.

Even after the worst had passed.

Especially then.

@maisyyyyyy @theredvelvetbitch @alexistexas21 @blackbirdbella

[briefinquiries]

Under the Blood Moon | Peaky Blinders | Chapter 11

Tommy Shelby x Reader: Chapter 11

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11

Fic Summary: You came to Birmingham for a fresh start, to bury the past and keep your head down. As a former nurse in the war, you’ve seen enough blood and death to last a lifetime. But fate (and the Shelby’s) have other plans. After stitching Tommy Shelby back together, you find yourself drawn further into their world, a world of violence, loyalty, and power. When Tommy offers you a job, it comes with more than just good pay, it comes with expectations and lines you never planned to cross.

Chapter summary: Tensions rise before the Derby, and you're caught in a web of strategy and survival. With Campbell closing in and Tommy playing a game of calculated risk, the only thing more uncertain than the plan is whether either of you will make it out unscathed.

Word count: 7.5k

Warnings: Violence, injury, mentions of blood, gore, and open wounds, PTSD and war flashbacks, alcohol use, and mild language.

--

It had only been a few days since your night at Polly’s, but everything felt different now.

Not in the obvious ways– Tommy was still Tommy, still sharp-eyed and calculating, still keeping ten steps ahead of everyone else. But when it was just the two of you, when the world wasn’t watching, something had shifted.

He was softer with you. Gentler. Like the edges of him weren’t quite so sharp when you were near.

It was in the way his touch lingered, the way his fingers brushed against your skin absentmindedly when no one else was looking. The way his voice dropped lower when he spoke to you, losing its usual steel. The way his walls, so carefully built, so meticulously guarded, seemed to lower just enough for you to slip through.

And when he looked at you– really looked at you– it wasn’t just calculating, assessing, or strategizing. It was something else, something heavier, something you couldn’t name but felt deep in your chest.

With Tommy, the world felt different. The chaos that always seemed to surround him, the weight of it all, should have been suffocating. But instead, when he was near, you felt steady. Like no matter how dangerous things became, no matter how many lines blurred between what was right and what was necessary, there was still solid ground beneath you, so long as he was standing beside you.

You weren’t sure what to do with it, this version of Tommy that only existed when no one else was around. But you weren’t about to question it. Because, for as long as you were allowed, you wanted to stay right where you were.

Tommy was protective, too. Something you weren’t entirely used to. No one had ever really looked out for you like that before– at least, not in a way that felt unshakable, immovable. You had spent so long relying on yourself, keeping your guard up, making sure you never needed anyone. But Tommy made it difficult to ignore the quiet certainty in the way he protected you, like it wasn’t even a choice for him, just something he did without thinking. It was a strange thing, feeling safe not because you had built your own walls, but because someone else had placed themselves between you and the world.

The day before, at the Garrison, a man had started running his mouth while you were behind the bar.

You hadn’t thought much of it at first. Men like that existed everywhere– drunk, careless, throwing their weight around like the world owed them something. You had learned to ignore it, to brush off the slurred remarks and the entitled demands.

But then he’d leaned in, resting an elbow on the bar, eyes raking over you like you were something to be appraised.

"What are they doing keeping such a pretty thing like you behind the bar?" he drawled, his breath thick with whiskey. "How far would a good tip get me, aye?"

Your stomach twisted, but you kept your expression neutral, focused on polishing the glass in your hand. You’d dealt with worse. You weren’t about to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

Before you could even decide on how to respond, a shadow loomed over the bar.

It happened fast. One second, the man was smirking at you like he thought he was clever. The next, Tommy’s hand was fisting the front of his jacket, yanking him back with enough force to make the whole room go silent.

The man barely had time to stammer out a protest before Tommy spoke, his voice low, calm, but carrying the kind of weight that made the hairs on your arms stand up.

"Get out."

The man’s bravado faltered. He swallowed, shaking his head quickly. "Just having a laugh–"

Tommy yanked him closer, his voice dropping even lower. "I don’t give a shit. You don’t get to talk to her. You don’t even get to look at her. Understand?"

The man nodded hurriedly, his face paling.

Tommy let go, shoving him back a step. "Now fuck off."

You’d barely had time to process it before Tommy was turning back to you, brushing his fingers against your wrist like nothing had happened. “Can you grab me a couple bottles to bring back?” 

It should have unsettled you. Maybe, in a different life, it would have. But instead, all you’d felt was a strange, steady warmth curling low in your chest. Because despite everything, despite the dangers and the warnings, you knew one thing for certain. With Tommy, you felt safe.

“Irish or Scottish?” you asked.

Tommy glanced at you, something unreadable flickering in his sharp blue eyes. Then, just as smoothly as he had handled the situation before, he replied, “Both.”

He went back to his meeting with the bottles, slipping seamlessly into conversation with Arthur and the others like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just made a man nearly piss himself with a look. 

And for a while, you let yourself believe that was it. That it was just Tommy being Tommy– calculating, quick, always knowing when to step in and when to walk away.

But then, one night, Tommy changed things with one sentence. "The Derby’s coming up,” he said, watching you closely. 

“The what?” you asked, turning to face him.

Tommy huffed a quiet breath, shaking his head slightly, like he’d forgotten for a moment that not everyone lived and breathed the business the way he did.

“The Epsom Derby. Horse racing. Biggest in the country,” he clarified, flicking his cigarette against the tray again. “It’s where the money is. And the people with the money.”

You frowned slightly, tilting your head. “And what’s your interest in it?”

Tommy’s lips twitched faintly, something unreadable flickering behind his sharp blue eyes. “Shelbys have always had an interest in racing.”

You let out a slow breath, watching the way his posture steadied, but something more calculating laid just beneath the surface.

“You mean betting,” you corrected.

Tommy smirked slightly. “That too.”

You shook your head, exhaling. “Shouldn’t you be laying low right now? Given everything that’s going on…”

Tommy’s smirk didn’t waver, but something flickered behind his eyes, something sharper, darker. He exhaled slowly.

“Laying low doesn’t get you control.”

His voice was calm, steady, but there was an edge to it, something buried beneath the surface.

You tilted your head slightly. “Control over what?”

Tommy took another drag, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make you wonder if he was going to answer at all. Then, finally, he spoke.

“Sabini thinks he runs the tracks.” His voice was lower now, rougher. “Thinks he runs all of London, for that matter. But this?” He exhaled smoke, gaze flickering up to meet yours. “This is how we take some of that back.”

You swallowed, watching him carefully. Sabini. You hadn’t heard Tommy say his name out loud since the attack. Since his men had left him broken and bleeding, barely conscious, barely breathing.

And now? Now Tommy was going straight for him.

“So that’s what this is,” you murmured, realization settling in. “This isn’t just about money. This is about– what? Getting even?”

Tommy huffed a quiet breath, tilting his head slightly. “It’s about reminding them who I am.”

You weren’t sure if the chill that ran through you was from the way he said it, so calm, so certain, or the fact that you knew, without a doubt, that he would do everything in his power to succeed.

Still, you couldn’t ignore the risk. “Sabini’s men nearly killed you, Tommy.”

“Nearly.” He flicked his cigarette, the ember glowing faintly in the dim light. “But they didn’t.”

You exhaled, watching the way his fingers twitched against the table, the way his jaw tightened just slightly. 

“Do you not remember what that was like?” you asked, unable to help the emotion creeping into your voice. “Because I do, Tommy. You were beaten within an inch of your life– they… they broke your bones– your lungs nearly collapsed," you forced out, your voice quieter now, but no less urgent. 

The memory was burned into your mind, no matter how hard you tried to push it away– the way he had looked lying on that bed, unconscious, his face barely recognizable beneath the swelling and bruises and blood. The way his breathing had been shallow, uneven, each one a struggle. The way you had pressed your hands to his ribs.

And now, he was just walking right back into the fire.

Tommy exhaled slowly, but there was something measured in the way he did it, something restrained. He studied you for a moment, the flickering candlelight casting shadows over his face. "I remember."

You shook your head, frustration curling in your chest. "Then why are you so willing to put yourself back in that position?"

Tommy tapped his cigarette against the ashtray, his movements deliberate. "Because the only way to make sure it doesn’t happen again is to make them afraid of trying."

His voice was calm, controlled, but you could hear the steel behind it, the quiet promise of something ruthless, something inevitable.

You swallowed, gripping the edge of the bar. "What if they do try again?"

Tommy’s lips twitched slightly. “They won’t. I’ve got a plan.”

Your stomach twisted. He said it like it was that simple. Maybe to him, it was. But to you, all you could see was what would happen if he was wrong. Sabini could have a trap waiting– men waiting to ambush Tommy. What if you found yourself kneeling beside him again, pressing your hands to another wound, trying to stop the inevitable?

"Tommy–"

His fingers twitched against the bar again. It was the only sign of hesitation, the only tell in his otherwise unreadable expression.

"You don’t have to worry about me," he murmured, voice lower now.

“I do, though, Tommy.”

A muscle in his jaw tightened. He looked away, just for a second, like he was weighing his next words, considering how much to say. When his eyes met yours again, there was something different in them.

"I know what I’m doing."

“I know you do, Tommy. I’m not saying you don’t. I’m just saying…” your voice hitched. “I’m just saying I don’t ever want to see you hurt like that again. Once was enough... Twice was too much. But three times would be unbearable.”

For a moment, Tommy didn’t say anything.

His cigarette burned low between his fingers, the ember flickering dimly in the space between you. His gaze was unreadable, steady, like he was measuring the weight of your words, considering what they meant.

Then, slowly, he exhaled. "You won’t."

You let out a breath, shaking your head. "You don’t know that."

His jaw flexed, his grip tightening around his cigarette. "I do."

He said it like his word should have been enough. But it wasn’t. Because you had been there the last time. You had seen him bloody and broken, barely holding on, and the thought of going through that again, of kneeling at his side with his life slipping through your fingers, made something twist deep in your chest.

And Tommy knew it.

He glanced away for a beat, like he was weighing his next words carefully. When he spoke again, his voice was rougher.

"I need to do this."

You swallowed, your throat tight. "Why?"

Tommy’s eyes flickered, like he wasn’t sure how much to say. Then, finally, he leaned forward, resting his forearms against the table, his cigarette dangling between his fingers.

"Because they think they can take things from me."

You studied him, the way his hands stayed still, the quiet certainty in his voice. 

"Sabini. Campbell. Every man who thinks they can take what’s mine and get away with it. That’s what this is about." He exhaled slowly, his gaze sharp. "It’s not just business. It’s control. It’s power."

Still, you had to ask. "So, what’s the plan?”

Tommy’s gaze flickered toward the dimly lit room before settling back on you. “We hit Sabini where it hurts. The bookies, the money, the men he trusts.” His fingers tapped against the table. “We take their bets. We take their business. We show them they don’t run things anymore.”

You frowned slightly, piecing it together. "And you think Sabini is just going to let you walk in and take over?"

Tommy smirked faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “No. That’s why we make sure he doesn’t see it coming. Campbell wants you to keep feeding him information. We use that.”

Your pulse picked up. “What do you need me to tell him?”

Tommy exhaled, considering his words carefully. “You tell him I’m planning to fix a race.”

You sighed. "Fix a race?"

Tommy nodded. "Make him think I'm using the Derby to make a fortune, that I’ve got a deal in place to ensure the right horse wins. Make him believe that’s where all my focus is, on the money, not the power shift. That’s where they’ll focus their energy.”

Tommy’s lips twitched slightly. “He thinks I’m only concerned with making a profit. He’ll expect it from me.”

Your throat tightened. This plan was starting to feel bigger, more consuming. 

It wasn’t just feeding Campbell false information anymore. It wasn’t just playing a careful game of words, slipping half-truths between the cracks. This was setting a trap.

And you were the one laying the bait.

You swallowed, gripping the edge of the table as the weight of it all pressed against your chest.

It wasn’t fear for yourself that made your hands shake. It was the fear of what would happen if you got this wrong. One wrong word, one miscalculation, and it wouldn’t be you who paid the price. It would be Tommy.

Campbell had been circling him for months, waiting for a reason, waiting for proof. If you slipped, if you made a mistake, Tommy wouldn’t just lose this game. He’d lose his life.

The thought sent a shiver down your spine.

Tommy must have noticed, because his voice cut through the thick, suffocating air between you.

“It’ll be alright,” he murmured. 

You tried your best to believe him. 

…

As you made your way to Campbell’s new meeting location, you ran over your response in your mind, combing through every word, every calculated pause. You had been careful, giving him enough to satisfy his suspicions without betraying anything real. 

Still, there was always the nagging doubt, the lingering question of whether you had played your part well enough. Whether Campbell believed you. Whether he was starting to suspect that you weren’t his pawn at all.

You pushed the thought aside as the meeting point came into view, steadying yourself. 

Campbell had chosen an abandoned rail yard on the outskirts of the city, where the rusting skeletons of freight cars sat beneath a low-hanging fog. The tracks stretched out in every direction, disappearing into the night, and the damp air carried the faint scent of oil and metal. A place chosen for secrecy, not comfort.

You adjusted your coat as you stepped onto the gravel, your boots crunching softly against the stones. The only movement came from the occasional flicker of a distant streetlamp, casting brief, weak halos of light against the damp steel. Your breath curled in the frigid air as you scanned the area, forcing yourself to move with the same quiet confidence you always did.

Campbell was already there, standing near a rusted train car, his figure stiff and upright, hands clasped behind his back. He was waiting, watching. Always watching.

As you approached, his gaze flickered over you, taking in every detail, the set of your shoulders, the pace of your steps, the slight shift in your expression as you closed the distance between you.

“You took your time,” he remarked, his voice calm but clipped.

You stopped a few paces away, meeting his gaze without flinching. “Sorry. I had to make sure I wasn’t followed.”

Campbell studied you for a moment, then gave a small, slow nod. “Good,” he said, voice smooth but edged with something unreadable. “Because I have something new for you.”

You didn’t react, keeping your expression even. “What is it?”

Campbell’s expression was unreadable, but the weight of his gaze told you this wasn’t just another task. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice.

"The Derby," he said.

Your stomach clenched. 

Campbell let the word settle between you for a moment, watching your reaction carefully, like he was waiting for something, some tell, some flicker of hesitation.

You kept your expression neutral, forcing yourself to breathe evenly. “What about it?”

Campbell’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, but it wasn’t far off.

“I know Thomas Shelby is planning something,” he said, voice smooth, assured. “Something big, having to do with Sabini’s men. The betting syndicate."

You swallowed. 

He exhaled slowly, tilting his head just slightly. “It’s ambitious, I’ll give him that,” he continued. “A man like Thomas Shelby, thinking he can carve out his own place at the top of a world already ruled by bigger men… It’s foolish, really.” His voice dropped, taking on that same condescending edge he always used when he spoke about Tommy, like he was a child playing a game far beyond his reach.

“But predictable. Shelby’s greed has always been his weakness. He’s an opportunist, a gambler, always looking for the next pot to take. And he thinks the Derby is his ticket to something bigger.”

You forced yourself to nod as if considering it, but inside, a slow coil of tension wound tighter in your chest. He had taken the bait. Tommy’s misdirection had worked. Campbell believed exactly what Tommy wanted him to– that this was about money, about rigging bets and making a fortune, rather than the real goal: power. Control.

It should have felt like a relief. If Campbell was looking at the numbers, at the movement of money through the tracks, then he wasn’t looking at the bigger picture. He wasn’t seeing what Tommy was really after. But somehow, it didn’t feel like a victory.

Campbell’s gaze sharpened. “But we’re planning something bigger.”

The certainty in his voice sent a chill through you. “What have you got planned?”

"We’ve got Sabini on the hook, and we’re going to hit Shelby at the Derby," he said, his tone even but carrying the weight of something final.

Your stomach clenched. "Like a raid?" you asked.

Campbell nodded, his expression unreadable. “We’ll let him think he’s in control," he said, voice smooth, deliberate. "And then, when he makes his move, we’ll be waiting.” 

His gaze didn’t waver as he continued. “My men will be stationed along the north entrance, disguised as stable hands, close enough to see everything, but far enough to keep out of sight until the right moment.”

He flicked the ash from his cigarette, his voice calm, assured. “Shelby and Sabini’s men will meet at the betting house near the track. Five o’clock sharp. That’s when we’ll move in. And once they have Shelby in their sights, they’ll close in. Quickly. Cleanly.”

You forced yourself to stay still, to keep your expression neutral. “So what do you need me to do?”

Campbell studied you for a long moment, like he was searching for the slightest hint of hesitation. “I want you there,” he added. “Inside the betting house. Watching. Making sure he follows through.”

You kept your expression carefully neutral, forcing yourself to nod as if you were simply processing his orders. 

Campbell smiled faintly. “You’ve done well so far,” he said, his voice cool, edged with quiet warning. “Now let’s get this bastard.”

You forced yourself to nod, keeping your breathing even. "So you’re planning to arrest him right then and there?"

"Not just arrest." Campbell’s eyes gleamed with something colder now. "I want him exposed. Publicly. Humiliated. Stripped of the power he clings to so desperately. No quiet arrests in the dark this time. We’ll have him on display for all of Birmingham to see."

Your pulse pounded, but you fought to keep your voice steady. "What if he fights back?"

Campbell’s expression darkened slightly. "If Thomas Shelby refuses to be taken quietly, we’ll make sure he doesn’t walk away at all."

A sharp chill crept up your spine, but you forced yourself to nod, giving the illusion of compliance. "I understand."

Campbell studied you for a moment longer, then gave a satisfied nod. "Good."

You didn’t let your shoulders relax until you were well out of sight. But even then, the weight of what you had just learned pressed hard against your ribs.

Campbell wasn’t just trying to arrest Tommy. He was planning to slaughter him. 

…

By the time you arrived at Polly’s house later that evening, the weight of Campbell’s words still clung to you. Every step you took felt heavier, like you were carrying something dangerous in your hands, something that could change everything.

The door opened before you could even knock.

Tommy was there, standing in the dim light of the entryway, his expression unreadable. He didn’t say a word at first, just stepped aside, letting you in, his sharp eyes already flickering past you, scanning the street beyond.

As soon as the door shut behind you, he reached for the curtain, pulling it back just enough to check outside, his shoulders tense, his movements methodical. It wasn’t paranoia, it was precaution. A habit built from years of knowing just how quickly things could go wrong.

Tommy turned back to you, his eyes softening just slightly. The sharpness in them gave way to something quieter, something more human. His hand lifted, his fingers brushing against your cheek before settling there, his thumb stroking just beneath your eye.

Then, before you could fully process it, he leaned in.

The kiss was warm, steady– not urgent, not rushed, just grounding. Like he needed to feel you, to be sure you were really standing there in front of him, in one piece. His lips lingered against yours, his hand firm against your skin, anchoring you to the moment.

When he pulled back, his forehead nearly touched yours, his voice low. "You okay?"

You exhaled, your chest tight. You nodded.

Tommy searched your face, his hand still cradling your cheek like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. Then, after a beat, he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, as if he had made some kind of decision.

His hand dropped, his sharp gaze flickering past you toward the sitting room. "Come on then. Everyone’s waiting."

As you followed him inside the house, you noticed the air inside was thick with cigarette smoke and whiskey, the dim glow of the oil lamps casting long shadows against the walls. Arthur and John sat across from one another, looking tense. Polly stood near the fireplace, swirling whiskey in her glass like she already knew something bad was coming.

The second you stepped inside, all eyes were on you. 

Tommy stepped in behind you, shutting the door firmly before moving toward the center of the room. He didn’t sit, just lit a cigarette, exhaling slowly, waiting.

You swallowed, your pulse pounding. You had already gone over it in your head, rehearsed the words, prepared yourself for what needed to be said. But now, standing here, feeling the weight of their gazes, the truth of it all settled in your chest like a stone.

"It’s a trap," you said finally, breaking the silence. 

Arthur’s hand stilled against his knee. John’s brow furrowed slightly. Polly didn’t react, just took a slow sip of her whiskey, watching.

Tommy exhaled through his nose, flicking his cigarette. "When?"

You swallowed hard. "The Derby. Campbell thinks you’re using the race to make a fortune, just like you said he would. But he’s moving in so that he can catch you in the act."

Tommy nodded once, as if this was exactly what he’d expected. But something in his jaw tightened, just slightly.

Arthur scoffed, shaking his head. "That bastard never lets up, does he?"

"He said they’ll have men at the north entrance," you continued. "Campbell made it sound like they’re waiting for you to meet with Sabini before cornering you inside the betting house."

Polly hummed, setting her glass down with a quiet clink. 

Tommy’s gaze was still locked onto you, unreadable. "What does he want from you?”

You held his stare. "He wants me there with you, to make sure you go through with it.”

Tommy exhaled slowly through his nose, tapping his cigarette against the edge of the ashtray. His expression didn’t shift, didn’t crack, but you knew him well enough by now to see the calculation flickering behind his sharp blue eyes.

Arthur’s jaw tightened. "Fucking bastard," he muttered under his breath.

John let out a slow breath, shaking his head. "So what do we do?"

For a long moment, no one spoke. The weight of it all hung thick in the air.

Then, Tommy flicked his cigarette into the tray and leaned forward. "We do what he wants."

Arthur’s head snapped up. "Tom–"

"We move like we’re going through with the deal," Tommy cut in smoothly, his voice cool, steady. "We let him think everything is happening exactly how he planned it." His gaze shifted back to you. "And when he makes his move, we’ll be ready. We’ll have a few men cause a distraction at the north entrance to keep them busy, and more in the betting house causing chaos. Once it’s disrupted, we’ll be forced to move the meeting location at the last minute. While Campbell’s men are busy handling things, we’ll meet with Sabini, do what we do, then slip out the south entrance.” 

The room was silent.

Then, “We stay one fucking step ahead of them,” John said.   

Arthur let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair. “Well, looks like you’re going to your first Derby, Doc.”

John smirked, tipping his glass toward you. “Should be a hell of an introduction to the Derby for ya.”

You exhaled, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. “Right. This is exactly how I imagined it.”

John grinned. “Oh, come on. A bit of excitement never hurt anyone.”

Polly shot him a look. “Tell that to the last man who crossed Campbell.”

John’s smirk faltered just slightly, but he covered it with another swig of whiskey.

You glanced at Tommy. He hadn’t moved, still watching you with that quiet intensity, the weight of a thousand unspoken things pressing between you.

…

The next night, the day before the Derby, the Garrison was alive with its usual noise– laughter, clinking glasses, the hum of conversations layered over the low tunes of the piano. But to you, it all felt muted. Distant. Like you were moving through it without really being there.

You poured a drink, slid it across the bar without thinking. Your hands were steady, but your stomach hadn’t stopped twisting since you left Polly’s the day before. Since Tommy laid out his plan.

It was a good plan, but something felt off.

Campbell was expecting Tommy to be ready. He was waiting for him to make the first move, waiting for him to react. And even if Tommy was a step ahead, even if he knew how to slip past the net, you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something you weren’t seeing.

You knew Tommy. Knew how his mind worked. He thought he was playing Campbell, but Campbell was too calm. Too certain. You had seen it in the way he spoke, in the quiet amusement beneath his words.

Your fingers tightened around the bar top.

Tommy had been holed up in the back with Arthur and John, and some other men, going over final details. But just then, the door to the back room opened, and Tommy stepped out into the main room, pulling a cigarette from his pocket. Arthur and John followed, but Tommy veered off toward the bar while they settled at a nearby table, already halfway through a bottle.

His eyes flickered over the room as he took a drag.

You stepped out from behind the bar, tilting your head slightly toward the hallway leading to some privacy. Tommy hesitated, glancing toward his brothers before nodding once and following you.

The hallway was dimly lit, quieter, tucked away from the noise of the pub. The moment the door swung shut behind you, you turned to face him.

“Please don't do this,” you said.

“We’ve already gone over this,” Tommy said, rubbing his thumb against the bridge of his nose like he was growing tired of the conversation. “You’ll put on a pretty little dress, doll up real nice, and pretend to keep me in line. We’ll make sure Campbell believes everything is happening exactly how he planned it. Then, we’ll meet near the stables and be home before you know it.”

It was so simple when he said it like that. Like it was just another move on the board, another calculated risk that he had already accounted for.

“I know the plan,” you said, voice tighter now. “But something is wrong, Tommy.”

He sighed, slipping a hand in the pocket of his slacks casually. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitated, trying to find words that would be convincing enough, but nothing you said would matter, would it? Because Tommy thought he was untouchable.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, frustration curling in your chest. “But I can feel it, Tommy. I think this is a bad idea. I think we should call it off."

His jaw tightened ever so slightly, but his face remained unreadable. “That’s ridiculous.”

You shook your head, frustration curling in your stomach, making you sick. “Listen to me–"

His voice turned cool, clipped. “We stick to the plan. Everything will be fine.”

You hadn’t expected him to listen. Not really. But still, the way he dismissed your concerns so easily, like they were nothing more than an inconvenience, sent frustration clawing up your throat.

You let out a sharp breath. “Tommy–”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Look,” he said, his tone bordering on impatient. “I can’t abandon plans just because you’ve got a hunch. We don’t operate like that.”

Your throat tightened.

You had seen it before, the blind faith he had in his own planning, in his own ability to control every variable, to outthink every enemy. But war had taught you better. No plan was perfect. There was always something you couldn’t account for.

You took a slow breath, forcing yourself to nod. “Okay,” you said curtly, your voice devoid of any real agreement. Then, you turned on your heel, moving to brush past him. If he didn’t want to hear you out, then fine. It had to be fine.

Before you could get two steps away, Tommy caught your arm.

His grip was firm, not rough, but enough to stop you in your tracks. His fingers curled around your wrist, grounding, steady, but you didn’t want steady. You wanted him to listen.

“I know you’re worried.” He exhaled through his nose, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “But we don’t get to back out just because you have a hunch. It’s always been a risk.”

You swallowed hard, but it felt like trying to force down something sharp. “That’s not what this is,” you murmured. “It’s not just risk, Tommy. It’s—” You exhaled, shaking your head. “You’re not hearing me.”

For a second, just a flicker of a moment, something in his expression shifted. Softened. But then it was gone, replaced by that quiet, unreadable certainty. The one that made your stomach turn.

"We move forward as planned."

You yanked your arm from his grasp.

Tommy let you go immediately, but the weight of his touch lingered, burning against your skin.

“Where are you going?” he asked, his voice still calm, but there was something beneath it now, something you couldn’t quite place.

You turned back to him, your eyes burning. “Home,” you bit out. “To find a pretty little dress and get myself nice and dolled up, just like you said.”

The words came out sharper than you intended, laced with something bitter, something angry. But you didn’t take them back.

You just turned, pushing open the door and stepping back into the hum of the Garrison before he could stop you again.

Behind you, Tommy exhaled sharply, but he didn’t call you back.

…

The night air was crisp, the faint hum of the city still alive in the distance as you walked. Your heels clicked against the cobblestones, each step quicker than the last. You weren’t being followed, you had checked, doubled back twice just to be sure.

But the nerves didn’t fade.

They had been gnawing at you all evening, an invisible weight pressing down on your chest. You had kept your composure at the Garrison, your face smooth and unreadable, but inside, your mind had been running in circles.

The waiting was the worst part. It always had been. Now, and back in France. A quiet, suffocating kind of agony, where time stretched thin, and every second felt like borrowed time, like the world could end in the space between one breath and the next.

By the time you reached your door, your hands were trembling as you fumbled with the key. You cursed under your breath, forcing yourself to breathe, to steady yourself. The lock clicked open, and you slipped inside, shutting the door behind you. The quiet should have been a comfort, but it wasn’t.

Because the nerves, the waiting, the knowing that tomorrow could change everything—it was all too familiar.

Your breath hitched.

No. Not now.

But your mind didn’t listen. Your mind was traveling back.

The scent of damp earth filled your nostrils, the weight of exhaustion settling into your limbs like lead. The dim candle light flickered against the dirt walls of the makeshift medical station, casting long shadows across the stretchers lined up against the tunnels. Men groaned in pain, some deathly silent, their bodies broken, their blood seeping into the earth.

The shelling had stopped. For now. But there would be more. There was always more.

You pressed a cloth against a soldier’s shoulder, feeling the warmth of his blood soak through your fingers. His breath came in shallow gasps, his eyes wide with shock. “Hold on,” you murmured, though the words felt empty, useless.

Your hands moved on their own, muscle memory guiding you as you wrapped the wound, but your mind was already on the others– the men still out there, the ones who hadn’t made it back yet. The tunnels had collapsed in the last blast, sealing them under the earth.

And then, the next wave came.

The ground trembled with the impact, the walls shuddering as dirt rained down from above. The candlelight flickered violently before snuffing out entirely, plunging the station into darkness. Shouts rang out. Someone was pulling at your arm, dragging you down just as another explosion tore through the earth, the deafening roar drowning out everything else.

You hit the ground hard, dust choking the air, your ears ringing so violently it made you dizzy. Your hands clawed at the dirt, struggling to push yourself up. The groans, the cries, they sounded distant, muffled, like you were underwater.

And then came the silence.

You didn’t know how long you lay there before you heard them, new voices, urgent, rough with exhaustion and something else, something colder. You had been trained to recognize voices like that. Soldiers hardened by war, men who had survived the kind of hell that stripped everything human from them.

It was the same way Tommy spoke now.

His voice carried that same weight, that same quiet detachment, like he had seen too much, lost too much, and come out the other side with nothing left to give but calculation and control. He moved through the world the way those men had, steady, deliberate, always watching, always waiting. The war had taken pieces of them all, but with Tommy, it had done something else. It hadn’t just stripped the softness from him; it had reshaped him entirely. War had ended for everyone else, but for Tommy, it had never really stopped.

Now, years later, the same nerves clawed at you, the same fear of waiting for something inevitable, something you couldn’t stop.

Tomorrow, it would be different. It wasn’t war, not like before. But it was still a battlefield, still a fight for survival.

And you weren’t sure if either of you would make it out unscathed.

…

The morning light filtered through your curtains, casting long streaks of gold across your room. You stood before your wardrobe, fingers ghosting over the fabrics, trying to focus on something as simple as choosing a dress. But your mind was elsewhere– on the day ahead. The plan. All the ways it could go wrong. 

You swallowed, forcing yourself to breathe evenly as you pulled a dark green dress from the rack. You wondered if Tommy would like this one. You weren’t sure if that mattered today, but you needed something that made you feel steady, something that fit the part you had to play.

The fabric was smooth, a luxurious blend that draped elegantly over your frame, cinching at the waist before flowing down in soft, effortless folds. The neckline was modest, a gentle curve that framed your collarbones, fitted enough to be flattering but loose enough to allow movement.

Delicate buttons ran down the back, small and precise, the kind that required careful hands to fasten. The buttons felt small beneath your fingers as you fastened them, your movements practiced, controlled. 

A sharp knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts. Firm. Measured. 

You hesitated, your pulse quickening as you smoothed your hands over the fabric of your dress. Frustration still lingered from the night before, but despite it, a part of you couldn’t help but wonder if Tommy would approve of what he saw.

But when you opened the door, it wasn’t Tommy. It was Arthur.

For a moment, you just stared at him, thrown off by the sight of him standing on your steps. His posture was as loose as ever, but there was something behind his eyes, something sharper, more aware. 

“Mornin’, Doc. Tommy sent me. Said he’d meet us at the Garrison,” Arthur said, his voice low but firm.

You searched his face, trying to gauge if there was anything more to those words, but he gave you nothing. Just a nod, as if that was all the explanation you needed.

You wondered if Tommy was angry with you.

You had been short with him last night, too tense to play whatever game he had expected of you. Maybe that was why he hadn’t come himself. Maybe he was pulling away, keeping his distance until all of this was over.

“Right, okay then,” you said. With practiced movements, you gathered what you needed– your purse, a small knife tucked away in the lining, and a few other things you never left without.

Arthur watched you from the doorway, saying nothing, but there was something knowing in his gaze, like he understood without needing to ask.

With one last glance around the room, you exhaled and followed him outside, the cold air settling over your skin as the day truly began.

Arthur said nothing at first, only falling into step beside you, his presence solid, grounding. It wasn’t until you reached the car that he glanced sideways at you. “You look nice, love.” 

You smiled, letting yourself lean into Arthur’s compliment. “Thank you, Arthur. So do you. Did you actually comb your hair?” 

Arthur scoffed, running a hand through his hair as if to prove a point. “Oi, I make an effort sometimes.”

You smirked, settling into the passenger seat as he climbed in beside you. The engine rumbled to life, and the familiar scent of cigarette smoke filled the space between you as he took a long drag.

The drive to the Garrison was quiet, the hum of the engine filling the space between you and Arthur. 

As the car rolled forward, you watched the city pass by in a blur of muted colors, the morning light just beginning to stretch across the rooftops. The silence between you and Arthur was comfortable at first, but the weight of the day pressed in quickly, wrapping itself around your ribs like a vice.

You turned to him, your voice quieter now. “Do you think the plan will work?”

Arthur didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl through the air before flicking his cigarette out the window. “‘Course,” he muttered. 

You nodded, understanding. The plan was calculated, precise– but it relied on deception, on Campbell believing he was a step ahead when, in reality, he was walking into a trap.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to ask the question that had been clawing at you since last night. “Is Tommy… is he angry at me?”

Arthur gave you a sideways glance, something unreadable in his expression. “Nah,” he said eventually. “Not angry. Just got too much rattling ‘round in that head of his to come get you himself.”

You nodded, staring straight ahead, not entirely reassured.

The rest of the drive passed in silence, the tension settling in your bones.

When you finally pulled up to the Garrison, Arthur cut the engine, stretching his arms before turning to you. “C’mon, let’s get a drink in you before the day goes to hell.”

You smirked, shaking your head as you climbed out of the car.

Inside, the warmth of the pub wrapped around you, thick with the scent of whiskey and old wood. Behind the bar, Harry looked up and smiled.

“Well, look at you,” he said, shaking his head in approval. “You look beautiful, love.”

“Thanks, Harry,” you said, his kind face easing some of the tension in your shoulders. 

Arthur had already disappeared toward the back, where you knew Tommy and the others were. You lingered near the bar, running your fingertips along the edge of the counter before taking a seat.

For a few minutes, you simply waited, your thoughts turning over themselves, wondering how this day would unfold, whether the pieces Tommy had set in motion would fall the way he intended.

You drummed your fingers lightly against the bar, forcing yourself to breathe evenly, to sit still when every nerve in your body felt like it was coiling tighter with each passing second. 

Then, the door to the back swung open.

John stepped out first. A few others followed, their voices low, their movements sure. And then, Tommy.

The moment he emerged, his eyes landed on you.

The noise of the Garrison faded into the background as Tommy’s gaze swept over you, slow and deliberate, his expression unreadable. You felt your pulse quicken under the weight of it, the way his eyes lingered just long enough to make your breath catch.

Then, as if making a decision, he murmured something to the man beside him and stepped away from the group, heading straight for you.

You sat up a little straighter, forcing yourself to hold his gaze as he approached, his movements steady, unrushed. 

Something shifted in his expression. The hard lines of his face softened, just slightly, just enough for a flicker of something else to settle in the silence between you.

“You’re beautiful,” he said simply.

The words landed like a strike to your chest– unexpected, deliberate.

A small, wry smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “This dress nearly cost me a month’s worth of wages.”

His eyes flickered as he reached out gently, his knuckle grazing down your cheek. “Sounds like you might need a raise.”

His touch was light, barely there, but it sent a slow, deliberate warmth curling through you. The roughness of his knuckle against your skin was a contrast to the softness of the gesture, a quiet contradiction—something careful from a man who was anything but. It was fleeting, just a brush, but it left behind a ghost of heat, a lingering sensation that made your breath catch. Like a spark against dry kindling, small but enough to set something smoldering.

You leaned into his touch. “Maybe you could have a word with my boss for me.”

Tommy let out a quiet huff, something close to a chuckle, but the warmth in his eyes didn’t fade. His knuckle lingered against your skin for a second longer before he let his hand drop, slipping it back into his pocket as if to remind himself, and you, that there were things to be done.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly as he studied you. 

For a brief, fleeting second, the weight of the day ahead, the trap being set, the danger pressing in from all sides– it all faded.

But then, just as quickly, it was back to business.

“Remember, we let Campbell think everything is happening exactly how he planned it.”

Your stomach twisted, but you kept your expression steady, listening intently as he continued.

“We’ve got men set to cause a distraction at the north entrance to keep his men busy, more in the betting house stirring up chaos. Once the disruption starts, we’ll move the meeting location at the last minute.” He let the words settle, watching for your reaction.

You nodded, swallowing. 

“And while Campbell’s men are busy handling the mess, I meet with Sabini and slip out the south entrance.”

“Then you and I meet at the stables,” you replied. 

Tommy nodded approvingly. “At the stables,” he affirmed.

It was simple in theory.

Tommy stepped back, adjusting his cap. “Come on, then. The others are waiting.”

You followed him out, the morning air crisp against your skin as you stepped into the waiting car. 

And just like that, the game began.

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[fr0stf4ll]

A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 19

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 7.5k

Trigger warning; death, smut

notes; yooo, it’s been a month, I knowwwww, but bear with me! one day I will finish this story lol. I've just been so freaking busy it's insane. Either way, thank you for sticking with me and continuing to read this story, it really means a lot. I'm already nearly done with the next three chapters, so it shouldn't take me too long to post the rest this time. hope you’re all doing well. With love, <333

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Y/N,

I don’t have time I’m sorry, I hope this reaches you in time.

I’ll be dead by the time you read this.

Rask is gone. Montesere and Vallahan too. Koeshiev came for us first, wiped us out before we even had a chance to fight back. The war is already lost here, but you still have time. You can still prepare the High Lords before it’s too late.

His power is beyond anything we imagined. Creatures—things not meant to exist—are crawling out of the dark. They are unstoppable. There is no end to them.

Last night, the prince fell. We couldn’t protect him. We couldn’t protect anyone.

We figured out one thing before the end—Koeshiev has divided himself. He’s fighting on multiple fronts at once. I don’t know how, but he is everywhere. It’s not just him—it’s him, multiplied.

Please, stay safe. Win this war. We didn’t stand a chance, but you do. You know now. You can be ready.

I would’ve loved to see you again. To visit the Night Court.

Maybe in another life.

With love and sorrow, Finn Head Healer of the fallen Kingdom of Rask.

The silence in Rhysand’s office was thick, suffocating. The air itself seemed to still as he finished reading the letter aloud, his voice even, but his knuckles were white where they gripped the parchment.

Azriel’s hand was wrapped tightly around yours, grounding you. You weren’t sure who was holding on to whom more.

“Are you sure this letter can be trusted?” Cassian was the first to break the silence, his voice tense. “It could be a trap. A manipulation.”

You swallowed, your throat dry. “Yes,” you murmured, forcing yourself to speak steadily. “The bird that brought it belonged to Finn.” You took a shaky breath before continuing, “In Rask, the messengers are assigned at birth. They won’t obey anyone else but their bonded owner. If Finn’s bird was sent here… it means Finn himself sent it.”

Rhys nodded grimly, running a hand through his dark hair. “Any other element that can prove that it’s him that wrote it?” he pressed.

You exhaled, bracing yourself. “We all have a way to verify our identities in confidential letters. Finn’s was—” your voice caught for just a second before you forced yourself to finish, “—to always sign his letters with ‘With love and sorrow.’ It was something he said only when a life was lost under his care.”

The words felt heavier than they should, knowing that it had been his own life he was referring to this time.

Feyre inhaled sharply. “That means it’s real.”

Azriel’s grip on your hand tightened.

“When was this sent?” he asked, his voice cold, calculated.

You hesitated before answering. “Two days ago.”

Another stretch of silence.

Two days.

Two days, and in that time, Rask—along with Montesere and Vallahan—had fallen. Erased.  (Ps : Rask, Montesere and Vallahan are the 3 kingdoms next to prythian that you can see in the map in the begining of each ACOTAR book ;))

And Koeshiev had already set his sights on Prythian.

“We don’t have time,” Rhysand said, his voice sharp, his hands braced against the desk as he surveyed the room. “The High Lords need to be warned—immediately.”

Cassian exhaled heavily, crossing his arms over his chest. “We already sent out invitations for the meeting, but that’s not soon enough.”

Rhys nodded, his violet eyes dark with urgency. “Then we move it up. We resend the summons and make it clear—this is not just a political gathering. This is war.”

Azriel, still gripping your hand in his, spoke next. His voice was quiet, but the weight of it settled over everyone. “I’ll alert my spies. If Koeshiev has truly divided himself, we need to pinpoint his movements, track where he’s attacking next.”

You felt Azriel’s thumb tracing slow, grounding circles over the back of your hand, an anchor amid the storm brewing in your chest.

Feyre turned to you, concern etched in every line of her face. “Y/N… you’ve seen what Koeshiev is capable of. Do you know anything about how he’s splitting himself?”

You swallowed, your thoughts racing. “I knew he was powerful. I knew his presence in the continent was growing stronger, but this?” You exhaled sharply. “This is something else. Finn was right—Koeshiev isn’t just bringing death. He’s making nightmares real. He’s multiplying his reach, his destruction.”

The room fell into heavy silence, the weight of your words pressing down on everyone.

Then, Rhysand straightened, his violet gaze glinting with cold determination. “We move fast. We send word to every High Lord and their commanders—this meeting isn’t happening in weeks. It’s happening now.”

Cassian nodded, already thinking ahead. “And we don’t just warn them. We prepare. We need battle plans, contingencies—every court’s strongest warriors.”

Azriel’s voice was steel. “We don’t wait for him to come to us.”

Rhys’s gaze flickered between all of you before he gave a single, resolute nod. “Then let’s move. Prythian will not fall the way Rask did. Not while we still have a chance to stop him.”

No one hesitated. No one argued.

The morning after the meeting felt like the calm before the storm. There was no time to waste. Cassian had already left for Illyria to start rallying the warriors, and Rhysand, Feyre, Mor, and Azriel were en route to the Court of Nightmares, ensuring the Darkbringers were prepared for what was coming. Meanwhile, your role had become clear—Prythian didn’t just need warriors. It needed healers.

You stood in the center of the clinic, a dozen faces looking back at you. Some held determination, others apprehension. The weight of what was coming pressed down on everyone.

“We need to start preparing now,” you said, your voice firm and unwavering. “Letters are already being sent to the other courts’ head healers, but we have to focus on what we can control. That means supplies, reinforcements, and training.”

Elira nodded, arms crossed. “What exactly are we looking at? We’ve handled skirmishes before, outbreaks, but a full-scale war?”

A murmur rippled through the healers, some shifting uneasily.

“What we’re looking at,” you continued, “is the worst thing Prythian has seen since Hibern. Maybe worse.” The words hung heavy in the air. “Koeshiev has already decimated three entire kingdoms. He won’t stop. And when he reaches us, we will be the last line of defense for our people.”

One of the younger healers, swallowed hard. “What if we’re not enough?”

The question struck at the core of the doubt lingering in the room. You stepped forward, meeting each of their gazes. “Do you think I would have asked you to be here if I didn’t think you were the best?” Silence. “Do you think Madja would have trained you if she didn’t believe you were capable?”

Their postures straightened slightly.

“Doubt won’t serve us,” you pressed on. “This isn’t just about bandages and salves. This is war. And I have no intention of letting us be the ones unprepared when it comes to saving lives. You are the most skilled healers in this court, possibly in all of Prythian. But if you waste time second-guessing your abilities, then all we’ll be left with is death.”

A heavy pause, then Elira spoke, her voice stronger this time. “So, what do we do first?”

A breath of relief filled your chest. “We start by taking inventory. We need to send out orders for more medical supplies, and we need to figure out who among us is willing to train others in emergency care.”

The young healer nodded. “We could request help from the priestesses at the library. Some of them already work with us, but there are more who might be willing.”

“Good. Send word to them.” You turned to another healer, Mira. “We need lists of the most commonly used potions, tinctures, and enchanted salves. What can we store in bulk? What do we need that’s rare?”

Mira nodded. “I’ll get started on that.”

“And the letters to the other courts?” Elira asked.

You reached for the stack of parchment waiting at the desk. “I already sent them out last night. We’ll see who responds.”

As if on cue, a small, enchanted scroll materialized on the desk, the seal of the Dawn Court shimmering under the light. You grabbed it, unrolling the delicate parchment.

"Y/N,

We received your letter and are already making preparations on our end. 

The healers of the Dawn Court are gathering supplies, and we will dispatch our best healers to join you when the time comes.

I trust your judgment, and we stand with you. 

–Teylan, Head Healer of the Dawn Court."

You released a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Teylan and her team are preparing.”

A few sighs of relief filled the room.

“That’s one,” you said, your gaze sharp. “Now, we wait for the others. In the meantime, let’s make sure we’re ready, too.”

The healers straightened, determination setting in.

You had work to do.

The soft glow of dawn seeped through the windows of the clinic, casting long shadows across the floor. The scent of herbs, parchment, and ink filled the space as you and the other healers remained hunched over ledgers and supply lists, exhaustion weighing on your limbs. The hours had slipped away unnoticed, your hands still ink-stained from writing letters, your mind buzzing with strategies and preparations.

It wasn’t until the familiar sensation of shadows curling near your skin that you looked up.

Azriel stood in the doorway, his gaze flickering over the room, taking in the dimly lit chaos and the lingering tension in the air. His golden eyes softened slightly as they met yours, but his voice was firm when he spoke.

“That’s enough for tonight.”

Elira, who had been scribbling down yet another inventory list, groaned. “We still have—”

“You still have time,” Azriel cut in, stepping further inside, his shadows darkening in emphasis. “But not if you all pass out before the war even starts.”

The other healers exchanged tired but knowing glances. You exhaled, rubbing the bridge of your nose before nodding. “Everyone, get some rest. We’ll continue later.”

Murmured protests came from a few, but eventually, they relented. You could feel the exhaustion in their movements, the weight in their steps as they began to pack up their materials.

Azriel stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on your lower back. His warmth seeped through your tired muscles, grounding you. “Let’s go home.”

You nodded, knowing there was no point in arguing. “I’ll be back later,” you reassured Elira, who only waved a hand at you, barely lifting her head from the desk she had collapsed onto.

Azriel guided you out of the clinic, his hand never leaving your waist. The cold air outside was crisp against your skin, a welcome change from the stifling warmth inside. The streets of Velaris were eerily quiet at this hour, the city still wrapped in the last moments of sleep before the day began.

“You’ve been working nonstop,” Azriel observed, his voice quiet as you walked together. “Tell me what you’ve set up.”

You inhaled deeply before answering, trying to push past the haze of exhaustion clouding your thoughts. “We’re coordinating with the other courts’ healers. Teylan from Dawn is already preparing her team same for Day, Summer and Winter, and we’re waiting on responses from the others. We’ve started gathering extra supplies—salves, potions, anything enchanted that can help with healing.”

Azriel nodded, listening intently. “And the priestesses?”

“We’ve requested their assistance,” you confirmed. “Some have already agreed to help train others. We’ll need more hands when the injured start coming in.”

Azriel’s expression was unreadable, but his grip on your waist tightened slightly. “Good. You’re thinking ahead.”

You glanced at him, studying the tension in his jaw, the way his wings flexed slightly as if restless. “What about you? How did things go under the mountain?”

A flicker of something dark passed through his eyes before he exhaled. “As expected.”

“Which means?”

Azriel looked at you, his thumb brushing absently over your hip as he considered his words. “Keir is cooperating. Barely. But he knows what’s coming, and even his arrogance won’t blind him to the threat. We secured reinforcements from the Court of Nightmares, though they’ll only act when absolutely necessary.”

You scoffed. “Typical.”

“It’s better than nothing,” Azriel admitted, his voice edged with fatigue. “But I won’t trust them until I see them bleed for this court.”

Your fingers brushed over his hand, entwining them with his. “And Illyria?”

Azriel’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Cassian is handling it. But it’s difficult. Some of the warlords are still bitter, reluctant to follow orders—even if it’s to protect their own people.”

Frustration laced his voice, and you could feel the weight of it pressing on him. You squeezed his hand gently. “They’ll follow Cassian. They know his strength.”

Azriel gave a small nod, his thumb tracing the back of your hand absentmindedly. “They don’t have a choice.”

Silence settled between you for a moment as you walked, the tension of the past day pressing heavily on both of you. The war was no longer just a looming shadow—it was real, and it was coming.

Finally, Azriel spoke again, his voice quieter this time. “I don’t like how much this is weighing on you.”

You turned to him with a small, tired smile. “I could say the same about you.”

Azriel let out a soft huff of amusement, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me for it,” you teased, nudging him lightly.

His golden eyes softened, and instead of answering, he pulled you closer, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s get you home.”

And with that, the two of you walked the rest of the way, hand in hand, knowing that the next battle—whether on the field or in the shadows—was drawing closer with every step.

The moment the door closed behind you, Azriel had you in his arms, his lips crashing onto yours with a hunger that sent shivers down your spine. His hands gripped you tightly, as if letting go wasn’t an option, as if he needed to feel every inch of you against him to prove you were still here.

The kiss didn’t stop.

You barely registered when he lifted you, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, his strong arms holding you against him as if nothing—not war, not death—could pull you away from him. His lips trailed across your jaw, down to your neck, his breath hot against your skin. You gasped when he nipped at the sensitive spot beneath your ear, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer.

By the time he reached the bedroom, your breathing was already ragged. Azriel gently laid you down, hovering above you, his golden eyes burning with something desperate, something unspoken. He kissed you again—deep, slow, as if savoring every second, every taste.

Your hands roamed his body, fingers tracing the scars you had come to love, memorizing him, grounding yourself in the feeling of his skin beneath your touch.

Azriel’s clothes were gone before you could even process how quickly it happened. Your own followed suit, his hands shaking slightly as he helped remove them, as if the idea of even a second wasted was unbearable. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath uneven.

“I love you,” he murmured, his voice almost a plea. “I love you so much, Y/N.”

Your heart clenched at the way he said it, like it hurt him, like every second spent away from you was agony.

“I love you,” you whispered back, your hands cupping his face. “I always will.”

His lips crashed into yours once more, his body pressing against yours, his warmth consuming you entirely. Every touch, every kiss felt like a silent promise—one of devotion, of defiance against the cruel fate looming over both of you.

Azriel moved with slow, deliberate movements, his lips brushing against your collarbone, trailing lower, his hands mapping every inch of your body as if committing it to memory. When he finally sank into you, you both gasped, the feeling overwhelming, the connection deeper than anything words could describe.

It was slow at first, as if savoring each other, but it didn’t take long for the urgency to take over. His grip on you tightened, his pace turning desperate, as if trying to burn the memory of this moment into both of your souls.

You clung to him, your nails dragging down his back, his name a breathless whisper against his lips.

It was overwhelming—the intensity, the raw emotion between you. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, pulling him closer, your bodies moving in perfect harmony.

And then you felt it—a tear slipping down your cheek, not from pain, but from the sheer weight of it all. The love, the fear, the knowledge of what was to come.

Azriel stilled above you for a brief second, his forehead pressed against yours, his breathing ragged. You opened your eyes and saw it—his own tears, barely held back, glistening in the moonlight.

“Oh, Az...” you whispered, your hands cupping his face, brushing your thumbs over the wetness on his cheeks. He let out a shaky breath, his lips parting as if he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.

You let out a small, breathy laugh at how ridiculous you both must look—completely lost in each other, in the emotions neither of you could contain. Azriel huffed a quiet, broken laugh in return, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips, his hands tightening on your waist.

But neither of you stopped.

If anything, the moment only grew more intense. The emotions, the tears, the quiet laughter—it all bled into something deeper, something unbreakable.

His name left your lips in a breathless moan, his pace growing uneven as he buried himself deeper into you. Your bodies trembled together, every movement, every thrust, every kiss pushing you closer to the edge.

And then, as if you had become one, you both shattered together.

His forehead dropped against yours, his grip on you unrelenting as he rode out the waves of pleasure with you, his body still pressed against yours, buried so deep inside you it felt impossible to tell where you ended and he began.

For a long while, neither of you moved.

Your hands found his again, fingers intertwining as you both breathed each other in, the bond thrumming with love, with reassurance.

Azriel kissed you softly, as if grounding himself in the reality that you were still here, still his.

The air in the room was warm, thick with the remnants of your love-making, the sheets tangled around your bodies as if they, too, refused to let go. You lay sprawled across Azriel’s chest, his strong arms wrapped around you, holding you as if you might slip away if he loosened his grip even the slightest bit. His forehead rested against yours, his breath fanning over your skin, steady yet heavy, as if he was memorizing the way you felt against him.

His fingers traced slow, idle patterns along your back, sometimes pressing into your skin as though grounding himself in the reality that you were still here. That, for now, fate had not stolen you from him.

But the truth lingered between you both.

The little time you had left.

Azriel exhaled deeply, the rise and fall of his chest shifting you with it. His voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet—weighted.

“I need to leave soon.”

You blinked, lifting your head slightly to look at him, your fingers already pressing into his skin as if to protest.

“To the continent,” he clarified, his thumb brushing over the small of your back in a soothing motion. “I need to confirm what’s in that letter. I need to see what’s left… if anything is left.”

Your throat tightened. You swallowed hard, willing yourself to stay composed.

Your hand came up to cup his cheek, your thumb tracing the sharp planes of his face, committing the moment to memory. He leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment before opening again, dark and unwavering.

“Be careful,” you whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “And—” you hesitated, resting your forehead against his, “never close your side of the bond. I need to know. Whatever is happening, I need to feel it.”

Azriel’s grip on you tightened. “I won’t.” His voice was steady, resolute. “I swear to you, love. I won’t.”

You exhaled softly, closing your eyes, letting yourself drown in the feeling of him, of the warmth of his body against yours.

“I wish we could run,” you admitted after a long moment, voice barely above a whisper. “That we could disappear, go far away from this war, from all of it.”

Azriel’s hands stopped moving on your back, his silence stretching between you both. You knew he had thought about it too. Knew he had imagined what it would be like if you both could just vanish, live a life without the looming shadow of war, of death.

But you sighed, shaking your head against him. “But we can’t.”

His lips pressed against the crown of your head, a lingering, aching kiss that held more meaning than words ever could.

“I’ve seen fights,” you murmured, your hand trailing down his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. “I’ve seen rebellions, conflicts, bloodshed.” You paused, your voice dipping lower. “But I’ve never been in a war where I could lose so much.”

Azriel’s hand found yours, lacing your fingers together, holding on as if that alone could defy fate.

“I know,” he murmured. “And I hate that we’re here. That we don’t have a choice.”

Your lips brushed against his jaw before you whispered, “I love you.”

His eyes darkened, his grip tightening ever so slightly. “I love you more.”

No more words were needed.

The weight of the world pressed down on your shoulders, but here, in this bed, wrapped in Azriel’s arms, you allowed yourself to forget—just for a little while.

Sleep found you both soon after, your bodies tangled together, holding on as if time itself could be willed to slow down.

A few hours later, the gentle shifting of the bed pulled you from sleep. The space beside you was no longer as warm, the absence of Azriel’s body stirring something deep inside you before you even opened your eyes. You felt him move, felt the way the sheets rustled as he quietly slipped from your side.

Your hand reached out instinctively, fingers wrapping around his wrist before he could move too far. You tugged lightly, just enough for him to hesitate, just enough for him to turn back toward you.

Azriel sighed softly, lowering himself back onto the bed, folding you into his arms. You buried yourself into his chest, inhaling his scent, memorizing the way he felt—warm, solid, unwavering.

“I need to go,” he murmured, pressing his lips into your hair.

“I know,” you whispered, your voice still thick with sleep. “I know.”

You tilted your head up, meeting his gaze in the dim morning light. He cupped your cheek, running his thumb over your skin before leaning in, capturing your lips in a long, lingering kiss. It was slow, full of emotion, neither of you willing to let go just yet.

When he finally pulled away, it was only because he had to. His forehead rested against yours for a beat longer before he stood, leaving your arms empty and cold.

Still wrapped in the sheets, you sat up against the headboard, watching him move through the room. He was meticulous, as always—the way he strapped each piece of leather into place, the careful, methodical way he secured his weapons. There was something deeply intimate about watching him prepare for what lay ahead.

“How long will you be gone?” you asked quietly, breaking the silence.

Azriel tightened the buckle on his vambrace before glancing at you over his shoulder. “It depends, really,” he admitted. “I’ll go straight from the continent to the Dawn Court for the meeting.”

You nodded, shifting slightly, pulling the sheets around you. “I’ll see you after the meeting then.”

Azriel paused, turning fully to look at you. His brow furrowed slightly. “What do you mean? You’re coming to the High Lords’ meeting.”

You blinked at him, momentarily stunned. “I… what?”

“We talked about this,” he reminded you gently, stepping closer to the bed. “Since you were the one who received the letter, it’s better if you’re there. You already know most of the High Lords, and they trust you.”

You swallowed, processing his words. You hadn’t expected this. You’d thought you would stay behind, continue preparing for whatever was coming—but it made sense. If there was ever a time to step into that room, to stand before all of them, it was now.

Azriel watched your expression carefully, waiting for your response.

Finally, you exhaled, nodding. “Alright. I’ll be there.”

A small, satisfied smile ghosted his lips.

You slid out of bed, pulling one of Azriel’s sweaters over your bare skin, along with a simple pair of pants. The fabric was soft, still carrying his warmth, and it settled something deep in your chest. Today would be spent in the clinic, behind your desk, preparing remedies and potions—but that didn’t mean you couldn’t carry a piece of him with you.

As Azriel adjusted the last of his gear, you stepped up behind him, circling your arms around his waist. Carefully, you tucked your head between his wings, pressing a soft kiss to the sensitive skin there.

Azriel stilled for a moment, then exhaled, turning in your hold to capture your lips once more. His hands found your waist, his grip firm but tender, as if he wanted to anchor himself to you before he left.

After a long moment, you pulled away, moving toward the small chest near the dresser. You dug through the vials inside before retrieving a small bundle, turning to press it into Azriel’s palm.

“Take this,” you said softly. “It’s a mix of tonics and remedies. They might be useful if anything happens.”

Azriel looked down at the small bundle in his hand, his expression unreadable for a moment before he gently tucked it into his belt. “You always think ahead,” he murmured, a hint of admiration in his voice.

You smirked, brushing a hand over his chest. “Someone has to.”

Azriel chuckled, shaking his head, before leaning in for one last kiss—slow, lingering, his lips speaking the words neither of you dared to say out loud.

Then, hand in hand, the two of you made your way downstairs. The morning air was crisp, the sky still painted in soft hues of pink and gold.

At the doorstep, Azriel turned to you, his gaze searching yours.

“I’ll be back,” he promised, his voice quiet but firm.

“I know,” you whispered, squeezing his hand. “Just don’t take too long.”

He smirked before pulling you into one last embrace, his lips finding yours once more before he finally stepped back.

And then, with a powerful beat of his wings, he was gone.

You stood there, watching him disappear into the sky, waiting until his figure became nothing but a speck against the horizon.

Only then did you turn, stepping back inside, feeling the emptiness settle in his absence.

The house was silent. Unnaturally so.

The fire had burned out, leaving nothing but smoldering embers in the hearth, and the air inside carried the ghost of warmth from the night before. Ydle was gone, delivering messages, and with him flew Roman—the bird that had once belonged to Finn.

Roman had been restless since his master’s death. Unlike Ydle, who had always been independent despite his bond with you, Roman seemed… lost.

You had watched him pace along the windowsill that morning, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon as if searching for Finn. But his bond—his connection to the man who had raised him, trained him—was severed.

He knew. Somehow, deep in his little avian soul, he understood that Finn was gone. And now, without him, he was adrift.

A sigh left your lips as you turned away from the empty house, the stillness pressing in around you.

You grabbed your coat, pulling it snug around you before stepping out into the cold morning air.

There was no time to dwell on grief.

The clinic pulsed with an energy that had not been there before. It wasn’t the usual hum of healers moving between patients or the comforting rhythm of controlled chaos. No, today was different. The air was charged, thick with tension, as if the walls themselves could sense what was coming.

And you had not stopped moving. Not once.

There was no time to breathe, no time to pause. Each passing moment felt like another grain of sand slipping through an hourglass that was already running too fast.

Stacks of letters covered the table in your office, delivered from every corner of the continent and beyond. Some from the head healers of other courts, seeking guidance on how best to prepare. Others from those confirming their readiness—brief, calculated, full of sharp-edged efficiency that spoke to the severity of the situation.

Each letter demanded a response, and each response required thought, strategy, and precision.

What herbs were best suited for rapid healing in battle conditions? Which would preserve the most energy for healers without exhausting their supply?

What tonics should be prioritized? The fast-acting pain relievers, or the more potent elixirs designed to keep warriors on their feet long after their bodies should have collapsed?

How many stretchers? How many healers? How many bandages, vials, sutures?

How many would be needed if—when—the war came knocking at your doorstep?

Your fingers tightened around the edge of your desk, your nails pressing crescent moons into the worn wood.

It wasn’t just logistics. It was lives.

And the weight of it sat heavy on your shoulders.

Still, you pushed forward, moving from one task to the next with unwavering determination. You wrote back to Teylan, the Head Healer of the Dawn Court, acknowledging her confirmation that their healers were mobilizing. You sent word to Rask's remaining medical units, inquiring about their current state after Koeshiev’s attack.

You met with the other healers at the clinic, gathering them in a quiet room, outlining the next steps with a precision that left no room for hesitation.

Some of them looked nervous—understandably so.

“We are the most skilled healers in this court,” you told them, your voice steady despite the exhaustion creeping into your bones. “And we are going to prepare for this war with the same discipline and knowledge that we apply to every patient who walks through these doors.”

“But,” one of them hesitated, shifting uneasily, “this is war. We’re not trained soldiers. What if… what if we can’t handle it?”

You met their gaze evenly, unshaken. “Would you rather be unprepared when people are dying at our feet? Would you rather look down at a soldier in agony and know you don’t have the tools to save them? Because I won’t accept that. I won’t accept that from myself, and I won’t accept that from any of you.”

Silence filled the space between you, but the weight of your words settled deep.

This wasn’t just about fear. It was about responsibility.

Finally, one of the elder healers—an Illyrian woman with sharp eyes and a steady hand—nodded. “Then we make sure we’re ready.”

A murmur of agreement spread through the group. And just like that, the doubt faded.

You exhaled, rolling your shoulders, and returned to work.

You moved through the day in a blur—checking inventories, counting supplies, overseeing preparations. Ink stained your fingers from endless letters, and your legs ached from the constant motion.

But still, you didn’t stop.

Because there was no room for failure. Not this time. Not when the war was already at your doorstep.

By afternoon, there was something else you needed to take care of—something that required a conversation with Rhysand.

With a stack of papers tucked under your arm, you made your way to the River House. The walk was brisk, the cool air sharp against your skin, but it kept you awake, kept you grounded.

When you arrived, you barely had time to lift your hand before the door swung open for you.

Not by magic.

By the house itself.

A small smile ghosted your lips as you stepped inside, the warmth immediately wrapping around you like an old friend. The place had always carried a quiet sentience, as if it knew who belonged here and who didn’t. And today, it welcomed you like one of its own.

Without hesitation, you made your way through the halls, past the grand sitting room and the sunlit atrium, heading straight for Rhysand’s office.

The doors were already slightly ajar, as if expecting your arrival.

Inside, Rhys was seated at his desk, a pen in hand, reviewing a document with the same sharp, focused expression he always wore when dealing with matters of war and strategy.

At the sound of your steps, he looked up. His violet eyes met yours, and with the barest lift of his brow, he smirked.

���Come in, Y/N,” he said smoothly. “I had a feeling I’d be seeing you today.”

You entered Rhysand’s office quickly, your steps brisk, purposeful—but gods, you were exhausted. And judging by the way Rhys was rubbing his temples, leaning back in his chair, he was just as drained as you.

Still, when he saw you, he straightened slightly, offering a small smile.

“Don’t worry, I’m not here to burden you for too long,” you smirked, settling into the chair across from him.

Rhys let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “You never bother me, Y/N.”

You exhaled, placing the stack of letters you had been carrying onto his desk. “I just came to update you quickly before heading back to the clinic. I sent messages to the healers in the Night Court, outlined the emergency protocol, and made sure we have supplies ready. I also tasked Cassian with delivering the instructions to Illyria while he’s there. I would’ve gone myself, but…”

“You don’t have the time,” Rhys finished for you, nodding. “I know.” His violet eyes darkened slightly with understanding. “And I appreciate everything you’re doing.”

You waved off the gratitude. “This is my home too, Rhys. I’ll do whatever it takes to protect it.”

His smile was small but genuine before he leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “The High Lords have responded—most of them, at least.”

Your expression turned serious. “Most?”

“Tamlin hasn’t responded.”

You sighed, unsurprised. “Of course he hasn’t.”

Rhys reached into the stack of letters on his desk and slid one toward you. “But you might be interested in this.”

You picked up the letter, recognizing the elegant handwriting before you even opened it. Lila.

Your eyes flickered over the parchment, scanning its contents. She had confirmed Tamlin’s presence at the meeting, which was something, at least. But the rest…

Your grip on the letter tightened.

“She’s worried,” you murmured. “The Spring Court is barely holding itself together. Their armies are still fractured, their stability fragile.”

Rhys nodded grimly. “Which means Tamlin might not be as much of an asset as we’d hoped. If his court isn’t prepared, he may not have much to offer in terms of military support.”

You set the letter back down with a sigh. “Then we’ll have to plan around that.”

Rhys studied you for a moment before saying, “Azriel must have informed you, but you’ll be coming with us to the meeting.”

You nodded. “Of course. I expected as much.”

“Feyre is working with Nesta, Amren, and some of the priestesses in the library, trying to find anything that could give us an advantage.”

“That’s good.”

“Cassian will be back from Illyria later tonight,” Rhys continued. “Lucien went to the human lands to meet with Vassa and Jurian.”

Your brows furrowed slightly at that. “Do we trust him?”

Rhys hesitated for a brief second before nodding. “Lucien is many things, but he isn’t a liar. And he has his own reasons to want Koeshiev stopped.”

You considered that before nodding.

“What time are we leaving?” you asked.

“Tomorrow morning. We’ll all meet here before heading out.”

“Sounds perfect.”

You hesitated for a moment before asking, “Who’s staying behind in Velaris?”

“Mor, Amren, Nesta…” Rhys paused for a beat. “And Elain.”

You nodded, keeping your expression unreadable. “Good.”

“And Nyx?”

“Amren is positively delighted to keep him safe.”

You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. “I can imagine.”

Rhys returned the smile, but there was something heavier beneath it. A shared understanding of the weight pressing on both of you.

“See you tomorrow, Rhys,” you said as you stood.

“Y/N.” His voice stopped you just as you reached the door.

You glanced back.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

You gave him a small, steady smile. “Don’t thank me for trying my best to protect my home.”

His expression softened, and he simply nodded.

As you descended the stairs, the warmth of your brief smile faded slightly when you entered the living room.

Elain was there, playing with Nyx.

She looked up when she noticed your presence, her delicate fingers still curled around one of the babe’s tiny hands.

For a moment, you and Elain simply acknowledged each other with a glance—no words, no forced pleasantries.

There were far more important things to focus on than whatever was simmering between you.

So you left, walking out the door without a second thought.

The exhaustion clung to your bones as you stepped away from the clinic, the weight of the long night pressing down on you. You hadn't returned home at all, caught up in the endless planning, the intricate strategies of war and survival. Organizing field healers, establishing protocols for emergency treatment both on and off the battlefield—it had consumed you.

It would never be perfect. No amount of preparation could make it so. But you could ensure that the Night Court—and all of Prythian—stood the best chance possible.

With a final round of instructions given to Elira and the other healers, you exhaled a slow breath, knowing that for the next two days, they would handle things in your absence. After the High Lords’ meeting, depending on its outcome, the real movement would begin.

The streets of Velaris were quiet as you walked home, the familiar city bathed in cold starlight. It was late, and the warmth of the Sidra’s glow barely took the edge off the winter chill. Your fingers tightened around the lapels of your coat as your thoughts drifted—to Azriel.

You could still feel him through the bond, even with the distance between you. He was focused, sharp, immersed in whatever he was doing on the continent. But even so, you had sent him waves of love and reassurance since he had left—little nudges to let him know you were still here, still thinking of him. And each time, he had answered, a soft pulse of warmth in return, a silent acknowledgment of the bond that tethered you together.

Still, a dark thought crept into your mind as you neared your home. When you were no longer here, what would that feel like for him? When all that was left of you was an echo through the bond, a connection to something that no longer existed—

You clenched your jaw, shaking off the thought before it could take root.

You had just reached your front door when a knock echoed from the other side.

Frowning, you hesitated only for a moment before opening it.

Mor stood there, wrapped in a thick cloak, her golden hair slightly tousled by the wind. She looked at you with those keen, knowing eyes—like she already understood everything you hadn’t yet said aloud.

“Hey, stranger,” she said with a small smile, though there was something behind it. A softness. Concern.

You blinked in surprise before stepping aside to let her in. "Mor," you greeted, shutting the door behind her. "What are you doing here?"

She unfastened her cloak, shaking the chill from it before draping it over a chair. “I came to help you get ready for the High Lords’ meeting.”

Your brows furrowed. "You didn't have to—"

Mor cut you off with a look, her arms crossing as she leaned against the table. “Yes, I did. I know you've been drowning yourself in work, Y/N. You’re prepared, but I also know you haven’t stopped for even a second to think about what’s coming next. And I know,” she added before you could protest, “that Azriel told you, but I wanted to hear it from you. Are you ready for this?”

You swallowed, crossing your arms over your chest. “I don’t think any of us are truly ready.”

She nodded, her gaze searching yours. “Fair. But are you ready to face them? To walk into that room not just as a healer, but as someone they need to listen to?”

You hesitated.

Mor sighed, pushing off the table. “You’ve built relationships with the High Lords. They trust you. You are not just Azriel’s mate, not just a healer, not just the person who got that letter—you are a force in this war, and they need to see that.”

You ran a hand through your hair, exhaling deeply. “I know, Mor. I just—” You paused. “It’s all happening so fast.”

Mor’s eyes softened. “It is. But that’s why I’m here. To go over everything with you, to make sure you walk into that room knowing exactly what you need to say.”

And just like that, the two of you got to work, combing through every possible scenario, every question that might arise—because, you would not just be speaking as a healer.

You would be standing before Prythian’s most powerful leaders, ensuring that they understood exactly what they were up against.

Mor studied your face carefully as you took in the outfit, the soft silk cascading over your body, the embroidered stars and moons shimmering under the dim light of the room. The deep blue fabric contrasted beautifully against your skin, the high neckline regal yet delicate. But it was the open back that made you hesitate.

You turned slowly, glancing over your shoulder at the reflection in the mirror. The scars on your back were there—undeniable, raw remnants of the past. You had grown used to them, learned to live with them, but seeing them now, so exposed, left you feeling vulnerable.

Mor noticed the shift in your expression. She stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on your arm. “If you’re not comfortable, we can try something else,” she murmured, her voice softer than usual.

You looked down at where her fingers rested, warmth radiating from her touch. Then, without hesitation, you reached for her hand and squeezed it gently. “No,” you said, meeting her gaze with quiet certainty. “I love it.”

Mor searched your face for any sign of doubt, but when she found none, she squeezed your hand back, her signature smirk returning. “Good. Because you look incredible.”

You let out a soft laugh, running your fingers over the delicate embroidery on the pants. “Did you really have a backup outfit just in case?”

She shrugged dramatically. “Please, do you know who I am? Of course I did.”

You rolled your eyes fondly, turning back to the mirror as she stepped behind you, adjusting the fabric slightly. “You’re going to make an impression,” she said, a hint of pride in her voice.

You let out a breath, nodding slightly. “I know.”

Mor met your gaze in the reflection. “And you’re going to do just fine.”

A small smile tugged at your lips. “Thank you, Mor. For everything.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, don’t get sentimental on me now,” she teased before pulling you into a quick hug. “Now, let’s finish getting you ready, because, you’re walking into that meeting not just as a healer, but as someone they need to listen to.”

You nodded, determination settling in your chest. The meeting was coming fast, but for now, you allowed yourself this moment of quiet preparation, of friendship, of certainty.

Because no matter what awaited you in that room, you would be ready.

As you sat in front of the mirror, Mor’s gentle hands moved through your hair, styling it with a precision that only she could manage. The soft tug of her fingers, the quiet hum of her concentration—it was grounding, a moment of calm before the storm.

One of Azriel’s shadows lingered near you, curling faintly around your wrist like a whisper of reassurance. You didn’t know if Azriel had sent it or if it had simply decided to stay with you of its own accord. Either way, its presence was comforting, as if a piece of him was with you, holding onto you even from miles away.

Mor soon moved to your face, her gaze sharp as she worked. The exhaustion from the past few days had taken its toll, but by the look of satisfaction on her face as she pulled back, she had managed to make you look like you had actually rested.

“Beautiful,” she murmured, admiration in her voice. “You are beautiful, Y/N.”

You met your own gaze in the mirror, eyes scanning over the work she had done. The long, dark lines of exhaustion under your eyes had vanished, replaced with a soft glow that made you look almost ethereal. She had done an incredible job, as always.

A small, grateful smile tugged at your lips. “Thank you, Mor.” You leaned over and kissed her cheek.

She grinned, hugging you from the side before pulling away with a playful smirk. “Alright, alright. Enough of that. Go get your shoes—we need to leave, or you guys are going to be late.”

You chuckled, shaking your head as you grabbed them, slipping them on swiftly before the two of you made your way to the River House.

When you entered, everyone was already gathered, finalizing preparations.

The sight before you was breathtaking—every single one of them dressed in their finest, the weight of their roles as warriors, rulers, and protectors settled heavily over them.

Rhys stood near the fire, his wings out, the dark crown atop his head a striking contrast to his violet eyes. Feyre stood beside him, a vision in an intricately designed gown, her crown sitting elegantly atop her golden-brown hair. She truly looked like a queen tonight.

You exchanged greetings, small smiles and quiet words passing between the group. Feyre and Rhys kissed Nyx one last time before Feyre turned to you, her fingers finding yours.

“Ready?” she asked, squeezing your hand.

You nodded, inhaling deeply. “Ready.”

Rhys reached for Cassian while Feyre took your hand, and in a single breath, darkness enveloped you.

The High Lords' Meeting awaited.

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[nahoney22]

By the Willow

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼　 ҉ ✼

❀ Secret Princess Series

❀ Tech X Female Princess

❀ word count: 7.5k

♔ Plot: When you meet a stranger at your spot of respite, you didn’t anticipate the connection the two of you have and to discover what you have been missing all your life.

♔ Warnings: Princess female reader, safe for work, strangers to friends to lovers, isolated reader, reader hides her identity, first kiss, fluff, light angst, reader wears dresses, small argument between reader and Tech.

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼　 ҉ ✼

Peace, calmness, and an escape from reality was just what you needed right now.

The breeze was soft against your skin, playing with your loose hair. Your fingers drifted through the tall grass, petals of wildflowers brushing against your dress as you walked, the meadow offering you a brief moment of respite. Because out here, you could just be yourself.

In the distance, the familiar weeping willow came into view and a small smile touched your lips. This was your sanctuary, a place you would run away to when times got too tough; even as a child.

Though now it seemed even more of a safe haven as you could shed the weight of responsibility of being a Princess, if only for a little while. With the shade beneath its light green leaves that offered both protection and solitude, the sound of the stream nearby always helps calm your mind. Even if there was nothing to calm.

You approach with a small spring in your step, clutching a book that you decided to bring along with you by your side. But as you brush the dropping branches and long slender sleeves to the side, your heart stops when you find someone already there. In your spot.

"Who are you?" The words slipped out sharper than you intended, a flicker of alarm creeping into your tone.

All your life, it had been one of constant vigilance—surrounded by guards, attendants, and protocols. Even in the moments when you’d insisted on doing something yourself, there was always someone hovering nearby. And beyond the palace walls, you’d been taught to be wary of strangers, told that your position made you a target.

Luckily, they hadn’t clicked onto how you leave the Palace without anyone noticing just yet. And you hadn’t had a problem either, until now.

Yet, as you watched the man before you, your panic began to fade. He didn’t exude danger. Well, not in the way you’d been warned about.

The man glanced up from his seated position, his fingers adjusting the yellow-tinted goggles perched on his nose. He lowered the datapad in his lap, his gaze sweeping over as if analysing you. "I’m just exercising my mind," he said, his voice simple, almost disinterested. "I didn’t realise this spot was spoken for."

His nonchalance catches you off guard a touch but then you realised—he didn’t even recognise you or know who you were. What you are. There were no stiff formalities that made you feel awkward, no over-exaggerated bows. He just... existed. And so did you.

This was perfect. Kind of.

"I usually sit there," you replied, gesturing to where he was after you snap out of thoughts.

Your eyes began taking in his unusual appearance. His armour was unlike anything you’d seen before, and his features, though sharp, were somehow soft in the dappled light filtering through the leaves. His skin was speckled with sunlight, his wide eyes focused yet distant, as though his mind was always working, always calculating.

"I wasn’t planning on staying long," he said, his tone still casual, "but I can leave if you prefer."

A smile tugged at your lips, maybe some quiet company wouldn’t be too bad. "Actually, it's a warm day... I think I'll just sit over here, in the shade." You gestured to the other side of the tree.

He gave no response, simply returning to whatever task he had been doing before you arrived.

You watch him a moment more before you move round the large tree, resting on the ground with your legs spread outwards and your back perched comfortably against the bark.

For a moment, you listened for any movement from the man, but he remained quiet, absorbed in his own thoughts. With a soft sigh, you opened your book, allowing yourself to be drawn into its pages.

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼　 ҉ ✼

As the hours passed, the golden light of the afternoon began to soften, and you decided it was time to head back. Closing your book, you rose to your feet, brushing the stray bits of grass and dirt from your dress.

You paused before leaving, glancing over at the man who hadn’t moved from his spot. He was still focused on his datapad, absorbed in whatever consumed him. For a moment, you debated whether to say goodbye. It felt odd—after all, you were little more than strangers who had shared barely a few words.

But something in his presence made you hesitate. Just as you were about to slip away, he lifted his head, meeting your gaze with a subtle nod. "I will be here tomorrow, too," he said, his voice steady but casual, before returning to his work.

His words caught you off guard, but not unpleasantly. There was an ease to his statement that felt more like an invitation than an expectation. You hadn’t planned on returning to the willow so soon—it was a retreat you visited only occasionally, once in a while when things got too much. But now, the thought of returning tomorrow seemed appealing.

"I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then," you replied, a quiet smile pulling at your lips.

As you walked back through the meadow, a sense of unease crept in. It was dangerous, speaking so casually with a stranger, especially someone who didn’t know who you really were. But the more you thought about it, the more you realised that perhaps, like you, he was just looking for a place to escape.

True to his word, he was there the next day, in the same spot, just as you arrived. It was oddly comforting to see him again.

"Hello again," you said softly as you approached, your book from the day before tucked under your arm.

He looked up from his datapad, and this time, there was the faintest hint of a smile on his face. It softened his otherwise serious demeanor. "I’m surprised you came."

Raising a brow, you took a small step closer, closer than you had been yesterday. "Why’s that?"

He paused, his expression thoughtful before he cleared his throat. "I didn’t expect you to, I suppose."

"Well, I see you're in my spot again," you teased lightly, the playful tone slipping easily into the air between you.

He responded with a deadpan expression. "I don’t believe this spot belongs to anyone, except perhaps the royalty who owns this land."

"And yet you’re trespassing," you countered with a grin.

"As are you," he said smoothly, his gaze steady on you. "It seems."

"Actually, this is my—" You cut yourself off abruptly, the words catching in your throat. You hadn’t meant to reveal your true identity, especially since he seemed blissfully unaware of it. The less he knew, the better.

His eyes narrowed slightly, as if sensing the sudden shift in your tone. "Continue," he said, his voice calm but edged with curiosity. He studied you, his gaze patient yet expectant.

You shifted on your feet, feeling the damp earth beneath your shoes. "I just... work at the palace," you said, trying to keep your voice casual. "I come here for a break sometimes."

He raised a brow, clearly not entirely convinced by your vague answer. "Are you allowed to do that?"

"Yep," you replied quickly, eager to change the subject. Without waiting for him to question you further, you gestured toward the space beside him. "May I sit?"

For a moment, he didn’t respond, simply watching you with that same unreadable expression. Then, with a slight nod, he shifted, making room for you under the tree.

As you settled beside him, the quiet between you felt oddly comfortable. But curiosity got the better of you. "So... what’s your name?" you asked, glancing at him.

He looked up from his datapad what appears to be glued to his hand, barely lifting his head. "Tech," he replied flatly, as if the answer was self-explanatory.

A small laugh escaped you, catching him off guard. "Tech? That’s your name?"

"Yes, that is correct," he said, not bothering to look up this time. "Why do you find that amusing?"

"I’ve just never heard a name like that before," you explained, smiling. "What’s the origin of it?"

He finally shifted his full attention to you, adjusting his goggles with one hand. "It’s not particularly unusual if you understand the context. I am a Clone, part of a genetically engineered unit created for the Republic.” He explains, knowledge rolling off his tongue.

“Each of us was given a designation based on our individual enhancements. Mine happens to be… technical aptitude. So to speak. Hence, Tech."

You blinked, trying to process the flood of information. "Wait—clone?"

"Yes," he said as if it was obvious. Surely you’ve heard of the Clone Wars?"

"I—" you started, but the words got tangled. "No, actually… I haven’t. I’m not sure I understand."

Tech paused, clearly surprised, though his expression remained neutral. "You haven’t heard of the Clone Wars? Or clones? That’s... highly unusual. We were a critical part of the galaxy’s military efforts for years. We were created on Kamino, a planet known for its advanced cloning technology. You must be familiar with Kamino at least."

"Kamino?" you repeated, frowning slightly. "No, that doesn’t sound familiar either." Slowly, you start to feel a creeping embarrassment as you suddenly feel stupid for not knowing something that clearly is a large part of the galaxy. Then again, you were taught about your own secluded planet only and its history. Not anywhere else.

Tech blinked behind his goggles, staring at you for a beat too long. "You’ve never heard of Kamino either?" His voice was tinged with disbelief, as though the concept was nearly impossible for him to fathom. He continued with a brief description with the importance of this ‘Kamino’ and if you didn’t feel stupid before, you did now.

Embarrassed, you shook your head. "No, I really haven’t heard of it."

"Interesting," he said, more to himself than to you. "You live in a remarkably isolated environment if you’ve never encountered such basic galactic knowledge." His gaze then sharpened, scanning you almost analytically. "Have you ever even left this planet?"

You hesitated, then shook your head sheepishly. "No. But... I’d like to. One day."

"Hmm," he muttered, as if filing away that piece of information. "That explains your lack of familiarity with broader galactic events. This planet is extremely remote, sparsely populated, and largely irrelevant to the major political structures in place."

Was he always so blunt? You felt a slight pang of defensiveness at the description of your homeworld but quickly pushed it aside. "So, what is it you do?"

“I am a Soldier.”

“How come you are here?" You probe with a smile, already assuming as much that he was a soldier of some kind.

"We’re on a diplomatic mission," Tech continued, in the same detached tone, not quite meeting your enthusiasm. "We’ve been tasked with upgrading security systems at the palace. The assignment begins in a week or so."

You stiffened at the mention of the palace, your mind racing. "The palace?" you echoed, trying to keep your voice steady. "You’ll be working there?"

"Yes," he confirmed, missing the tension in your voice. "We’re to conduct a thorough analysis and enhancement of their current security protocols. Apparently, there’s a concern regarding the safety of someone of importance residing there."

Your heart skipped a beat, hands feeling a little clammy. "Have you—uh, you know— researched the royal family?"

"There isn’t much information available," he replied, adjusting his goggles again as he shows you information in his datapad. "And as I stated before, this placed is sparsely populated—fewer than a few hundred inhabitants, by my estimates. It’s not significant enough to warrant much attention in the galactic records. The royalty here is of little interest beyond local matters."

Relief and anxiety swirled inside you in equal measure. For now, it seemed your identity was still safe. "I see."

Tech glanced at you again, his gaze lingering in a way that made you feel slightly exposed. "You still haven’t told me your name," he pointed out, almost as if it were a loose end he needed to tie up.

You froze for a second, then quickly recovered, forcing a smile. "Willow," you said, the lie slipping out before you could second-guess it.

"Willow," he repeated, tilting his head slightly. "That’s an uncommon name. Does it have any particular significance?"

"It’s... just a name," you replied, keeping your tone light.

"Fascinating," he muttered, though whether he was genuinely intrigued or simply acknowledging the information, you couldn’t tell. “Also fitting.”

The conversation drifted on, with Tech providing details about his work, his unit, and the missions they’d carried out. You laughed at moments that he didn’t realise were quite amusing but you had clearly relaxed him enough to allow him to open up. And he talked… a lot. It was quite cute.

As the sky deepened into evening, you realised how much time had passed. "I should probably get going," you said, standing up and brushing off your dress. "I’ve enjoyed talking with you."

Tech glanced up, and for a brief moment, there was a flicker of something like hesitation in his eyes. "Will you be here again tomorrow?"

His question caught both of you by surprise, and his expression shifted slightly, as if he was recalibrating his own boldness.

You hesitated, then smiled softly. "We’ll see," you replied, knowing full well that you would be.

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼　 ҉ ✼

And you did go see him.

That day, the next day, and the day after.

Each time, you found yourself more drawn to the odd charm of the man who barely glanced your way but still seemed to notice everything.

You couldn’t help but smile to yourself each time you visited. You had noticed (that although his focus rarely strayed from his datapad) the subtle shift in the air whenever you appeared—the way his posture changed, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly as if he had been waiting for you. It was a good feeling.

Sitting beside him had become your routine, almost like breathing and the book you brought along served more as a prop than something to read. Your attention was inevitably pulled towards Tech and whatever he was tinkering with.

Truthfully, You were completely enamored by him. His mannerisms, the unintentional gentleness in his hands when he handled something delicate, and the way he occasionally muttered to himself, lost in his own thoughts.

Though the times he’d briefly look up, his eyes were soft with a look that felt almost... affectionate.

You didn’t want to overthink his gaze, but it gave you butterflies every time.

This day was no different. You’d settled in next to him, your book open on your lap. After several minutes of peaceful silence, your curiosity perks. You leaned slightly closer, peering at the array of circuits and small mechanical pieces strewn around him. “What are you working on today?”

Of course, he didn’t look up, but his tone warmed a fraction as he replied. “A calibrator. These,” he then gestured to the smaller parts in front of him, “are relays that modulate signal strength. It’s critical that they are adjusted to the correct tolerances—any deviation would result in unstable transmissions, or worse, complete signal loss.”

You blinked, absorbing what you could of the information, though most of it flew over your head. The palace didn’t hold such instruments and so everything he told you was brand new. “Doesn’t seem like it would fit with anything we use here,” you say.

“It doesn’t. This is from a planet called Ord Mantell. I happened upon it during a mission and kept it for study. I often collect such artifacts if they’re of unique construction.” He reached into one of his pouches of his beltand pulled out another small item—a hexagonal metal device with an intricate pattern carved into it. “For example, this is a fragment of a data chip from Naboo. It’s outdated, obsolete even, but I’m fascinated by its design and the potential for historical data retrieval.”

You stared at it, the weight of his words sinking in. He’d seen so many places you could only dream of, held pieces of those planets, moons and stars in his hands.

You smile gently, watching him with a mixture of awe and fondness as he spoke.

It did strike you how much he wanted to share all of this with you, how patient he was with his explanations, even if he sometimes forgot to ask if you understood. There was something grounding about his presence, something that made you want to listen, to learn.

Lost in thought, you didn’t realise how long you’d been staring until he glanced over, brows furrowing slightly behind his goggles. “I have a question,” he said suddenly, snapping you out of your reverie.

You blinked, then nodded eagerly. “Go ahead.”

“I’ve observed that you’ve been on the same page of your book for the past four consecutive days,” he noted bluntly. “Is there a reason for this behaviour, or have you simply found something within the text that holds your interest?”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, embarrassment flaring up as you glanced down at the page in question. It was a silly romance novel, and you hadn’t even realised you hadn’t turned the page once. “I—um, no,” you stammered, looking away. “It’s just... hard to focus on the story when I’m with you, I guess.”

Tech blinked, clearly taken aback. He tilted his head, studying you with the same clinical curiosity he reserved for complicated puzzles. “You... read the same page repeatedly so you can spend time here?”

Swallowing your nerves, you nodded, your fingers brushing over the edges of the book. “It gives me a reason to be here and see you.” Your voice was small, the admission much braver than you felt. “Otherwise, I’m not sure if I’d have the courage.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly processing. “You don’t need to bring a book if your primary intention is to converse with me,” he said after a pause, his tone as blunt and matter-of-fact as ever. “I don’t mind your presence. In fact, I’ve grown accustomed to it.”

A soft laugh escaped you, the corners of your mouth lifting. “You’re really something, you know that?”

He frowned, seeming unsure of how to interpret your reaction. “Is that meant to be complimentary?”

“Absolutely,” you said, smiling. “I like being here with you. I like talking with you, you make me feel normal.”

“Do you often not feel normal?”

You pause but quietly shake your head, “Not usually.”

Silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken thoughts and a hint of something unnameable. For the first time, you found him staring at you, his gaze lingering as if trying to read you, to decode something unfamiliar. The air felt warmer, more intimate somehow, and you couldn’t help but notice how much closer you were than when you’d first sat down.

Tech cleared his throat abruptly, breaking the moment. “You’ve mentioned you enjoy our discussions,” he began, his voice a touch quieter. “But I still know very little about you. Your name, for instance—‘Willow.’ It doesn’t seem to align with any of the traditional names or designations I’ve encountered in my data banks.”

Your heart thudded in your chest, the question you’d been dreading surfacing at last. “Like I said, it is just a name,” you murmured, guilt gnawing at you. He still didn’t know the truth, the title you carried, or your real name. And with each passing day, the prospect of him finding out grew more daunting.

“Tech,” you started, then hesitated. You needed to tell him. Before everything got too complicated. “There’s something you should know.”

“Yes?”

The words caught in your throat, your resolve faltering the longer you looked at him. The words are on the tip of your tongue but they don’t leave. Instead, your mind completely diverts and you blurt out the next unexpected and unexplainable statement:

“I’ve never kissed anyone before.”

His eyes widened, genuine surprise flashing across his face as he dropped the gadget in his hand. It clattered to the ground, the sound startling both of you. “Ah—neither have I,” he admitted, clearing his throat as he picks it back up and dusting off the dirt. “It’s not something I’ve had much opportunity to… experiment with.”

You both sat there, frozen in the tension of the moment. You felt your pulse hammering, the soft breeze in the air suddenly chilling.

Supposedly, the thought of kissing him had slipped into your mind at some point. It was so innocent, so impossibly daring. But the moment felt right. And never had you been so certain of anything.

“Maybe…” you ventured softly, almost shyly. “Maybe we could try it together?”

For the first time, you saw Tech falter, a faint heat warming his cheeks. He blinked rapidly, as if recalibrating. “You want me to—?”

“If you’d like to,” you murmured, eyes flickering from his lips to his astonished gaze, “only if you want.”

He lets go of the gadget again, his hand reaching out tentatively, brushing against your cheek in the softest of touches and then down to your shoulder.

You held your breath as he leaned closer, his expression still unreadable but his gaze locked onto yours. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he closed the distance, lips hovering a fraction of an inch from yours before finally, gently, he kissed you.

The moment was brief, delicate and tentative, as if testing the waters. When he pulled back, his eyes were wide behind his goggles, his fingers still ghosting against your skin.

“That was… different,” he murmured, his voice almost breathless.

You couldn’t help but smile, “Different in a good way?”

Tech’s lips twitched, a faint smile forming as he nodded. “Yes, in a good way. Very much so.”

You watch as he lingered for a moment, his gaze unwavering, still clearly processing what had just happened. His lips parted slightly, as if tasting the memory of your touch before he finally spoke. “I believe I would… like to do that again.”

Your heart fluttered, warmth flooding your chest. Without another word, you leaned closer, letting your eyes flutter shut as you pressed your lips to his once more. This time, the kiss was different—bolder, more sure. Tech’s hands, trembling ever so slightly, slid down from your shoulders to rest at your waist. His touch was cautious but steady, pulling you closer, encouraging you to deepen the kiss.

You responded eagerly, feeling yourself melt into him, losing yourself. His lips, surprisingly soft and gentle, moved in time with yours, and his breath hitched when your fingers traced the lines of his jaw. There was a sweetness to his inexperience, a hesitancy that made your heart swell. It felt innocent, pure, and you couldn’t help but be drawn in even more by the way his hands tightened slightly at your waist, anchoring you to him beneath the willow’s cascading branches.

The world seemed to fade away, the only sound the soft rustling of leaves and the quiet, shared breaths between the two of you. He tilted his head, deepening the kiss, and a soft gasp escaped you as the intensity grew. There was something impossibly addictive about the way he kissed you—clumsy yet deliberate.

But then, the guilt struck.

Like a sudden, icy wave, the reality of it all crashed over you. You were lying to him—deceiving him with a false name and a false identity, all while he kissed you so earnestly, so honestly. He didn’t know who you truly were, didn’t know that the girl he thought was just a mere palace worker was actually the princess of this very land.

You broke away, breathless and shaken, your heart thudding loudly in your chest. “I— I’m sorry,” you stammered, forcing yourself to pull back from his embrace, ignoring the bewildered look that flashed across his face. “I— I have to go.”

“Go?” he echoed, brows drawing together in confusion. “But—”

“I just remembered, I have… something to attend to.” The excuse tumbled from your lips as you stood, weak and unconvincing even to your own ears, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him properly. Couldn’t bear to see the confusion, the hurt that might start to form as he tried to piece together why you were suddenly pulling away.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice slow, as if trying to make sense of the sudden change. “I had presumed you were comfortable.”

“I was. I mean, I am!” You stumbled over your words, taking a step back and placing a shaky hand against your forehead. “But I just— I need some time to think.”

Tech tilted his head, eyes narrowing in that analytical way of his. “Have I misstepped?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral, but the underlying uncertainty made your chest tighten. “If I have done something to make you uncomfortable, you need only inform me, and I shall correct it.”

“No, no, it’s not you,” you interrupted hastily, guilt twisting deeper inside you. “You’ve been… perfect, Tech. Really. It’s just… me.”

As you go to retreat, his voice stops you one more time: “Wait.”

You froze mid-step, eyes widening as he suddenly pushed himself to his feet. The abrupt movement caught you off guard as he had never once stood up when you were around, always preferring to remain seated.

Now, seeing him like this—standing, back straight and shoulders squared—you truly took in the stranger you’d been growing so fond of these past few days.

He was tall, no denying that. noticed was his height as he towered over you, lean and built in a way that spoke of quiet strength. “Are you,” His brow furrowed, mouth twisting into a slight frown as he searched for the right words. “Are you going to return later? Or perhaps… tomorrow?”

You blinked up at him, still processing the sight of him standing there “I…” You hesitated, the lie teetering on your lips, but it felt almost impossible to say it now, not when he was looking at you with those clear, curious eyes. “I don’t know,” you admitted quietly.

A flicker of confusion passed over his face, and his head tilted ever so slightly. “Why not?” he asked, straightforward as ever, without any hint of reproach or accusation—just a genuine desire to understand. “Have I done something wrong? If there was an error in my conduct—”

“No, Tech,” you interjected, shaking your head vigorously. “It’s not that. It’s not you.” You repeat. “I’ve just—” Your voice faltered as you struggled to find the right words.

You looked up at him again, properly taking in every detail of his face. The way his lips were slightly parted in thought, the sharp line of his jaw, the soft brown of his eyes, which were surprisingly gentle despite their constant, calculating focus.

“I’ve just been dishonest,” you finally confessed, the words spilling out before you could stop them. His brows furrowed further, confusion deepening.

“Dishonest?” he echoed, voice almost clipped, like he was analysing the word itself. “In what capacity?”

Your heart ached. There was no way you could tell him the full truth—not now, not after everything. “I… I can’t really explain right now.” You took a shaky breath, feeling the familiar pressure of tears pricking at your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

For the first time, a flash of something like concern crossed his features, and he took a tentative step closer, his gloved hand lifting as if to reach out to you but then faltering, dropping back to his side. “Then when will you be able to explain?” he asked softly. “I would like to understand.”

His sincerity made your chest tighten painfully. You bit your lip, willing yourself to keep it together. “I don’t know,” you whispered. “But I— I have to go.”

You turned away before he could respond, afraid of what you might see if you looked back—afraid of the confusion, the hurt, or worse, the acceptance that you were walking away from him for good.

But you hadn’t even taken two steps when his voice called out again, halting you in your tracks. “You will return, correct?”

It wasn’t really a question, more like a statement of fact, as if he couldn’t conceive of an outcome where you wouldn’t. He stood there, looking almost vulnerable in his rigid stance, the datapad long forgotten at his feet.

Your mouth opened and closed, the lie so easy, so simple, yet your heart rebelled against it. “Yes,” you breathed out, hating yourself for it. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The words were a bitter promise on your tongue, and you forced yourself to keep moving before you could take them back. You didn’t dare look back, even as you felt the weight of his gaze lingering on you.

Tech stayed where he was, feet firmly planted on the ground as he processed your departure. But he didn’t call after you again. Instead, he remained still, watching you leave, the ghost of your warm kiss still lingering on his lips.

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼　 ҉ ✼

“Are you feeling well, Your Majesty? You have been awfully quiet this morning.”

The voice of your handmaiden gently pulled you from your wandering thoughts. You gasped softly as she tightened your corset, the constricting garment pulling you uncomfortably upright. “I’m fine, just a little queasy, is all,” you replied half-heartedly.

In the mirror, you caught her frown, concern evident as your eyes met. “Would you like me to fetch the Royal Doctor?”

“No, no,” you answered quickly with a short, forced laugh. “That won’t be necessary. I am fine.” But truthfully, you were anything but fine.

For days, you had avoided seeing Tech, despite telling him you would. Guilt gnawed at you, eating away at every moment you spent replaying your last encounter. Kissing him and running away without an explanation had been cowardly, and you knew it. But you couldn’t face him—couldn’t face the confusion or possible disappointment that would come after your revelation.

Everything with Tech was new, unfamiliar but exciting. He made you feel things you never had before, things that made you want to escape from the world you’d always known. But you lied, and now the consequences of that deception were about to catch up to you.

The clones were coming. The same group Tech had mentioned, sent to assess the palace’s security. You had been informed by your advisors the night before at dinner that almost had you choking on your desert

How would he react? What would you even say to him? You’d barely slept, tossing and turning in the night, your thoughts spinning uncontrollably. To which, another handmaiden had discreetly suggested extra concealer that morning, noting the dark circles under your eyes.

You sighed softly as you clipped in a pair of jewel-encrusted earrings, slipping on an array of rings that glinted in the sunlight streaming through the curtains. Your fingers lightly touched your painted lips, the memory of his kiss still lingering.

The gown you wore was one of your more extravagant ones, designed to impress and restrict your breathing and you adorn a tiara to your head, setting it straight with slightly shaken hands.

“Have you been in the gardens lately, ma’am?” your handmaiden asked as she picked up one of your simpler dresses, the one you had worn during your secret outings. The fabric was stained with grass and dirt.

“Oh… yes, I apologise,” you muttered, glancing at the dress. “It might be tough to get that out.”

Your handmaiden, thankfully, said nothing more, simply nodding and continuing with her work. But your thoughts remained tangled. You had been careless.

Before you knew it, the time had come. Tech and his squad were arriving soon, and you were expected to greet them. Your heart pounded in your chest as you descended the grand staircase, each step feeling heavier than the last. Your gaze remained firmly planted on the polished marble floor, unwilling to look up.

The squad had already arrived by the time you reached the grand hall. They were being formally greeted by the palace guards and your advisors, who stood in a stiff line, watching the group with hawkish eyes. Your steps faltered, but you pressed on, shoulders square, as one of your advisors stepped forward and introduced you to them.

“Her Royal Highness, the Princess Royal,” your advisor’s voice rang out, the weight of your title hanging in the air as they spoke your name.

Finally, you lifted your gaze, and your eyes locked immediately with Tech’s.

He stiffened, almost dropping his helmet that he had tucked under his arm. His usually calculating expression narrows into something unreadable. His intense gaze bore into you, unblinking, analysing. He looked… almost surprised, but the emotion flickered so quickly across his face you couldn’t be sure.

“This is interesting,” Tech said aloud and to your advisors and guards, out of turn.

Hunter gave Tech a sharp look, clearly catching the undercurrent in his tone. But it wasn’t just Hunter’s attention that had been caught—your advisors were staring at you now, suspicion quickly creeping into their eyes. “What do you mean by that?” one of them demanded, their voice tight with irritation.

You could feel the panic rising in your chest, your pulse quickening as words become stuck in your throat. Your advisors were already displeased, and now Tech’s cryptic statement had put you directly in the spotlight. You swallowed hard as all eyes turned to you.

“We’ve met before,” Tech said plainly before you could come up with a lie, a bad habit you find yourself repeating.

A ripple of surprise passed through the gathered group, as well as an odd glance between the rest of his squad between one another.

Your advisors exchanged sharp, incredulous looks. “You’ve… met before?” one of them asked, their tone laced with disapproval as they now look to you. “Where?”

“By the Willow Tree,” you admitted quietly. It felt like the air had been sucked out of the room as you said it as steam almost blew out of their ears.

“What were you doing there?” another advisor snapped, their gaze narrowing with judgment. “Meeting with strangers outside the palace grounds? You could have put yourself in danger!”

The blame was quick, sharp, and unyielding, and you shrank beneath the weight of their accusations.

But before things could escalate further, Hunter stepped forward, raising a hand. “We weren’t aware that Tech had already met the Princess,” he said evenly, his voice calm and authoritative as he looks to you with a kind gaze and then to the ones reprimanding you, “But there was no harm intended. I can assure you of that.”

His words seemed to take some of the heat out of the situation, but the tension still lingered. Time stretched on, and as much as you wanted to say something, anything, to diffuse the situation further, you couldn’t bring yourself to speak.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you managed to murmur, “Excuse me,” before turning and walking away, the pressure of the room suffocating.

And as you moved swiftly down the palace corridors toward the library, you risked a glance back at the clones. Your heart stops when you spot that his gaze was the only one that lingered. Your eyes silently pleaded with him for understanding, for forgiveness. But he turned away, leaving you alone with the ache of unspoken words. It was going to be a long, unbearable day.

Hours passed, the sun slowly going down, and yet you could not shake the need to speak with him. There had been moments, small chances when you crossed paths in the palace, but each time either your royal duties or his own tasks pulled you apart. Once, you almost approached him in the hallway, but one of your advisors immediately demanded your attention. Another time, Tech had been speaking with Hunter, and just as you gathered the courage to interrupt, Crosshair called him away.

It wasn’t until evening, as the clones prepared to head back to their ship, that you finally found your opportunity.

You were on your balcony, watching as the squad began walking towards the landing pad, their silhouettes growing smaller in the fading twilight. And then, without thinking, you called out his name. "Tech!"

Wrecker and Crosshair turned first, exchanging amused glances. Crosshair smirked. "Looks like you’ve got company, Tech."

Wrecker chuckled deeply. "Don’t keep her waiting!" he boomed, nudging Tech forward.

Hunter gave Tech a pointed look. "Don’t be long."

Tech blinked, adjusting his goggles, as though processing the sudden turn of events. He glanced up at your balcony, then back at his brothers. "How am I supposed to get back inside after the guards have secured the palace?" he asked.

Crosshair rolled his eyes, while Wrecker stifled another laugh. "I’m sure you’ll figure it out," Hunter said, his tone suggesting there was no real problem to be solved.

Tech looked up again, spotting a set of vines climbing up the side of the palace wall. You saw him eye them thoughtfully before he gave a small nod to himself. In one smooth motion, he started climbing.

You couldn’t believe what you were seeing. Heat rose to your cheeks as you watched him ascend, the scene very familiar from the pages of a romance novel you had read far too many times. By the time he reached your balcony, your face was flushed, and your heart was racing.

When he finally stood in front of you, his expression was as composed as ever, though there was a hint of curiosity in his eyes. You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Your words tangled in your throat, your heart pounding as you tried to find the right thing to say whilst twiddling your thumbs

Tech however broke the silence. "Should I bow or kneel before you, now that I know who you are?" he asked, his tone serious but laced with dry humour.

The question took you by surprise, and before you could stop yourself, you let out a soft laugh, rolling your eyes. "I feel that if you knew who I was before, you wouldn’t do that anyway.”

Tech adjusted his goggles again, his head tilting slightly as he considered your response. "You may be right."

You smiled, though the weight of your earlier deceit still lingered between you. "Tech, I’m sorry for lying," you began, turning toward the edge of the balcony and leaning against the railing. You stared out at the sprawling palace gardens in bloom. "I didn’t mean to deceive you."

He stood beside you, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze analytical as ever. "I’m uncertain why you felt the need to lie in the first place."

You sighed, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the stone railing. "At first, I didn’t. It just happened. When I saw that you didn’t recognise me, it felt… perfect. For once, I didn’t have to hide behind a title or a mask. I could just be myself."

Tech was silent for a moment, processing your words. His eyes drifted over the gardens before returning to you. "I see. You valued anonymity."

You nodded, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. "It was freeing, in a way. But now… I feel like I’ve ruined everything by not telling you sooner."

He adjusted his goggles again, a familiar gesture you had come to associate with his thoughtfulness. "I don’t believe the delay in revealing your identity changes the nature of our interactions. You were still ‘yourself,’ as you put it, regardless of what title you carry."

You turn to him, surprised by the ease with which he accepted your explanation. There was no judgment in his tone, no reproach—just the simple, matter-of-fact logic that was so quintessentially him.

"I appreciate that, Tech," you said softly, feeling the tension in your chest begin to ease. But there was still a heaviness lingering. "It’s just that… with you heading back to your ship and what we…” you trailed off, unsure whether or not to address the kiss you both shared but after weighing it up, you decided not to. For now. “Well, I will miss the company. Greatly.”

"I see no reason why we cannot continue conversing, if that is what you desire. Your title changes nothing in that regard." He states, stepping closer to you.

You smile but it’s weak. To him, it was all so straightforward. But to you, it was far more complicated.

"Maybe," you murmured, though a part of you knew that your advisors would be very much against you keeping contact with him; and it’s not like you had a commlink at hand either.

You stood there for a long while in silence, watching the last of the evening light fade from the sky. It was peaceful, but at the same time, you could feel something unspoken hanging in the air between you.

“Can I ask you a question?” Tech’s voice broke the stillness.

You turned to him, nodding. “Of course.”

“Why do you allow your advisors to speak to you that way?” he asked, his brow furrowing slightly behind his goggles. “They are not exactly the friendliest people I have come across. I thought you would have more authority being royal.”

His words hit you like a stone in the chest. He was right—completely right. You had never really thought about it before, not in such blunt terms, anyway.

It was just the way things were, the way you had been raised. You had no family to lean on, nobody close to guide you through the tasks of royal duties. All you had were your advisors, and over time, they had come to control much of your life. You didn’t feel like royalty; you felt more like a figurehead, a pawn they could move as they pleased.

Your silence was enough of an answer for him. Tech’s gaze softened slightly as he realised he may have hit a nerve. “I apologise if I’ve upset you,” he said, his voice quieter.

You shrugged, brushing it off with a small smile. “It’s fine, you’re right. I don’t know why I let them.” The admission felt heavier than you expected, like a truth you had been avoiding for too long.

Tech didn’t push further. He simply nodded, and for a moment, you were grateful for his straightforwardness. He wasn’t the type to overanalyse emotions or linger on feelings. He just saw things as they were, with clarity and logic.

For a while, the two of you spoke about lighter things—small talk about the palace, the gardens, and the clones' mission. But as the conversation meandered, you both became aware that time was slipping away.

“I should be going,” Tech finally said, glancing down at his wrist device. “I have some tasks to complete before we leave tomorrow.”

Your chest tightened at the thought of him leaving. You tried to hide it, forcing yourself to smile as though it didn’t bother you. But before he could turn to leave, you reached out, your hand finding his. The gesture was sudden, and you felt a wave of heat rush to your face. His skin was warm beneath your touch, and you could see the brief flash of surprise in his eyes as he looked down at your intertwined hands.

“Thank you,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “For the time we shared by the willow tree… for everything.”

Tech blinked, clearly flustered by the contact. He opened his mouth to respond but quickly fell into one of his usual rambling explanations. “Well, it wasn’t entirely a planned event, but I suppose I could say it was… pleasant, or at least an efficient use of—”

You smiled and gently pulled him toward you, cutting off his words with a kiss. It was softer than before, but deeper, more certain. His hands instinctively moved to your waist, holding you close, and for a moment, neither of you wanted to pull away.

When you finally did, your breath was shaky, but your resolve had never been stronger. You looked up at him, your eyes searching his as a wave of determination washed over you. “Take me with you,” you whispered.

Tech blinked, visibly caught off guard. “Take you with me? To the ship?”

“To the stars,” you corrected, your voice filled with a yearning you had never felt so deeply before. “I want to see them. With you.”

He frowned, clearly uncertain. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Your advisors—”

“I don’t care about them,” you said firmly, stepping closer. “I just want to go. For once in my life, I want to see what’s out there. And I trust you.”

Tech hesitated, his mind undoubtedly running through all the potential consequences. But there was something in your eyes, something raw and sincere, that seemed to sway him. His grip on your waist tightened slightly, his expression softening as he looked at you.

“If you’re certain,” he smiles.

“I’ve never been more certain of anything,”

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼　 ҉ ✼

Reblog to support writers and artists 💛

♔ Part One Tech - By the Willow

♔ Part Two Crosshair - Stranger, Saviour

♔ Part Three Echo - When Stars Collide (WIP)

♔ Part Four Fives - Masquerade (WIP)

♔ Part Five Hunter - Sparks of Nobility (WIP)

♔ Part Six Wrecker - Speeding Into Love (WIP)

♔ More Clones to Follow…

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