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your-resident-boat-person · 1 day ago

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Okay, I've taken a closer look at the study, and I can state soundly that I do take issue with several of their methods and conclusions. For example, they criticize a lot of the subjects for not knowing that this story takes place in court, even though the story uses "Lincoln's Inn Hall". Most assumed it was an Inn. I take issue with this criticism for a reason I've already mentioned. To someone unfamiliar with the location in this time period, there's nothing wrong with assuming that a place called am Inn is an Inn. They preemptively waive off this issue with "they could have googled it", but I take issue with THAT because why would any of these people who think they know the meaning of this word randomly Google it. If it was a word they've never heard before, then fine. But if you know what an Inn is, and the place is called an Inn, why the hell would you google it? My second problem was absolutely on point, without knowledge of the specific location and time period the story is set in, it is difficult to understand. The study acknowledges this, but still somehow places the blame on the readers. I suspect this also confirms my first problem. If you gave this same passage to history majors (especially ones who focus their study on 19th century England), they would have had a much easier time with this. Also, unrelated, but they made most of the participants read aloud, and they would be periodically stopped to translate what they just read into plain (modern) english. I can say personally that if I was being made to read this passage aloud to someone under a time limit, and I was being interrogated about the meaning of every few sentences, I would have done SIGNIFICANTLY worse. I had the luxury of reading it to myself in the comfort of my own home.

However, despite all of these criticisms, I do think they're on to SOMETHING. Here are 2 examples from the passage I'd like to focus on.

"As much mud in the streets as if the waters had but newly retired from the face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn Hill."

And

"Chancellor ought to be sitting here—as here he is—with a foggy glory round his head, softly fenced in with crimson cloth and curtains, addressed by a large advocate with great whiskers, a little voice, and an interminable brief, and outwardly directing his contemplation to the lantern in the roof, where he can see nothing but fog."

Now, with example one, they gave an example of a participant who literally thought Dickens was describing that the bones of a Megalosaurus washed up on the street. They quickly realize that Dickens then goes on to say that the Megalosaurus then waddles up the hill, so it can't be just bones, and settles on there being a literal living breathing dinosaur in the street. Now, the things I mentioned earlier MAY be a factor in this interpretation. Maybe if this person read quietly to themselves like I did, they would have understood perfectly. However, I struggle to imagine even myself, someone with anxiety issues, having this same problem. They note that the Megalosaurus part tripped up a significant portion of the respondents, so this isn't an isolated incident. Furthermore, this example is divorced from the historical context issue, and most respondents at the very least understood implicitly that "Megalosaurus" is a dinosaur.

Now, for the second example, the respondent they highlight thought that there was a giant cat in the room. They saw the word "whiskers" and immediately jumped to cat. Now, when *I* see the sentence "addressed by a large advocate with great whiskers, a little voice..." I imagined a lawyer who was fat, had a bushy beard, and a quiet voice. I understood that advocate meant lawyer, and whiskers meant facial hair. Maybe this is another example of my historical knowledge making this section easier for me. I don't think I've ever heard someone irl refer to facial hair as whiskers, but I have seen it a lot in descriptions of ship captains from the late 19th and early 20th century. So maybe I'm uniquely equipped to understand this section. But maybe I'm also giving these respondents too much credit, and they should have realized that they're not meant to imagine a giant cat in the courtroom.

To me, these 2 examples should more or less be understandable and interperetable without the aforementioned historical context. Or at the very least, the imagery of literal dinosaurs and giant cats should have obviously been WAY off the mark even to these respondents. They describe a story more akin to that of Alice in Wonderland or the Wizard of Oz than what is actually being depicted here.

In my personal opinion, these two examples, SPECIFICALLY, of common problem areas for many respondents is indicative of a greater issue, even if the methods of the study are dubious, and their findings disingenuous. I think more studies of this problem are absolutely warranted, and probably necessary.

i appreciated this study: "They Can't Read Very Well: A Study of the Reading Comprehension Skills Of English Majors At Two Midwestern Universities"

essentially, a pair of professors set out to test their intuitive sense that students at the college level were struggling with complex text. they recruited 85 students, a mix of english majors and english education majors - so, theoretically, people focusing on literature, and people preparing to teach adolescents how to read literature - and had them read-while-summarizing the first seven paragraphs of dickens's bleak house (or as much as they made it through in the 20 minute session). they provided dictionaries and also said students could use their phones to look up whatever they wanted, including any unfamiliar words or references. they found that the majority of the students - 58%, or 49 out of the 85 students - functionally could not understand dickens at all, and only 5% - a mere 4 out of the 85 students - proved themselves proficient readers (leaving the remaining 38%, or 32 students, as what the study authors deemed "competent" students, most of whom could understand about half the literal meaning - pretty low bar for competence - although a few of whom, they note, did much better than the rest in this group if not quite well enough to be considered proficient).

what i really appreciated about this study was its qualitative descriptions of the challenges and reading behaviors of what the authors call "problematic readers" (that bottom 58%), which resonated strongly with my own experiences of students who struggle with reading. here's their blunt big picture overview of these 49 students:

The majority of these subjects could understand very little of Bleak House and did not have effective reading tactics. All had so much trouble comprehending concrete detail in consecutive clauses and phrases that they could not link the meaning of one sentence to the next. Although it was clear that these subjects did try to use various tactics while they read the passage, they were not able to use those tactics successfully. For example, 43 percent of the problematic readers tried to look up words they did not understand, but only five percent were able to look up the meaning of a word and place it back correctly into a sentence. The subjects frequently looked up a word they did not know, realized that they did not understand the sentence the word had come from, and skipped translating the sentence altogether.

the idea that they had so many trouble with every small piece of a text that they could not connect ideas on a sentence by sentence basis is very familiar to me from teaching and tutoring, as was the habit of thought seen in the example of the student who gloms on to the word "whiskers" in a sea of confusion and guesses incorrectly that a cat is present - struggling readers, in my experience, seem to use familiar nouns as stepping stones in a flood of overwhelm, hopping as best they can from one seemingly familiar image to the next. so was this observation, building off the example of a student who misses the fact that dickens is being figurative when he imagines a megalodon stalking the streets of london:

She first guesses that the dinosaur is just “bones” and then is stuck stating that the bones are “waddling, um, all up the hill” because she can see that Dickens has the dinosaur moving. Because she cannot logically tie the ideas together, she just leaves her interpretation as is and goes on to the next sentence. Like this subject, most of the problematic readers were not concerned if their literal translations of Bleak House were not coherent, so obvious logical errors never seemed to affect them. In fact, none of the readers in this category ever questioned their own interpretations of figures of speech, no matter how irrational the results. Worse, their inability to understand figurative language was constant, even though most of the subjects had spent at least two years in literature classes that discussed figures of speech. Some could correctly identify a figure of speech, and even explain its use in a sentence, but correct responses were inconsistent and haphazard. None of the problematic readers showed any evidence that they could read recursively or fix previous errors in comprehension. They would stick to their reading tactics even if they were unhappy with the results.

i have seen this repeatedly, too - actually i was particularly taken with how similar this is to the behavior of struggling readers at much younger ages - and would summarize the hypothesis i have forged over time as: struggling readers do not expect what they read to make sense. my hypothesis for why this is the case is that their reading deficits were not attended to or remediated adequately early enough, and so, in their formative years - the early to mid elementary grades - they spent a lot of time "reading" things that did not make sense to them - in fact they spent much more time doing this than they ever did reading things that did make sense to them - and so they did not internalize a meaningful subjective sense of what it feels like to actually read things.

like, i've said this before, but the year i taught third grade i had multiple students who told me they loved reading and then when i asked them about a book they were reading revealed that they had absolutely no idea what was going on - on a really basic literal level like "didn't know who said which lines of dialogue" and "couldn't identify which things or characters given pronouns referred to" - and were as best as i could tell sort of constructing their own story along the way using these little bits of things they thought they understood. that's what "reading" was, in their heads. and they were, in the curriculum/model that we used at the private school where i taught, receiving basically no support to clarify that that was not what reading was, nor any instruction that would actually help them with what they needed to do to improve (understand sentences) - and i realized over the course of that year that the master's program that had certified me in teaching elementary school had provided me with very little understanding of how to help these kids (with perhaps the sole exception of the class i took on communications disorders, not because these kids had communications disorders but because that was the only class where we ever talked, even briefly, about things like sentence structures that students may need instruction in and practice with to comprehend independently). when it comes to the literal, basic understanding of a text, the model of reading pedagogy i was taught has about 6 million little "tools" that all boil down to telling kids who functionally can't read to try harder to read. this is not productive, in my experience and opinion, for kids whose maximum effort persistently yields confusion. but things are so dysfunctional all the way up and down the ladder that you can be a senior in college majoring in english without anyone but a pair of professors with a strong work ethic noticing that you can't actually read.

couple other notes:

obviously it's a small study but i'm not sure i see a reason to believe these are particularly outlierish results (ACT scores - an imperfect metric but not a meritless one IMO for reading specifically, where the task mostly really is to read a set of texts written for the educated layperson and answer factual questions about them - were a little bit above the national average)

the study was published last year, but the research was conducted january to april 2015. so there's no pandemic influence, no AI issue - these are millennials who now would span roughly ages 28-32 (i guess it's possible one of the four first-year students was one of the very first members of gen z lol). if you're in your late 20s or early 30s, we are talking about people your age, and whatever the culprit is here, it was happening when you were in school.

i think some people might want to blame this on NCLB but i find this unconvincing for a variety of reasons. first of all, NCLB did not pass because everyone in 2001 agreed that education was super hunky-dory; in fact, the sold a story podcast outlines how an explicit goal of NCLB was to train teachers in systematic phonics instruction, because that was not the norm when NCLB was passed, and an unfortunate outcome was that phonics became politicized in ed world. second, anyone who understands anything about reading should need about ten minutes max to spend some time on standardized test prep and recognize that if your goal is truly to maximize scores... then the vast majority of your instructional time should be spent on improving actual reading skills because you actually can't meaningfully game these tests by "practicing main idea questions" (timothy shanahan addresses this briefly near the top of this post). so i find it very difficult to believe that any school that pivoted to multiple choice drill time in an attempt to boost reading scores was teaching reading effectively pre-NCLB, because no set of competent literacy professionals would think that would work even for the goal of raising test scores. third, NCLB mandated yearly testing in grades 3-8 but only one test year in high school; kansas set its reading and math test year in high school as tenth grade. so theoretically these kids all had two years of sweet sweet freedom from NCLB in which their teachers could have done whatever the fuck they wanted to teach these kids to actually read. the fact that they didn't suggests perhaps there were other problems afoot. fourth, and maybe most saliently for this particular study, the sample text was the first seven paragraphs of a novel - in other words, the exact kind of short incomplete text that NCLB allegedly demanded excessive time spent on. i'm not really sure what universe it makes sense in that students who can't read the first seven paragraphs of a novel would have become much better reader if everything else had been the same but they had been making completely wack associations based on nonsense guesses for all 300 pages instead. (if you read the study it's really clear that for problematic readers, things go off the rails immediately, in a way that a good program targeted at teaching mastery of text of 500 words or less would have done something about.)

all but 3 of the students reported A's and B's in their english classes and, again, 69% of them are juniors and seniors, so like... i mean idk kudos to these professors for being like "hold up can these kids actually read?" but clearly something is wack at the college level too [in 2015] if you can make your way through nearly an entire english major without being able to read the first seven paragraphs of a dickens novel. (once again i really do encourage you to look at the qualitative samples in the study, lest you think i am being uncharitable by summarizing understandable misunderstandings or areas of confusion that may resolve themselves with further exposure to the text as "can't read.") not to mention the fact that most students could not what they had learned in previous or current english classes and when asked to name british and american authors and/or works of the nineteenth century, roughly half the sample at each college could name at most one.

the authors of the study are struck by the fact that students who cannot parse the first 3 sentences of bleak house feel very confident about their ability to read the entire novel, and discover that this seeming disconnect is resolved by the fact that these students seem to conceptualize "reading" as "skimming and then reading sparknotes." i think it's really tempting to Kids These Days this phenomenon (although again these are people who in some cases have now been in the workforce for a decade) and categorize it as laziness or a lack of effort, but i think that there is, as i described above, a real and sincere confusion over what "reading" is in which this makes a certain logical sense because it's not like they have some store of actual reading experiences to compare it to. i also think it's pretty obvious looking at just how wildly severed from actual textual comprehension their readings are that these are not - or at least not entirely - students who could just work harder and master the entirety of bleak house all on their own. like i don't think you get from "charles dickens is describing a bunch of dinosaur bones actually walking the streets of london" to comfortably reading nineteenth century literature by just trying harder. i really just don't (and i say that acknowledging i personally have had students who like... were good readers if i was forcing them to work at it constantly... but i have also had students, including ones getting ready to enter college, who were clearly giving me everything they had and what they had was at the present moment insufficient). i think that speaks to a missing skillset that they don't know are missing, because they don't have any other experience of "reading" to compare it to.

just wanna highlight again that although they don't give the breakdown some of these students are not just english majors but english education majors a.k.a. the high school english teachers of tomorrow. some of them may be teaching high school english right now, in case anyone wishes to consider whether "maybe some high school english teachers can't read the first seven paragraphs of bleak house?" should be kept in mind when we discuss present-day educational ills.

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firewasabeast · 2 days ago

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I Never Really Had a Friend

A Buck-focused, bucktommy story. tags: Starting Over, Grief/Mourning, Getting Back Together, Ending Friendships, Bobby's death is mentioned, Eddie's toxic/abusive tendencies are briefly discussed, Bobby's suicidal thoughts are mentioned, Happy Ending. Rating: M. 5.4k. read below or on ao3.

Buck is sitting in the hospital, holding his nephew, thinking about the past few months of his life. The past year, really. The good, bad, and downright painful. He tries to remember the last time he was happy. Really happy.

He thinks it might be when he stumbled into his house, lips attached to Tommy’s, the two of them giggling like teenagers getting away with something.

Maybe, more precisely, it was the next morning. After he said it didn’t have to mean anything, and Tommy asked why not. For a brief moment, all the stars aligned, and everything felt right again.

Until, just as quickly, it all fell apart.

He blinks away tears, sticks his finger out for the baby to grab onto, and smiles.

Chimney’s talking to Maddie, getting her lunch order. She’s been craving an Italian sub for months, but wants it a very specific way, so Buck phases out of the conversation and focuses on his own never-ending train of thought.

Because if he really thinks about it, most of his happy memories from the past year include Tommy.

It sort of felt like the ground underneath him gave way the day Tommy left his apartment and, ever since then, he’s been trying to climb out of a gravelly pit that crumbles more every time he takes a step.

Something deep in his gut clenches when he thinks about Tommy for too long. He’s got ten unanswered messages from him, waiting for a response. Two each week since Bobby died.

Five missed phone calls too. The most recent was yesterday.

Consistent.

Buck wonders how long he’ll keep doing it. How long will he keep texting and calling before he gives it up? Before he realized Buck isn’t worth it.

He’s surprised Tommy has lasted this long, honestly.

It wasn’t that he had meant to ignore him. Tommy hadn’t done anything wrong.

It was just that Buck missed the first message, and the second one. Then he wasn’t by his phone for the first call.

And once he saw all that he’d missed, he started to write out an apology text.

Then he got distracted.

And now it felt like too much time had passed.

Time.

Buck wonders how much of that he’s got left. He feels like he’s lived a million lives already. Feels like he’s used up all of his luck. Next time… next time it’s him in that lab. Next time, he’s the one out of a third option. Next time, they’re carrying him out of the church and following behind his casket at the procession.

It makes him think of Bobby.

Bobby who, eight years ago, wouldn’t have cared to die in that lab. Who would have found nothing but peace inside of him when he realized he was infected. Wouldn’t have shed a tear.

He would have gone willingly, happily, maybe even purposefully.

The bonds he formed with everyone at the station never would have happened.

He never would have married Athena.

Never would have gotten all those extra years.

Wouldn’t have had people to miss him, to ache for him, every single moment of every single day if he’d given up back then.

He’s not sure how it all connects in his mind. It’d probably be a jumbled mess to anyone else. But to Buck, it’s clear as day.

He knows what he needs to do.

*****

Tommy’s hair is a curly mop of a mess when he opens the door. He’s half asleep, a blanket draped over his shoulders.

It’s the middle of the day, but Buck knows he just got done with a shift a couple of hours ago.

“Evan?” His head is slightly tilted to the side, face scrunched up in a sleepy confusion. “Dreamin’?”

Buck smiles, breathes out a laugh. “No, um, I- I needed to talk to you.”

Tommy moves out of the way, holding the door open for Buck to come inside.

“Sorry for not calling or texting you first,” he says as Tommy shuts the door behind him. “I just… it needed to be now.”

“It’s fine,” Tommy assures him, running his fingers through his hair. It does nothing but make his hair poof even higher. “Are you okay?”

Buck nods, a bit too enthusiastically to be believed. “Yeah, I- I’m good.”

“Mm.” Tommy tries to blink the sleep from his eyes. He points towards the kitchen. “I’m gonna fix some coffee. Try to wake up a little bit.”

Buck follows him to the kitchen, smiling as he listens to the sleepy patter of his feet. Tommy is a machine at work. Ready to jump up and fly at a moments notice. But, when he was home, he let his body rest. Let himself fall into a sleep so deep that, sometimes, Buck was sure the house could collapse around him and he’d never hear a thing.

Buck was actually surprised he’d heard the ringing of the doorbell… even if he did ring it twenty times in a row.

When it takes Tommy two tries to remember which cabinet his coffee is in, Buck nudges him out of the way. “Sit,” he says. “Let me. Least I can do after waking you.”

Tommy doesn’t argue. He sits at the barstool and waits, quietly. Buck doesn’t look back until the coffee has finished brewing. He half expects Tommy to be asleep, head tucked into the crook of his elbow.

But Tommy is watching him. Reading him. Studying him.

Buck looks away, pours Tommy a cup. “I probably should have called,” he mentions again.

“It’s really fine, Evan. I don’t go back to work for two days. Plenty of time to sleep.”

Buck finishes fixing his coffee, then slides it across the island. “Here you go.”

“Thanks. So, what’s up?”

“Just, take a few sips,” Buck replies, pushing the mug closer to Tommy. “Let yourself wake up a little bit.”

Tommy grins, lifting the mug and taking a sip. He sighs as it goes down.

Perfect.

“How was work?” Buck asks, keeping conversation light until Tommy is ready.

“Not bad. Not much downtime, but that seems to be the norm lately.”

“Yeah, it’s th- the same at our station too.”

Tommy takes another sip, then straightens his posture. “Okay, I’m awake now.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

A deep breath, a nod, and Buck begins. “I’ve been thinking, a lot, about a lot of things. My mind feels like a hamster on one of those wheels lately, just spinning, spinning, spinning, spi-” He waves a hand, stopping himself. “Anyway, um, I feel like my life is nothing like I want it to be. There’s a lot of things I thought I’d have by now, and there’s a lot of things I want, but I don’t say anything about it. I just shut my mouth and shut down and let things happen.” He squints at Tommy. “Am I making any sense?”

“I think so.”

“Okay. So, I- I’ve been wasting time. A lot of it, this last year. Well, maybe not the whole year, but most of it. And Bobby, he- he spent so long being unhappy, you know? Years of his life were spent in this- this limbo. And now he’s gone. I just… I keep thinking that in the end, all we have is time.” He’s rambling. He knows it. Tommy knows it. He reels himself in. “Tommy, I don’t want to keep wasting time, and I don’t want to die without telling you how I feel. I want to be with you, i- if that’s what you want. I want to try again. I want to do this right. I want to be honest. I miss you. I’ve been missing you for months now and I hate wondering if each time I see you will be the last time."

Tommy stares at Buck for a moment, then looks down at his cup. “Maybe one more sip.”

Okay. Now Buck was going to panic.

“I- I’m sorry,” he rushes out. “I’m doing it again. I’m being impulsive and I’m m- making it about me and I don’t-”

“No,” Tommy interrupts, his voice as calm and polite as ever, “it’s… here.” He pushes out the seat beside him, giving it a pat. “Will you sit down, please?” Buck comes around and sits, anxiously wiping his sweaty hands down his pants. “Evan, I’ve tried talking to you for over a month.”

“I know. I- I’m sorry for that too.”

“No, I’m not… Evan, you don’t need to be sorry. I get it, I understand. I just- part of me thought-” he sighs, searching for the right words. “I figured you didn’t want to talk to me. I kept thinking I was bothering you, but I had to do something. When I opened the door I was kinda figuring you were here to tell me to leave you alone. Things have veered in a direction I was not expecting.” He lays his hand out on the counter, palm up, ready for Buck to take.

So he does.

“You have a way of doing that, you know?” Tommy says, a smile playing on his lips.

“Freaking you out?” Buck offers.

“Surprising me,” Tommy responds. He gives Buck hand a squeeze. “Evan, I… are you sure?”

“About wanting to be with you?”

“Yes.”

“I think it’s the only thing in my life I’m one hundred percent sure of right now,” he answers honestly. “But I want you t- to be sure. I don’t want you to say yes just because you think you ha-”

He’s cut off as Tommy stands, places a hand on either side of his face, and presses their lips together.

For a second, Buck freezes. His hands curl into fists, then they relax, and he’s taking a deep breath, and grabbing onto Tommy’s shirt and the blanket he’s still got wrapped around him.

For a moment nothing else in the world exists. This, right here, a sturdy body with a gentle soul, is everything in the world.

And then Tommy pulls away.

“Sorry for the coffee breath,” he whispers between them, their foreheads pressed together.

Buck laughs.

A real, genuine laugh.

It feels scary.

It feels wrong.

It feels amazing.

“I don’t care,” he replies. “Just do it again.”

*****

Buck is standing in the middle of Eddie’s living room.

No. His living room.

At least for one more week.

It’s almost empty.

He wishes he’d never put all of his boxes out for recycling. He never thought he’d need them again, and so soon.

He feels as empty as the room looks. A hollow shell of a person.

He shouldn’t. He recognizes that. This is good, in the long run. It’s exactly what he’s wanted.

He’s not about to be homeless. He offered to go. Offered to give Eddie the place back. In a surprising turn of events, two weeks after getting back together, following a failed date night and a round of sex that never happened due to an accidental kick to the groin, Tommy had grunted out the words, “You should move in with me,” right as Buck placed an ice pack on his crotch.

They discussed it for the rest of the night.

Then had successful sex the next morning.

So Buck isn’t upset about leaving. Not really.

But it’s in this space, this room filled with memories and ghosts, that Buck decides he’s never really had a friend.

Because, yes, he’d offered the place back to Eddie. It’s why he decided to sublease it in the first place. But then Eddie bought a place in Texas, and the move seemed permanent, and Buck… Buck moved in.

So when Eddie decided they were coming back, the words stumbled out of Buck’s mouth without a thought. “That’s great! When do you need your place back by?”

And Eddie responded with a date.

He didn’t ask if Buck had anywhere to go.

He didn’t say he could find a new place of his own.

He didn’t even say thank you.

He responded with a date.

Buck didn’t think about it at the time. In the silence of this house though, a house that once again fills with echoes at the slightest sound, it’s all he can think about.

He decides, right then and there, to make a change.

Test the waters.

He becomes unavailable over the following weeks. He settles in with Tommy, and Eddie settles back into his old home. Then Eddie calls, invites Buck over on Friday.

Buck almost says yes, but something stops him.

Or, rather, he stops himself.

“Why, what’s up?” he says instead.

“Well, you know that woman I met at the building collapse?”

Buck does, vaguely. “Mhm.”

“She gave me her number and we made plans to go out. I figured you and Chris could hang here, catch up.”

Buck loves Chris. He really does. He’d do anything for the kid.

Which is why he pauses for nearly five seconds before replying, “Sorry, Tommy and I have plans. Maybe someone else can watch him for you. Gotta go.”

Two more offers to babysit comes up in less than two weeks time. Buck declines each one. He waits until Chris texts him himself, asks if he wants to hang out, play video games, eat junk food.

Buck and Tommy pick him up together, head back to their place, have a guys day.

Buck and Tommy have talked about it, the way Buck feels. The way the scale never quite evens out. He tells Tommy one night, “I know I can make things about me, I know I can be selfish, but I feel like I’m never able to talk about how I feel at all. Like, i- if I do, I need to feel bad about it… or that, maybe, next time, he’ll do more than get in my face. I don’t think that’s what friendship is supposed to be.”

“Evan,” Tommy had responded, pulling him in to lay on his chest, “you’re the least selfish person I know. Anyone who makes you feel otherwise… I’m sorry, but, they don’t know you at all.”

And that was the thing.

Eddie didn’t know him at all.

Because every time Buck had tried to open up about anything serious, Eddie slammed the door in his face.

"Want me to talk to him?"

"No. Thanks, but no."

“Why don’t you talk to him about it?” Tommy suggested. “Tell him how you feel.”

Buck huffed out a laugh. “I like the way my nose looks now.”

*****

While he does reduce his time around Eddie to working hours only, he ends up spending more time with Ravi. As Hen takes over as captain, Eddie becomes a licensed paramedic. Buck and Ravi are almost always paired up at work, and they end up working really well together. Maybe it’s because Ravi spent years learning all of Buck’s little quirks, but he can usually figure out what Buck needs before Buck actually realizes he needs it.

This works both ways, and they find they’re a spectacularly efficient pair.

Things might’ve started out a little rough for them on the friendship front, but somehow they end up at the same bar, same time, same day, every week.

“Anyway,” Ravi says, sipping on his third drink of the night, “after Hen talked to her, the lady said she decided not to press charges. Which is insane in the first place, because how could she press charges on me for pulling her out of a burning building?”

“Sounds like she had an interesting way of showing her gratitude,” Buck replies with a shake of his head. “It’s always crazy to me how some people will actually get mad when we don’t let them die in a horrific way.”

“Right?!” Ravi sets down his glass, gives Buck a nod. “So, what about you?”

“What about me?”

“How are you doing?” Ravi asks.

“Oh,” Buck waves him off. “I’m fine. How’s your family?”

“No, no.” Ravi wiggles a finger at him. “I just spent half an hour complaining about my life. The next half hour is yours.”

Buck contemplates his response. Opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again.

Then the words spill out like a dam breaking open.

He talks about Bobby, about feeling like the 118 is a shell of its former self. He talks about the fact he spends a lot of nights crying, especially when he has work the next day. He tells Ravi how Tommy does his best to console him, tries everything to make it better. But it’s not really something he’s able to fix.

Buck talks about how he feels like a friendship spanning the better part of eight years now feels like a lie. How he feels used, belittled, and like he gave and gave without ever getting anything back in return.

He talks about the good stuff too. How well he and Tommy are doing. How comfortable they are with each other. How he feels comfortable having flaws, because he knows Tommy loves him anyway. How he feels safe, even when they argue, because Tommy is the most gentle human being he knows.

He talks about Hen, and what a great job she’s doing as captain. How happy he is for her; how much she deserves it. That’s why he feels so bad about the fact that he hates coming into work. Hates being there. It feels wrong. It doesn’t bring him the joy it once did.

And Ravi… Ravi listens. He nods along, and interjects when necessary, and he asks questions. In the end, he may not be the best at giving advice, but he replies with, “Man, that sucks,” and Buck feels like a giant weight was lifted off of his shoulders.

Getting everything off of his chest with someone he works with, someone who he is beginning to consider a friend, feels like a fresh start.

He doesn’t cry the night before work.

Tommy holds him anyway.

He falls into a rhythm. Things are different, but they’re okay.

He has Tommy to talk to, and Ravi. He and Maddie make plans when they can. It usually ends with him spending the most time with his niece and nephew, but he can’t complain about that.

Hen becomes more comfortable as captain, Chimney and Eddie settle in as a duo, and they all still operate well as a unit.

Buck cooks, when he can. Maybe not everyone sits down together for meals anymore, but the majority of them do.

It’s good. They laugh, they talk, they compliment his cooking.

He begins to think he can do this. That maybe it just took more time than he expected to find a new normal after Bobby.

His weekly outings with Ravi become less about complaining and more about general talking and catching up on the little things.

He settles.

Until it all blows up in his face.

He and Ravi have been sent out to help with training new recruits for the day. It’s a normal day, everything is going well.

It hits five o’clock, time for everyone to leave, and Buck is in the middle of giving a pep talk when his phone rings.

Ravi takes over as he accepts the call.

It’s Hen. She heard over the radio that Tommy fell from a ladder while working ground ops. He’s at the hospital getting checked out, but he’s alert now.

There’s one particular word that sticks out to him.

Now.

Buck asks what she means, that he’s alert now?

Hen proceeds to tell him that when he was first brought in this morning, he wasn’t conscious. But now he’s awake and answering questions. Hen, Chim, and Eddie are already at the hospital, waiting for more updates.

There’s a whirring noise happening. Buck feels like he’s stuck in a fun house, surrounded by mirrors, all of his reflections laughing at him.

“You heard this o- over the radio?”

Hen hesitates. “Yes, but Buck-”

“So you’ve known since this morning?”

“Buck, I didn’t want you to think the worst without us knowing first. It’s-”

“I’m on my way.”

Ravi drives him to the hospital.

Buck tries his best to bite his tongue, but as soon as he sees Hen he’s livid again, and he lets it be known.

“You have no right to decide what I can or can’t handle. He’s my partner, and I should have been here with him eight hours ago.”

“Buck, I didn’t-”

“How would you feel if it were Karen?” Buck interrupts. “Or one of your kids?”

“Hey, chill, Man,” Eddie says, sticking his hand inches from Buck’s chest. “She didn’t want you freaking out for nothing, which is exactly what you’re doing.”

Buck’s pretty sure he’s never felt the level of rage he feels in this moment.

He takes a breath, wonders if the steam is actually visible as it escapes through his ears.

“You get your hand the hell away from me, Diaz,” he warns and, to his credit, Eddie takes a couple of steps back. Buck focuses back on Hen. “I’m gonna go be with my boyfriend, like I should have been since this morning. You all can go.”

Before Buck has a chance to walk away, Chimney speaks up. “You need us to get anything for you?”

He sounds embarrassed. Buck hopes he is.

“I can get whatever he needs,” Ravi replies. Buck feels eternally grateful for him. “Go see Tommy,” he says as the others filter out. “Text me whatever you need. I’ll be here.”

Buck can’t help himself. He pulls Ravi in for a hug so tight it knocks the air out of him.

“I’ll see what Tommy needs too,” he says as Ravi returns the hug. “You can come right to the room after.”

“Okay.” Ravi gives him a pat on the back. “Now go see your guy.”

In the end, it’s a hairline fracture in his leg, a sprained wrist, and a minor concussion. Nothing too serious. The only thing Buck and Tommy end up needing from Ravi is a ride home, so he joins them in Tommy’s hospital room and they keep each other company until Tommy is released.

Once Buck gets Tommy into bed, he sits beside him. He props himself up with a couple of pillows, his laptop resting on his thighs. He keeps a hand in Tommy’s hair, running his fingers through his curls.

With his free hand, he types, scrolls, and does research until the sun starts to rise.

He takes the next two weeks off.

Spends it studying for the captain’s promotional test.

*****

He keeps it a secret for as long as he can.

He tells Tommy, who spends all of his recovery time helping Buck study and research and prepare in any and every way possible.

He lets it slip to Ravi on accident, who promises not to say a word.

He actually keeps his promise too.

It’s refreshing.

He manages to take the exam without anyone else finding out. Passes with flying colors. He, Tommy, and Ravi go out for celebratory drinks.

But there’s more to it than the written test.

There’s tactical exercises, role-play scenarios, multiple interviews that include evaluators from outside the department. Even an interview with the department fire chief.

He gets scheduled for role-play scenarios and his first interview before Hen calls him into the office.

“Is this because of what happened with Tommy?” she asks.

He could keep it simple. Say yes.

But that wouldn’t be the entire truth.

“I started looking into it after Tommy was hurt,” he answers instead. “But I’ve been thinking about it since… since Bobby.”

“You’d be put at a different house, Buck,” she reminds him. “We’ve got B and C shift already covered.”

Buck nods. “I know. I- I think that’s part of why I want to do it.”

“Oh.”

“Listen, Hen, you- you’re a great captain. You were meant for this job. If it can’t be Bobby, you’re the only other logical option. But I… I’m not happy here anymore. I don’t think I have been for a long time and I think I- I need a fresh start.”

She’s quiet for a moment, then she smiles softly at him. “If you need help,” she says, “pointers, tips, anything, you can ask me. I just went through the process a few months ago, Buck, I’m sure it hasn’t changed much in that time.”

He accepts the help, but they don’t have much more time to talk before they get a call.

He’s not sure how Chimney finds out, or who tells Eddie, but Eddie never says anything about him going for captain.

Chimney does. Chomping his gum, asking Buck what he’s thinking by leaving their family.

He means well, so Buck doesn’t tell him it stopped feeling like a family a long time ago.

He makes it to the final part of the process. Remembers Hen’s advice. Answers the questions the way he thinks Bobby would.

He passes.

He feels his body relax for the first time in weeks.

“Congratulations, Captain Buckley,” Chief Simpson says as he shakes his hand. “I’ll be in touch with you soon.”

*****

He swears he sees God when he comes on Tommy’s cock that night. He can’t help it when Tommy has traded out his usual pet names for “Captain” and “Sir” and “Boss.” Keeps asking him for advice, whispering in his ear, “Am I doing this right, Captain Buckley?”

Chief Simpson calls a week later. It’s sooner than Buck expects.

There’s a captain retiring at Station 13 in six weeks. Buck could start now, train under him, take over as captain of B-shift once those six weeks are up.

Buck accepts without hesitation.

Three days later, they throw him a party at the 118. Tommy comes, Chris comes, Maddie brings the kids, Athena makes an appearance between calls.

When he walks out at the end of his shift, he doesn’t look back.

He starts at Station 13 two days later.

Captain Fredericks isn’t a bad man. He’s a good captain, and treats his team with respect, but there’s little camaraderie between them. When they aren’t on a call, they’re all doing their own thing. The station is quiet most of the time. And when Buck tries to chat with the rest of the team, he’s often met with what he can only describe as “polite resistance.”

Each week, Fredericks takes an extra step back and gives Buck a little more to do. By the end of the six weeks, Fredericks has taken on a mostly silent role in their partnership.

He feels confident as he starts his first week on his own.

It lasts a total of one hour and thirty-two minutes.

Jacobson, who wasn’t an issue for the entire six weeks, manages to undermine Buck multiple times on a single call.

The rest of the day doesn’t go much better.

He overhears Jacobson making jokes about him, and mocking his stutter.

When he makes a meal for everyone that evening, they grab a plate, scoop their food, and go into their own corners to sit and stare at their phones while they eat.

On their last call, instead of having Jacobson rappel down to get a hiker that fell thirty feet off the side of a cliff, he just does it himself. He ends up with a banged up knee, and multiple scratches that bleed for longer than he’d like to admit.

Tommy draws him a bath when he gets home. Puts medicine on the scratches. Rubs his feet and legs. Holds Buck as he cries himself to sleep. The next morning, when they wake up all tangled together, Tommy tells him about Bobby and Sal. It’s a story Buck has heard before, but it helped to hear it again. Especially now.

During his next shift, when he hears Jacobson mutter “weasel” under his breath after Buck gives him an order, Buck stands tall, looks him dead in the eyes, and tells him to repeat what he just said.

Jacobson does.

Buck asks if they have a problem.

Jacobson reminds him that he’s forty years old, and Buck hasn’t even made it to thirty-five yet. How the hell is he supposed to respect him?

“Respect is earned,” Buck tells him. “You don’t know me enough to respect me, I’ll give you that. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m your captain now so, while you may not respect me, you do have to respect my authority. If you can’t do that, I’d suggest transferring to another station before you lose your job.”

That seems to quiet him for the rest of the day.

Jacobson puts in a transfer request three days later.

Four days after that, another transfer request hits his desk.

But this one is someone asking to transfer to his station.

Ravi Panikkar.

With Jacobson gone, and Ravi filling his spot, Buck starts to feel settled again.

The rest of his team are good people.

There’s Abarca, who is young and full of both spunk and anxiety. She’s nineteen years old and Buck is pretty sure she’s been on her own for longer than she could drive.

Smith and Smith, not related, are both paramedics. Barry Smith, who goes by Smith, has been at 13 for twenty years. Victor Smith, who also goes by Smith, changed careers two years ago. Went from working as a manager in a grocery store to graduating top of his class and getting his choice of station.

Buck thought having two Smith’s would be confusing, but they guaranteed him that they would know who he was talking to as soon as he called for them.

They haven’t been wrong yet.

And then there’s Carmen, who judges everyone, and Buck loves her for it. Her facial expressions alone can shut up even the most annoying humans. It also helps that her wife is a baker, and she gives Carmen anything she has left over to bring to the station.

One day Carmen’s wife comes in herself, and Buck introduces himself to Shiela. He asks her how she makes her eclairs? He’s been trying to get that right for a long time now and the texture always feels off.

This becomes a thirty minute conversation that ends in Shiela inviting Buck and Tommy over for dinner and a dessert class.

Tommy and Carmen have a great time watching and being taste testers.

They make it a regular thing.

Buck invites the team over for a barbecue after a couple of months. He invites the 118 too. It’s nice having everyone together. They have a good time.

That night, when he and Tommy are in bed, Tommy is peppering kisses down his chest. “You know,” he says, nibbling at Buck’s skin before soothing the spot with his tongue, “I see the way your team looks at you. They look up to you already.”

“I don’t, mmm, I don’t know about that.”

“I do,” Tommy insists, kissing him just above his belly button. “I’m so proud of you.”

And if tears leak from his eyes as Tommy takes him in his mouth, well, they’re happy tears now.

Buck keeps cooking dinners every shift. While Ravi has taken a seat beside him from the start, he calls attention to the others when they start to walk away with their plates.

“Everyone, I- I’d like for us to all sit at the table today,” he says, clearing his throat when they all give him a confused look. “Actually, I- I’d like for us to, um, to sit at the table every day, for dinner. My old captain, he- he used to always have family dinners for us. We sit together, eat together, talk about stuff. I- I want us to do that too.”

There’s a few more seconds of stares, then slowly they start to make their way to the table.

“Family dinners?” Abarca questions.

“Family dinners,” Buck confirms.

She shrugs her shoulders. “That sounds cool.”

The others nod, take their seats, and begin to eat.

It’s here, in this moment, with these people, that Buck realizes Bobby was right.

He is going to be okay.

And he found the people who need him.

#bucktommy #tommy kinard #evan buckley #911 abc #911 #this is not a spec fic #this shit ain't happening lmao

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dilfluvrgirllxoxo · 2 days ago

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post mission arguments and make-ups - j.f.w

pairing: john f. walker x reader (i'm tired of hiding my truth he's been fine since tfatws)

warnings: angst!! grumpy x sunshine trope because i can't help myself, teeny bit of smut at the end, mostly just fluff, john is lowkey a little out of character but its okay, petnames (sweetheart, honey), no use of y/n + no reader descriptions, not proofread!

‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿

the car ride back from the mission was silent except for the occasional conversation between ava and yelena. as soon as the car was parked, you got out and slammed the door harder than you meant to, walking away, not caring if john was following behind you.

kicking off your boots and tossing your bag onto the floor, you trudged over to the kitchen, pouring yourself a drink as the others scattered off to their rooms. not john though, no. he decided he just had to come and be a pain in your ass...again.

he stood against the doorframe, jaw clenched, face dark and his arms crossed tightly against his chest, like a parent ready to chastise their child.

"you always do that," he snapped after a long moment of silence, his voice sharp.

you froze, turning around to face him with a sigh. “do what, john?”

“do missions without us, without backup. going in first, acting like you’re invincible, like you don’t need anyone. it’s reckless."

“so now i'm the problem? i can handle myself john, i'm not on this team for nothing!”

his eyes narrowed, his hands clenching into fists as he stepped closer to you. “i'm trying to keep people alive, including you, including the rest of the team.”

“you're not in the goddamn army anymore john, stop acting like you can boss us around!” you yelled, knowing that was a low blow by the way his shoulders tensed.

“you don't get it. you want to get yourself killed by being foolish? be my damn guest!" he hissed, his fist coming down on the table next to him and you flinched—he saw it, and instantly regretted what he'd done, but his cold, dismissive words were out now, no going back.

“right. yeah.” you said, voice cracking. “got it.” you practically scurried away, walking into the bedroom and slamming the door, on purpose this time.

you lay on the bed for what felt like hours, letting your tears fall, not even turning your head when you heard the door open and john stepping inside cautiously. “hey honey.” you didn’t answer.

he walked closer, voice lower now as he sat on the edge of where you lay on the bed, sighing as he thought about what to say. he wasn't good with the whole 'letting your guard down' thing. “i shouldn’t have said that. any of it.” still nothing from you, making him shuffle closer and take your hand in his.

“i...was scared,” he admitted, and that word seemed to make him flinch, like he'd never said it in his life. “i thought you were in danger, and i—i panicked and then i lashed out at you.”

you turned on your back, finally meeting his eyes as you tilted your head. “it made me feel like you didn't care about me and it hurt, john.”

john’s normally stoic expression broke, just slightly, into a softer one, one only you ever got to see.

“i know,” he said. “but you’re the only person who makes me feel like i’m worth something, i do care about you, more than anything. i just wanted to make sure you didn't get hurt, and i ended up hurting you. i’m...i'm sorry.” he whispered the last words, not knowing how to feel. he never apologised. god, you were softening him up too much.

"i want to fix this, let me make it up t' you honey." he murmured, his voice gentler than you'd ever heard it be as he shuffled onto the bed fully, his arms at either side of you as he hovered above you. "cmon honey, wanna make this right, show y' how sorry i am."

you paused for a minute, tears now drying on your cheeks as you looked up at him and nodded, whispering a faint, “kay.” which was all the confirmation he needed as he nodded slowly, rough, calloused hands coming up to cup your cheeks with surprising gentleness, his mouth on yours before you even had time to think, the strength of the kiss making your head spin, barely registering his words when he finally pulled away breathlessly, tugging at the waistband of your trousers.

"want y' to sit on my face sweetheart, need t' taste you." he drawled, his request making your breath hitch as you stood up to peel your trousers off quickly, his hands grabbing your waist and easily manhandling you back onto the bed as soon as you were done.

safe to say, you'd soon forgiven him.

‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿

#marvel #john walker #john walker x reader #john walker smut #thunderbolts #john walker imagine #need that #wyatt russell #falcon and the winter soldier #marvel x reader #the thunderbolts #marvel thunderbolts #tfatws #bob reynolds #yelena belova

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winxanity-ii · 2 days ago

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FIRST [1/?]

ship: virgin!telemachus x fem!virgin!brothel worker!reader warnings: explicit ( oral f. receiving only / mutual virginity / heavy fanservice / soft dominance ) word count: 6.3k (strap up, babes, this is a long one~) a/n: y'all i don't know why but i've been SO embarrassed about this lil fic just sitting in my docs 😭😭 like i fully forgot i'm grown (20) and can post what i want??? even then i guess it's just the lil-nerd in me who just giggles/squirms when faced with my own smut 💀💀 but yeah this is a oneshot that started as a silly thought (aka virgin!telemachus with virgin!reader and then turned into a whole thing and now i'm in love with telemachus and maybe crying a little?? anyway. pls enjoy this soft, heated, reverent mess of a fic. (also someone come get Peisistratus for being a menace) 💀🩷✨✨ idk might do part 2 if i can get over this block 😭😭

★·.·´🇪‌🇵‌🇮‌🇨‌: 🇹‌🇭‌🇪‌ 🇲‌🇺‌🇸‌🇮‌🇨‌🇦‌🇱‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

The tavern was too loud for a place still mourning.

Laughter clanged like armor. Mugs slammed against wood. Someone was playing a lyre too fast, too off-key, but the crowd didn't care—they were drunk on peace, drunk on wine, drunk on finally.

And maybe Telemachus should've been, too.

He sat at the far end of the long table, boots planted, tunic a little looser than usual. There was still a sword at his hip—habit, not threat—but he hadn't had to reach for it in weeks. The suitors were gone. His father had returned. His mother no longer cried into candlelight. Ithaca breathed again.

So why couldn't he?

"Drink," said Peisistratus, pushing a cup toward him. "If you're going to stare like that, at least look mysterious while doing it."

Telemachus blinked. "I wasn't—"

"Yes, you were," his friend grinned. "Whole brooding prince thing? Very effective. That barmaid's been eyeing you since we walked in."

Telemachus turned, just in time to see her saunter off after dropping another round of drinks. She had smiled at him, he thought. Maybe lingered. He hadn't noticed.

He glanced back at Peisistratus, sheepish. "She was just being polite."

"She was being polite with her chest, my guy."

Telemachus sputtered into his wine.

Peisistratus leaned back with the smugness only the youngest son of a king could afford. "Gods, you're hopeless. What do they do in Ithaca, anyway? Stitch tapestries? Pray? Practice self-restraint until you die untouched?"

"We defend our homes," Telemachus said, wiping his mouth. "We hold our families together. I didn't exactly have time to entertain women while men ate my mother's food and planned to take her bed."

Peisistratus groaned. "Still reciting war monologues, huh? Your house is intact, your mom's safe, your dad's alive, and you—you've still never—"

"Don't." Telemachus glanced around, lowering his voice. "You don't have to announce it."

"Then deny it."

He said nothing.

Peisistratus stared. "Telemachus."

Still silence.

The prince of Pylos let out the most exaggerated gasp Telemachus had ever heard. "You are—!"

"I never had time, okay?" Telemachus snapped, heat rushing to his cheeks. "And it's not like I—like anyone—I mean, I could have, maybe, once or twice, but—"

"Spare me." Peisistratus slammed the mug down. "You've been home for weeks. Women all over the castle smiling like doves in heat. And you've done nothing?"

Telemachus opened his mouth. Closed it.

"...You're impossible."

"I'm cautious," he rebuttled.

"You're cursed."

Telemachus rolled his eyes. "You said we were celebrating your last night in Ithaca, not my alleged virginity."

"And we are." Peisistratus stood up suddenly. "Which is why we're fixing that."

Telemachus tensed. "What are you doing?"

"Getting you out of your own head." The younger prince grabbed his wrist. "Come on."

"Wait—"

"I know a place."

"Peisistratus—"

"You trust me, don't you?"

"I—That's not the point—!"

"It is exactly the point." Peisistratus grinned, half-dragging him through the tavern door, past the lyre, past the wine, into the soft night where stars bloomed and scandal lurked.

Telemachus' stomach dropped. He wasn't sure if it was the alcohol, the nerves, or the fact that for the first time in years... he didn't know what came next.

☆

The wash water stung your hands. Not from heat, but from the way your fingers had cracked again—tiny splits in your skin from scrubbing too long, too often, with too little rest between. But you didn't stop. You couldn't stop. If you could just finish this last basin, you could dry your hands by the fire and maybe—

"Hey." You flinched.

One of the older girls leaned into the doorway, silk slipping off her shoulder, perfume following behind her like smoke. She was smiling—but not in that fake, flirty way they did for customers. This was different. Kind. Almost... pitying.

"You're up."

"...Up?" you echoed, straightening too fast.

"First client. Just got called in. He's a special one, too. Big spender."

Your mouth went dry. "I—I thought—"

"I know. You've been doing laundry for weeks. Earning your keep. But tonight's different."

She crossed the room, gently took the basin from your hands, and set it down. The water sloshed over the sides. You stared at it like it might pull you under.

"I'm not ready."

"No one ever is," she said softly. "Come on. We'll help you."

Moments later, you sat like a doll in a chair that wasn't yours, surrounded by girls whose hands moved too fast for you to follow.

One was curling your hair with a hot iron pin, another was dabbing rose oil on your wrists. Someone else adjusted the straps on a dress that dipped too low, hugged too tight. You barely recognized yourself in the mirror. Cheeks smooth in oil. Lips bitten raw. Cleavage you'd never seen before.

"You're shaking," said one girl, brushing powder across your collarbone.

"I-I'm fine," you lied.

"She's nervous," another grinned. "That's cute."

"She's lucky," said the girl with the perfume. "First time, and she gets him."

You finally gain the courage to speak. "...Who?"

The girls exchanged a look.

"I heard he's a prince," someone whispered. "Or close to it. Tall. Polite. Kind eyes. Might not even make you do anything."

You swallowed hard.

"Just remember," said the first girl, crouching in front of you, voice low. "Pretend you've done this before. That you're in charge. Even if you're not. Men like that."

Her hand touched yours. Warm. Grounding.

"You'll be okay."

.☆. .✩. .☆.

You followed the madam up the stairs like you were walking to your own execution.

Each step felt louder than it should've. Your heartbeat was pounding in your throat. She stopped in front of a thick wooden door, glanced over her shoulder, and whispered, "He's already inside."

Then she was gone.

Just like that.

You stood there for a second, alone in the silence, hands slick with sweat, chest so tight it hurt. You almost turned and ran. Almost knocked on the madam's office and begged to go back to your linens, to the hot sting of soapwater, to the safety of anonymity. Almost.

But you didn't.

You opened the door.

He stood near the window, back turned, silhouetted by moonlight.

His posture was perfect—hands clasped behind his back, chin slightly tilted, like he was measuring the stars. His cloak was folded neatly on the chair beside him. His boots, still dusty from the road. He didn't turn at the sound of the door closing.

Your fingers clenched at your sides. You tried to remember what the girls said.

Pretend I've done this before. That I'm in charge.

You took one step. Then another.

Your voice came out soft—too soft. "You can sit down... if you'd like."

He turned.

And you forgot how to breathe.

Not just because he was handsome—though gods, he was. Soft brown curls that caught the light. Broad shoulders. Eyes like calm earth after rain. But what stunned you wasn't his looks.

It was the way he looked at you.

Like you were real.

Like he hadn't expected someone nervous, someone trembling in silk like she was being sacrificed.

Like... he saw it.

He stepped forward, slower than you expected.

You reached up—mechanically—like you'd practiced. Fingers brushing his jaw. His skin was warm. Clean-shaven. You smiled, or tried to, coy and low-lidded like the others had shown you.

But when he raised a hand—slowly, carefully, like he was asking permission—and touched your cheek...

You flinched.

Your whole body jolted. Just slightly. But enough.

He froze. His palm still hovered, but he didn't push.

You dropped your gaze. "I'm sorry. Forgive me. I just—I've never—" The words got caught. Your throat burned.

He stepped back. Not in shame. Just to give you space.

"...Me neither," he said quietly.

There was a silence after he spoke. Not an awkward one. Not really. More like a stillness—a moment suspended in the air between two strangers who had no idea what to do now that the truth had been said aloud.

You weren't sure who sat down first. Maybe you did. Maybe he followed. But somehow you both ended up on the edge of the bed, not touching, facing slightly different directions like you were afraid of spooking each other.

You stared at your hands in your lap. "I didn't think... you'd be nervous."

He gave a soft huff, not quite a laugh. "Why not?"

"Because when I walked in here, you turned around like... like you weren't afraid of anything."

That made him pause.

He looked at you—just looked—eyes dark and unreadable, like he was weighing whether to say the truth or something easier.

Then, slowly, his mouth curved into a faint, crooked smile. "Looks can be deceiving." He held out his hand. "I'm Telemachus."

You blinked.

The name struck something deep in your chest. You're not sure why, but it sounded really familiar. Still, you reached out, slipping your fingers into his before the silence stretched too long. "I'm ____."

He held your hand a second longer than he had to.

" ____." he said softly, like he was tasting it. "That's... a beautiful name."

He repeated it again, slower this time. More careful. Like he was folding it into memory.

You looked away first. But only for a second. When you turned back, he was already watching you—shoulders drawn in a little, face unreadable.

He blinked, startled at being caught, and looked away quickly, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. His ears were flushed.

"Sorry," he muttered. "I'm not... I didn't come here planning to do anything like this. My friend—he pushed. I didn't even mean to follow him in, but I—I don't know."

He sighed through a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, shoulders rising and falling under the weight of his own honesty.

"I've fought men twice my size. Led ships through storms. Stared down men who wanted to kill me in my own hall," he said. Then turned his head to you, eyes meeting yours. "None of that was as terrifying as opening that door."

You blinked at him. "...Why?"

He looked away again, and you could tell he was choosing his words.

"...Because if I went through with this," he said slowly, "I'd never be able to go back."

That confused you. "Back?"

"To the boy who never did," he murmured. "To the version of me who still hadn't. I spent so long carrying him around, pretending he didn't matter. But I think he does. And if I let him go—" he paused, "—I want it to be for something real."

You swallowed.

Telemachus glanced at you, half-smiling. "Sorry. That was a bit heavy."

"No, it wasn't," you said, surprising yourself. "I... understand."

He tilted his head. "Do you?"

You nodded. "I gave my first kiss to a coin."

He blinked.

You flushed. "I mean—! I didn't—I meant—" You exhaled, collecting yourself. "I gave it to the idea of a coin. A better life. A trade. I thought I could handle it. That if I said yes to this place, I could keep my soul out of it."

He was quiet.

You laughed, bitter. "But I think it got in anyway."

When you looked up, his expression had changed. Something had softened in him—not out of pity. Not out of guilt. But recognition. He knew that feeling. That ache behind your voice.

"I was scared," you whispered. "I still am."

Telemachus leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze steady. "What are you scared of?"

"That it'll hurt," you said. "That it'll be awful. That I'll do something wrong."

"It's not something you can do wrong," he said quietly. "Not when you mean it."

"...Do you?"

His breath caught. You didn't mean to ask it like that. Like it was a challenge. But it hung there.

He nodded. "I... I think I do. Now."

Another long pause. But something shifted in it—something warmer.

You both smiled, small and unsure.

He turned slightly toward you. "Would it be alright if... if I... kissed you?"

You nodded.

The kiss wasn't perfect. It wasn't practiced or smooth or clever. It was a little too hesitant. A little too careful. His lips were warm but tentative, like he didn't want to overwhelm you. Your fingers curled in his tunic, clutching the fabric, not pulling—just holding. His hand touched your cheek again, and this time, you didn't flinch.

It deepened. Slowly. You tilted your head. He let out a breath.

When you finally parted, you were both smiling now, a little dazed.

"I don't want to do anything that scares you," he murmured.

"That's the thing," you said softly. "It still scares me. But... not as much."

He leaned back slightly, just enough to see your face. "Do you want to stop?"

You hesitated, and then, with the tiniest breath, you said, "No."

You moved first this time—your hand trembling slightly, brushing the inside of his knee and then higher, testing the waters. He inhaled sharply, but didn't stop you—his gaze locked on yours like he was waiting to see what you'd do next.

He didn't move.

Didn't push.

Didn't take.

He just watched you, like you were a storm rolling in, and he was the only man foolish enough to stand beneath the thunder. But then you moved again. Just a shift, just closer. And something in you said: Try it. So you did.

You leaned in and kissed him.

The moment your lips touched his, Telemachus melted into it—no hesitation, no second-guessing. His hand cupped the back of your neck like it was instinct, holding you steady, and then—

His mouth opened, his tongue slid against yours, and you gasped.

A startled, breathy sound that you couldn't bite back. It caught in your throat like a held-back whimper, made your lashes flutter. You weren't expecting that—how warm he was, how eager. He kissed like someone starved. Like someone who'd read about it, dreamed about it, but never had permission to try.

And gods, once he had it... he took it.

His arms wrapped around you without thought, strong and sure. In one smooth motion, he pulled you forward, shifting until you were straddling his lap, your knees against the bed, your body pressed flush to his. His hands didn't just rest at your back—they curled, palms dragging up your spine like he was learning the shape of you by feel alone.

Your mind raced.

He's strong. He's so strong. This is going so fast—but I don't want it to stop.

You barely remembered to breathe.

His hands spread wide against your ribs, holding you in place like he was afraid you'd vanish. His tongue moved against yours again, this time slower—more deliberate. Testing. Teasing. Tasting.

You whimpered, and his grip tightened.

Some small, silly part of your brain sparked to life, voice hushed but not gone:

If this is what all the customers are like... maybe working at the brothel won't be so bad.

But the thought barely had time to settle before memory returned, sharper now—the voices of the girls who'd painted your lips and whispered in your ear before the door opened.

"Touch his chest. Men love that."

"Use your hips—grind just a little, then stop."

"Fake moan. Even if you don't mean it. They eat that up."

The words came in flashes.

You tried to recall what you were supposed to do next. How you were supposed to arch your back or roll your hips or do that breathy little laugh one girl had demonstrated by the mirror.

But none of it came naturally.

Not when his hands felt so real. Not when his lips were shaking slightly against yours. Not when he kissed you like you were something he didn't think he'd ever get again.

You clutched his shoulders instead.

Not because someone told you to, but because you didn't know how else to keep yourself from falling apart.

Your lips finally broke from his, breath catching as you pulled back just enough to see him.

And gods—Telemachus looked wrecked.

His cheeks were flushed pink, almost feverish. A single curl clung to his forehead, damp with sweat, while the rest of his hair had fallen wildly out of place, soft spirals tousled from where your fingers had tugged them. His mouth hung open slightly, lips swollen and red, wet where he'd kissed you too long and too hard and too much—not that you'd wanted him to stop.

His eyes, though...they were the worst part.

Wide. Glassy. A little dazed.

And so hungry.

Not like a man ready to devour—but like a boy starved of softness, blinking up at you like you'd just fed him something he never knew he needed.

You sat on his lap still, panting softly, your chest rising against his.

Your hand moved before you could think. Fingers brushing his jaw, then up along his cheek. You cupped his face, thumb tracing just beneath his eye like you were trying to remember every line of him.

He's handsome, you thought, breathless.Too handsome to be here. Too gentle to want someone like me.

Telemachus leaned into your touch like it was instinct. Like it was safe.

You stared at him.

And then... you moved.

Slowly, you slid from his lap, your knees hitting the floor one after the other. Your hands rested on his thighs, steadying yourself. You leaned forward, eyes cast down, heartbeat loud in your ears.

This was what the other girls said men wanted.

This was what they told you would happen eventually.

Maybe if you did it well, he'd want to come back. Maybe he'd ask for you again. Maybe—

But your fingers had barely reached for the tie of his tunic before—

He stopped you.

Gently.

Firmly.

Telemachus' hands curled around your waist again—not desperate, not panicked, but certain. Like he'd been waiting to stop you from this.

You didn't even get to ask why before he was lifting you. Effortless.

He picked you up like it was nothing, like you weighed less than the breath in his lungs. Before you could protest, he'd turned and settled you back on the bed—this time seated lower, your legs tucked beside you. You stared up at him, startled, breath still ragged.

His hands didn't leave your hips. But they didn't move either. Just stayed there. Warm. Steady. Present.

You swallowed. "Why...?"

He crouched slightly, bringing himself to eye level, voice soft.

"I'm not here to take from you," he murmured. "I... I don't want that to be your first memory."

You blinked. Tried to read his face. His voice hadn't changed. There was no judgment in it. No shame. Just... truth.

He touched your knee—light, barely a brush.

"But... I want to give you something... If you'll let me."

It didn't take long for the truth of it to click into place.

Your breath caught in your throat, your heart lurching as it settled in.

He was telling you—right now, in this quiet moment with your hands still trembling in your lap—he wanted to give, and he wanted nothing in return.

The realization made your stomach twist in a way you didn't have a name for.

Before you could find your voice—before you could tell him, you don't have to, I didn't mean for this—

Telemachus moved.

He dropped to one knee—not with dramatics, not like some chivalrous knight, but like something in him had simply given way. Like his body understood before his mind did that this was where he belonged.

Not beneath you. But before you.

His shoulders bowed, his head dipping slightly as his gaze stayed locked on yours. His hands hovered over your thighs—not touching, just there. Waiting. Asking without words.

He didn't blink. Didn't flinch.

"You don't have to do anything," he whispered. His voice was so low it felt like a secret passed between breaths. "Just let me take care of you."

Your lips parted, but you didn't speak.

He continued—voice steady, but laced with something softer. Something closer to awe.

"I've thought about this moment," he admitted. "Not like this, not here—but... about what it would feel like. To be trusted with someone. By someone."

His fingers finally moved—just enough to ghost over your knees. Then higher. Sliding along your thighs, slow and warm and so careful.

He didn't press them apart.

He didn't ask for more.

He just waited.

And the way he looked at you—gods, it was unbearable. His eyes didn't flick down to your chest. Didn't scan your body like a thing bought and paid for. They were locked on yours. Unblinking. Steady. Patient.

You didn't think you'd ever been looked at like that.

Like your nervousness was sacred. Like your silence was allowed. Like you were the sky and he'd found a place in it.

Your hands curled into the sheets.

And then—

You nodded.

And everything stilled.

Not the air. Not the quiet creak of the floorboards beneath the bed. But him. Telemachus didn't surge forward. Didn't pounce. He waited one heartbeat—two—just to be sure. Just to give you the chance to change your mind. And when you didn't, he moved.

The first press of his lips to your inner knee was enough to break you. You inhaled sharply, your thighs twitching from how careful he was being. As if he thought you might shatter. As if he'd fall apart too, if he touched you wrong.

His hands were warm against your calves, large and steady, sliding beneath your legs to part them—not forcing. Guiding. Creating space. Creating breath.

You couldn't look at him. Could only stare at the ceiling as the fabric of your dress shifted—bunched higher and higher as his hands pushed it past your knees, your thighs, up over your hips. Each inch of exposure made your skin burn. Not from embarrassment. From realization.

From how huge his hands felt.

The way his palms wrapped around you so easily. How his thumbs brushed along the softest parts of your inner thighs. How your skin tingled wherever he touched—like his fingertips were ink, and you were being written on.

His lips followed.

He kissed higher.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Like each inch of skin was a vow.

He paused between each kiss like he needed permission from your skin to keep going. And when he reached the place right at the intersection of your thighs—he paused again, and the heat of his breath made you jerk.

Your voice came out soft. Fragile. "Telemachus..."

His head tilted up.

You expected hunger. Or urgency.

But his eyes..

Gods, his eyes.

They were soft. Dazed. Like he was seeing something divine.

You could feel his breath there—there—hot and reverent, like prayer pressed to skin. It burned in the most delicate way. A kiss without contact.

And then—

His mouth covered you.

You jerked.

A small, startled squeak caught in your throat as your hips lifted off the bed, back arching on instinct. The heat of his mouth was searing—not rough, not greedy, just everywhere. Warm and wet and real.

"T-Telemachus—!" you gasped, the sound breaking halfway through as his tongue moved. You clutched at his hair—those soft brown curls that caught your eye the moment you saw him—and whimpered as the pressure began to build.

It was clumsy at first. Careful. Testing. But gods, he was trying—tongue flicking and tasting and exploring in slow, cautious strokes that grew bolder every time you whimpered.

Every sound you made pulled something new from him.

You couldn't see his face, but you felt him—his hands gripping your thighs tighter, holding you open, his mouth pressing against you like he was trying to learn you by muscle memory. Like he didn't want to miss a single reaction.

You weren't trying to say his name, not really, but it kept falling from your lips like a prayer—"Telemachus, Telemachus, Telemachus—" and every time you said it, his grip on your thighs tightened, his tongue slowed, focused, like the sound fed him.

He moaned into you once—just once—and the vibration made you cry out, thighs twitching around his head. Your fingers tangled in the sheets. You couldn't stop moving, couldn't stop trembling. Every time you cried out—every little "ah," every breathless "oh gods"—he shook with need.

"Please," you whispered, not even knowing what you were asking for.

His hands slid further beneath you, thumbs hooking under your thighs as he lifted your legs—gently, reverently—and pulled them over his shoulders, like this was where he'd wanted to be all night.

He didn't stop.

He couldn't stop.

His fingers pressed into your hips, holding you still when you started to squirm, when your legs tried to close. You didn't want to push him away—you just didn't know what to do with all of it.

The pressure. The heat. The way he was everywhere.

And when you came—

Gods, when it hit—

You didn't scream. You didn't cry.

You breathed—one long, shaking exhale as your whole body went tense, then soft. Your thighs locked around his head, your back bowed, and your fingers slipped from his hair to your own lips, muffling the sound that rose from deep inside your chest.

And he didn't stop.

Not right away.

Telemachus kissed you through it—tongue gentle again now, coaxing you down with slow, soft laps that made your thighs tremble and your lungs shudder. Like he couldn't bear to let you go yet. Like he wanted to catch every last wave of your pleasure and hold it in his mouth.

Only when your hips twitched from the overstimulation and you sagged against the pillows like a storm passing, then—and only then—did he lift his head.

He looked... wrecked.

His face was flushed. Lips wet. Hair mussed from where your fingers had accidentally tangled in it. He looked like a boy who'd just touched divinity and barely survived.

For a while, neither of you moved.

Your legs had gone loose. Your chest rose and fell like it had been emptied of every secret you'd ever tried to carry. And him—Telemachus just stayed there. Sitting on the floor beside the bed, head resting against the mattress, eyes closed like he was memorizing the sound of your breathing.

He hadn't touched you since. Not in that way. Not even to kiss you again. He just sat there, reverent and flushed and so very still, as if breaking the silence might ruin it.

Eventually, you found your voice.

"Should I... should I... help you?"

He let out a breathless laugh. "No. I'm... I'm alright."

You looked at him, eyes flicking downward.

He was obviously not alright.

But he only smiled—softer this time, a little crooked.

"That was enough," he said. "More than enough." Now it's his turn to question you. "Was it... Was that—?" he started, then cut himself off, unsure.

Your hand reached for him, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth, catching the last trace of yourself there.

"That was..." you couldn't even finish. Your voice cracked, but you smiled. And that was enough.

His breath hitched, just for a second. Then, gently, he asked, "Can... Can I lie beside you?"

You nodded.

He stood and climbed onto the bed with a quiet grace that didn't match how tightly his body must've been wound. He slid in behind you—not too close. Not assuming. But when you shifted—just a little—and your back brushed his chest, he went still.

You felt his arm ghost toward your waist. Waiting. Always waiting.

You let him.

He exhaled as he wrapped around you, chest pressed against your spine, his breath steady against your hair.

And gods... it felt like safety.

Not heat. Not hunger. Just warmth.

You'd never been touched like that before.

Never felt like that before.

And the craziest part?

Neither had he.

You whispered, "...You're still hard."

You felt him laugh, muffled against the back of your neck. "I know."

"I can—"

"No," he said softly. "Not tonight."

You turned your head just enough to glimpse him over your shoulder. "Then... what do we do now?"

He smiled. Sleepy. Adoring. Infatuated in a way that made your heart ache.

"Now?" he murmured. "Now we stay."

And so you did.

With his arm draped over your waist, his nose tucked behind your ear, and your breath starting to slow to match his, you let yourself fall asleep.

Just this once, in someone else's arms.

Just this once, without fear.

☆

You woke to the smell of lavender soap and old wood.

For a moment, your eyes stayed closed. You didn't want to risk opening them—afraid that the night before had been a dream spun from nerves and exhaustion. Afraid that if you looked beside you, he'd be gone. Or worse... that he'd still be there, and it wouldn't mean anything.

But you didn't need to open your eyes to know he was still behind you.

You could feel him.

Telemachus' chest was warm against your spine, one arm draped lazily over your waist. His fingers twitched in his sleep, like he was still holding on to something. His breath was slow. Even. Peaceful.

You tried not to move. Tried to hold still like maybe if you stayed quiet enough, time would pause. But it didn't. You felt the moment start to shift—the softness fraying at the edges, reality creeping in.

You turned your head slightly. Just enough to whisper, "Are you awake?"

His breath caught. And then, softly. "Yeah."

You rolled onto your back, eyes meeting his.

He looked ruined. Hair tousled. Eyes a little puffy. Lips still flushed from where you'd kissed him. But gods, if he didn't look at you like you were something he was scared to blink at.

"Hi," you whispered.

He smiled. "Hi."

Neither of you moved.

You weren't sure what to say. Should you say anything? Ask if he'd be back? If it meant something? If he'd still want you when the sun was high and the world was loud again?

But then he reached up, fingertips barely brushing your cheek, and said, "I've got to leave soon."

Your stomach dropped. You nodded, trying not to let it show.

"But," he added quickly, "that doesn't mean this... have to end."

You looked at him.

He smiled—soft, boyish, crooked. "I don't think I could forget you if I tried."

You didn't believe him. Not really. But part of you wanted to. And maybe that was enough for now.

You sat up, pulled the sheet around you. "I should get dressed before everyone wakes and the girls start talking."

"They'll talk anyway," he muttered.

You looked over your shoulder. "Oh?"

He smirked faintly. "They were whispering when I came in last night. Half the brothel knew where I was going."

That made your cheeks burn.

You stood, tried to tame your hair, tried to smooth the wrinkles out of the dress you'd been poured into. You felt his eyes on you the whole time. Not leering. Just... watching.

Like he still couldn't believe you were real.

"I'll send for you," he said suddenly.

You turned. "What?"

"I mean—" he sat up, voice softer now, more careful. "If... If you want your actual first time to be... different... I could find a way."

Your throat tightened. "You don't have to—"

"I want to."

You blinked.

He stood. Stepped close. Tucked a piece of your hair behind your ear and whispered, "If last night was your first... then I want the second to be mine, too."

And then he was gone.

.☆. .✩. .☆.

You were back in the laundry room before the others, sleeves rolled to your elbows, sleeves that still smelled faintly like him. You kept your head down, folding quietly, avoiding the curious glances and the not-so-subtle giggles from the other girls.

"Did he kiss you?"

"Did you touch him?"

"How big was his dick?"

You ignored them.

The madam approached mid-morning. You braced yourself for orders—new clients, more linen, someone drunk puking on the rugs again. But she only said. "You're off the floor."

You blinked. "What?"

"No clients. No touch work. From today on, you stay with the laundry."

Your lips parted. "Why?"

She didn't answer at first, just tucked a folded piece of parchment into your palm. A receipt. A payment.

"He bought it. Your virginity." she said simply. "The prince. Paid enough to take you off rotation."

Your mouth dropped. "Prince??"

She snorted—an unladylike sound for a woman who wore perfume and lace—and kept walking, her heels clacking across the wooden floor as she called out something about clean towels to the other girls.

You scrambled after her, nearly tripping on the hem of your skirt. "Wait—wait! What do you mean a prince?! Why would a prince buy me? When would he—does he come back? Will he come back tonight?!"

The brothel was already alive with its usual morning rhythm—cleaning cloths flapping out windows, perfume bottles clinking onto vanities, girls slipping between one another to straighten bedding and fluff pillows. A few early clients sat in the lounge area downstairs, their voices low and lazy, nursing watered-down wine while waiting for their favorites to appear from behind silk curtains.

You chased the madam past them all, dodging a tray of breakfast figs and a girl giggling down the hall with her corset still half-undone. You reached the hallway leading back toward the laundry room when she suddenly spun around to face you—and you stumbled to a stop with a squeak.

She didn't speak at first.

Just looked at you. Looked through you.

Then—tap.

Two fingers to the center of your forehead.

"Honestly," she sighed. "And here I thought you were one of the smart ones."

You blinked, wide-eyed. "I—I am!"

She gave you a flat look. "You keep the ledgers balanced. You talk back to the bookkeeper without blinking. You know which clients are late on payment before they sit down. Hell, you taught Clio how to read last week—and you fixed the squeaky back door with an oil rag and string."

Your face flushed. "Then why—"

"Because, darling," she said, tone sharp but not cruel, "you're acting like a little airhead this morning, and it's beneath you."

You shrank in on yourself slightly. "I just... I don't understand."

She sighed again and pinched the bridge of her nose. "The man you were with last night—"

"Telemachus," you said quickly, almost breathless. Just hearing his name made your chest pull tight.

The madam's lips pursed.

Tap.

She poked your forehead again, this time more pointed.

"That's Prince Telemachus," she corrected. "Don't forget who you're talking about."

You blinked. "But I thought—he never told me—"

She raised a brow. "Of course he didn't. Nobles never do. Not when they want to see how you treat them before the title gets in the way. That's why you listen to the whispers that goes through here. I'm positive someone let it loose."

Your mouth opened, but no words came out.

She continued walking, and you had to trot after her again.

"Anywho, the prince of Pylos—Peisistratus, the youngest of King Menelaus' sons—he came in just after dusk last night. Said he needed someone untouched. Said it was a gift, of sorts, for the prince of Ithaca. And the moment I thought of someone who might actually look him in the eye and not fall apart..." She gave you a sideways glance. "So I sent for you."

You gawked. "But I—I flinched. I almost cried!"

"Yes, precisely why I chose you," she said dryly, "and yet he bought your virginity the moment he left. Paid triple what we charge."

You stopped walking.

The hallway around you blurred—sunlight spilling through stained glass, footsteps echoing above, voices below, the brothel alive in every direction.

You stood frozen in the middle of it.

Prince Telemachus bought my virginity.

You touched your lips.

They still tingled.

Even then, all you could be stuck on was the fact that Telemachus was a prince.

And suddenly—everything clicked. Like someone had thrown a torch into the back of your mind and lit up the whole kingdom map.

You recalled the whispers in town. The parade of ships. The late-night feasts held at the palace people like you weren't invited to. The rising hum of change in every corner of Ithaca.

The return of King Odysseus.

And that boy—the one who kissed you like the world was ending—

"Prince Telemachus?!" you squawked again, way too loud this time.

But the madam was already halfway down the hall, waving a rag at the kitchen girl and calling for someone to bring fresh honey-water to room six.

You stood frozen, still clutching the folded parchment like it might burn you.

You looked down at it again.

The ink hadn't changed. His name was still there. The number. The seal.

All real.

And your chest—your whole body—went still.

"...So I'm free?!?" you shouted down the hall after her.

The madam didn't stop walking.

She just gave a half-smile, scoffing like you'd just asked if pigs could read.

"No one's free here, girl," she called over her shoulder. "But you're his now."

And with that, she disappeared into the steam of the bath corridor, barking something about soap and firewood.

You looked back down at the parchment.

Your fingers were shaking a little, but only because they felt lighter somehow. Like for the first time in weeks, you were holding something that might mean more than just survival.

And then—just barely—you smiled.

Because he didn't take you.

He chose you.

And maybe, just maybe...

He'd choose you again.

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 days ago

Text

butterflygirl738 (6)

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, power imbalance, sickness, medical bills, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You love butterflies and your mother, but life isn’t that simple. As life gets complicated, and expensive, you find yourself in need and an unexpected miracle presents itself.

Characters: Steve Rogers (CEO/Sugar Daddy)

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

"It was a nice day," S says as he checks the rear view mirror.

You twitch out of your trance. Your eyes are itchy, the way they get after a double shift. You suppress a yawn and nod.

"Very nice, thank you," you agree and twiddle your fingers in your palm.

"But you're anxious to get home..." he says.

"Well....my mom..." you begin. "I'm not trying to ditch you--"

"Ha, I know. I'm selfish. I've had you all day." He keeps his eyes on the road. "Should we stop and get her something?"

"Um, that's. Mm. I'd love to but..."

"Might be suspicious. Got it." He clucks. "Well, what about tomorrow? You got plans?"

"She has an appointment," you say. "Check-up."

"Ah, makes sense," he says. "When is it? Maybe after..."

"Yeah, er maybe. But... how long are you here? What about New York?" You wonder. The big city, his company, all that is still a mystery to you.

"It can wait. Besides, the hotel has wifi. I got all night to catch up emails."

"Oh, right." You stare at the street ahead.

"Tomorrow?" He prompts before the silence drags.

"Tomorrow. After noon? Should be done by then," you assure him, twisting your fist around your finger.

"Can I ask you a favour?" He slows as he gets to your street.

"A favour?"

"Yeah. Nothing big. Promise." He turns the corner and keeps a snail's pace.

"Alright," you utter.

"Will you bring a few bills tomorrow? We can go through them. Sort that out--"

"S. No. I can't--"

"But that's the deal," he insists. "How can I help if I don't know the situation?"

"I... I don't know. It's a lot."

"A lot you shouldn't be worried about. You should be focused on your mom. Not money." He stops in front of your building. He angles in his seat and puts his hand on the back of yours. "This is what I'm here for. To take all that off your shoulders."

You exhale and swallow dryly. "It feels like too much."

"Not to me." His thumb rubs the seat, close to your shoulder. "Look, I'm just me. I got more than enough for that. I want to do this. I want someone to share this with. To spoil, if I can."

You look at him. He's too good to be true. After all the bad days, all the set backs, all the red numbers, you just can't believe it's what he says it it.

"I'll bring one," you offer.

"One?" He echoes.

"Mhmm," you nod.

"The highest one then," he says. His tone is even but demanding.

"Okay."

"Okay," he repeats and clears his throat. "Look, sweetheart, let's not ruin the day. Go inside, spend some time with mom. I'll text you."

You chew your lip. You should tell him. It won't help if he thinks you're ignoring him.

"Maybe not." You fidget. "I'm... I'm almost out of... I uh, the internet is down and I pay per message."

"Hm, why didn't you mention it before?" He challenges.

You sink down, pushing your shoulders high. "It's embarrassing."

He sighs.

"No problem. Tomorrow. After noon," he pats the seat and rescinds his hand. "Hope the appointment goes well."

"Me too," you murmur in dread.

You undo your seat belt and grab your purse. You sit up and glance at him. He watches you expectantly but you're not sure what he's waiting for.

"Good night," you say.

His jaw ticks, "good night, sweetheart."

You smile weakly and get out. You shut the door gently and turn to step over the curb. You march up to the front doors and peek back. You wave then go inside.

You feel bad now. Like you're abandoning him. After such a nice day, you're just strutting off without giving him anything...

Your chest knots up as you climb the stairs. It isn't just him, it's the lies. You're not sure you can keep this up but if you don't, what are you going to do? You can't pay him back and the missed hours at work won't do much to help that. And if you keep calling in, well, you might not have time to make up for what you missed.

You're confused. This was supposed to make it all easier but it all feels so much more complicated. Why can't life be as simple as the chrysalis in the hamper?

🦋

"Will you come in with me?" Your mom asks as they call her name.

You nod and stand with her. It's not like the early days. When she went on her own. She didn't tell you the diagnoses right away. Not until the first treatment. That was a horrible day and there's been many of those since.

You follow the nurse to the sterile room. You sit in the chair in the corner and your mother sits in the chair by the small counter top. You're silent. Both anxious.

Dr. Vincent enters. You almost feel like you should stand. You cross your legs and return his greeting. It's not a very good morning but you won't say so.

"So, Noreen," he says to your mother. "I have some news."

Your mother looks at him from her chair. She looks small like a child. You've never seen her afraid but in that moment, you see her eyes gleam.

"You're a candidate for stem cell transplant." He says.

Your mom looks at you and back to him. You don't know what that means either. You remember they mentioned it early on but it never came back up.

"No more chemo. At least for now. We think this is the opportune time and it could help with recovery in the long run," he explains.

"Oh, right," she breathes.

"We'll send you for a few scans to see how things are looking but your last images were positive."

"Uh huh, okay," she blinks. "Is it very expensive?"

He hums. "It can be. Depending on insurance. Of course, it would be my recommendation for you to go with it. Chemo is showing results but in my experience, this is the best course of action. If you wish to continue as you are, it's entirely within your discretion."

You're both quiet.

"I'll provide you some information on it before you go. How about that? Give you some time to think." He says.

"That's good," you say as your mom stays silent.

"Alright, then, we'll do the usual," Vincent diverts. "Let's get you on the bed."

You sit patiently as he checks your mother over. He's quick and efficient. He has a full waiting room, even this early in the morning. You thank him after your mother does and he leaves the room.

She steps onto the stool and down to the floor. As you approach her, she sighs. She doesn't say anything as she leads you out of the room.

As she stops at the admin desk to get the folder of pamphlets, she bids them a good day. As you come out into the gloomy of the rainy day, you take her hand. She stops and stands at the curb, looking out into the distance.

"I'm tired, pie."

"I know, mom," you say.

"What do you think?" She asks.

"I don't know. Maybe... we should read the stuff."

"It'll be expensive."

"It's all expensive," you mutter.

She drops her head. "My last days and I have to watch my daughter work herself half to death just to suffer more and more."

"Mom, please, he said things are looking good--"

"Maybe but I don't know how much longer I can keep this up."

You swallow as your eyes burn. "It's... it's your choice. Always your choice." You look away, trying not to cry.

"Honey," she squeezes your hand. "I don't want to give up. I know you won't, either, but you're tired too. It hurts me to see you like this."

"Mom," is all you can eke out.

She lets go of you and looks at the folder. She exhales. "I'll read it over."

"We'll read it together," you offer.

"When's work?" She wonders.

"Noon," you answer. Not work, per se. Just an obligation.

"Enough time for breakfast," she says. "My treat."

"Mom," you say.

"I know, I know. But I just want one last cinnamon bun before I go," she insists.

🦋

You're trembling. You haven't been able to stop since you left the apartment. You couldn't let your mom see the panic. She's already having a rough day.

You stand under the awning of the building, waiting. S drives up and you run out without pulling up your jacket hood. You feel in your pocket for the pamphlet.

You get in the car and flick the moisture from your cheeks. You gasp. "It's really coming down."

"You don't have an umbrella?" S says.

"Forgot," you shrug.

"Mm, well, looks like a day best spent inside. I was thinking, they got pretty good food at my hotel. We could have lunch."

You hesitate. The thought of his hotel room makes your stomach stir. You remember what he said. 'We'll see where it goes'. It's feeling more and more like there's only one way this goes.

"Sure, whatever you like." You sniff.

You buckle up and sit back. You tilt your head up.

"Long morning?" He asks as he pulls into the street.

"Yeah... a little."

"Bad news?" He asks cautiously.

"Mm, news... stuff to think about."

"Right," he steers on as the wipers swing back and forth. "Well, just relax. Once we get to the hotel, you can get dry and clear your head."

"Yeah. Thanks."

You close your eyes, content to let the rain and the motion soothe you. It's a moment to prepare yourself.. Maybe once you tell him, he'll change his mind.

When the car stops, you snap up as if you were sleeping. Your mind slows as the world does the same. S smiles at you and reaches behind your seat. He grabs an umbrella out of the back.

He gets out, shielding himself from the downpour, and comes around to open your door. He walks you up to the hotel doors and folds up the umbrella before he enters the lobby. He points you to the elevators.

"Got some work done this morning," he proclaims as you get on. "You were asking about my company."

"Oh, right. I was. Curious, I guess. I don't know anyone who owns one."

"You do now," he chuckles. "It's not as glamourous as it seems. This is as much time as I've had to myself in... a decade?"

"Really?"

"Not to complain. I mean, certain things I don't have to worry about. It's not a bad life. Solitary," he shrugs and the doors open.

He guides you along the hallway to his suite door. He lets you in ahead of him. He puts the umbrella in the tall vase by the door.

You unzip your jacket and hang it. You look down at your jeans. They're soaked. You rub the damp fabric.

"I got a spare robe in here, if you want to let those dry," he says.

"Sure, uh, probably," you agree.

He takes off his shoes and you step out of your boots. You linger by the door, shyly glancing into the suite. He stands up and combs his fingers through his hair.

"I'll get the room service menu," he grins and struts away. "Make yourself at home."

As he looks around, you reach into your jacket pocket. You hide the pamphlet behind your back, clasping your wrist tight, and tiptoe further inside. He waves the laminated menu at you.

"Right here," he puts it on the small round table between two chairs. "I'll get that robe."

"Sure."

You wait, reluctant at the edge of the sitting room. A couch and a clamshell chair in velvet. It's all so nice.

He comes back in.

"If you want to change before you make up your mind--"

"Uh huh, yeah."

You keep the pamphlet behind you and take the robe. He points you to the bathroom and you scurry into it. You lock yourself inside and strip off the wet jeans. The texture leaves your skin itchy. Ugh.

You hang them on the bar meant for towels and pull on the robe. It's soft and roomy. You tuck the pamphlet into the pocket and face the door.

You emerge as S sits at the table. You walk carefully, paranoid that the robe might fall open despite the tight knot around the middle. You sit down and lean over to read the menu. It's a good distraction.

"I recommend the mac and cheese, as simple as it sounds," he taps with his finger.

"Oh, I like mac and cheese," you say.

You continue your perusal. You'll probably just go with what he says. Your appetite is lost in the storm of your inside.

"So, uh, did you bring that bill?"

You sit up stiffly and blink at him. Your hand goes to the pocket of the robe. You gape at him. How do you do this?

"We can wait--"

"No, I can't. Not-- no. Because..." you stammer as your heart races. "Because it's... it's too much and... you can say no and... I'll be okay. My mom will be okay. I'll figure it out. I will."

"Woah, woah, sweetheart," he gets up and comes around the table. He gets down to his knees as he puts his hands on your arms, his thumbs caressing you. "It's alright. I asked you to--"

"No, no," you jitter as you reach in the pocket and slide out the pamphlet, slightly damp from the rain. "It's... it's more... it's..." you look down at the paper as you clutch it in your hands. "The doctor said it will be good but..."

He drags his hands down your arms to your hands. He eases the pamphlet free. He sits back on his heels and opens it. He reads it over as you cover your face.

"I think I should go--"

"I can do it," he says calmly. "One hundred? Easy."

"One hundred thousand!" You drop your hands. "S!"

"It's just money. This isn't about that. It's about your mom, isn't it?"

You stare at him. You don't understand how he can be so generous. It's just take, take, take, and you have nothing to give. And the more he gives, the more you depend on it. The hole only gets deeper and deeper.

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #series #butterflygirl738 #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #marvel #mcu #captain america #avengers

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chrissssssmut · 10 hours ago

Note

can i request a fic where, after the reader's girlfriend breaks up with him, his elder sister jiwoo (tripleS) comforts him and they end up fucking 🙏🏻🙏🏻

STILL THINKING ABOUT HER?

TripleS Jiwoo x Male Reader

AN: Surprise! Finished this super fast! Hope you guys could still wait for the others!

It started with the sound of your bedroom door creaking open—slow, careful, like whoever was on the other side wasn’t sure if they should be walking in at all.

You didn’t move.

The room was dark, but the faint hallway light outlined her silhouette perfectly: soft curves in an oversized hoodie, one hand clutching the doorframe, the other holding what looked like a can of Coke.

“Hey,” Jiwoo’s voice was low, casual, but laced with concern. “You good?”

You scoffed quietly, buried in your pillow. “What do you think?”

She stepped in anyway. No knock, no permission. Just Jiwoo being Jiwoo—your dad’s new wife’s daughter. Technically your step-sister, but you barely saw each other as family. You hadn’t grown up together. She moved in only a year ago.

And now she was in your room, sitting on your bed like it was hers.

“I heard about Seoyun,” she said after a pause. “She really broke up with you by text?”

You rolled onto your back, arm flung across your forehead. “Yeah. Just… three sentences. ‘It’s not working. I’m sorry. Don’t text me again.’”

Jiwoo made a sound—half laugh, half snort. “Wow. Cold bitch move.”

“She’s not a bitch,” you muttered defensively.

Jiwoo raised an eyebrow. “You’re defending her after that? Wow. You really were in deep.”

You didn’t reply. You hated how easily she got under your skin, but… you hated even more how right she usually was.

She kicked off her slippers and folded her legs, sitting cross-legged next to you. You could smell her perfume—light, citrusy, familiar from passing her in the hallway or brushing past her in the kitchen. She reached out and ran her fingers through your hair like she’d done it a thousand times.

You froze.

“You know,” she murmured, “not to make it about me, but… I always thought Seoyun was kind of boring. Pretty, sure. But zero personality. Like… if tofu were a person.”

You rolled your eyes. “Thanks for the comfort.”

“I am comforting you,” Jiwoo said innocently. “Just… in my own way.”

Her hand didn’t stop moving—fingertips tracing your scalp, a gentle scratch at the nape of your neck. You hated how good it felt.

“Why do you care, anyway?” you asked, not looking at her.

She clicked her tongue. “Because you’re moping. And I live here. And it’s annoying.”

You huffed.

“And maybe,” she added with a smirk, “I like you better when you’re not acting like a kicked puppy.”

You finally glanced at her—and she was already staring. Her eyes locked with yours, and for the first time, you realized how close she was sitting. Her thigh was brushing yours, the hoodie slipping off one shoulder, exposing soft skin and the strap of her tank top underneath.

“What’re you looking at?” she teased, tilting her head.

You looked away quickly. “Nothing.”

“Ohhh, don’t lie,” she grinned. “Were you staring at my shoulder? That’s so scandalous.”

“Jiwoo…”

“Or was it the bra strap?” she whispered, leaning closer, lips inches from your ear. “You do know I’m not wearing pants, right?”

You swallowed hard. She wasn’t. Just a long hoodie. Maybe underwear under there, maybe not.

“I thought you came to comfort me,” you said stiffly, trying to control your breathing.

“I am comforting you,” she purred. “Don’t you feel better already?”

Your heart was racing. You sat up a little, leaning on your elbows, but Jiwoo didn’t move. If anything, she leaned in more—nose brushing your cheek.

“You don’t have to do this,” you said softly. “You’re just teasing, right?”

Jiwoo smiled. A slow, knowing, wicked smile. “Maybe I started teasing. But maybe…” Her hand slid down your chest, over your shirt, then lower, trailing along your stomach. “Maybe I got curious.”

You caught her wrist. “Jiwoo.”

She paused, but didn’t pull away. “Just say the word,” she whispered. “And I’ll stop.”

You hesitated.

Then let go of her wrist.

“…Don’t stop.”

She was on top of you in seconds.

Lips crashing into yours, warm and soft, her hands sliding under your shirt like she’d been dying to touch you for years. You kissed her back—hard. Months of frustration, heartbreak, loneliness—all pouring into the heat between your mouths.

Jiwoo moaned into the kiss, grinding against you. “Mmm. There he is. That’s the real you.”

Your hands found her thighs, bare and warm under the hoodie, and pulled her closer. She gasped when you pushed up against her.

“You’re already hard?” she grinned. “God, your ex was such a waste. Bet she didn’t even suck you properly.”

You groaned. “Why are you so dirty?”

She bit your neck playfully. “Because I know you like it.”

Then her hand was slipping under your waistband—fingers wrapping around you. You gasped, hips bucking into her palm.

“Fuck, Jiwoo—”

She licked her lips. “Shh. Let your big sister take care of you.”

That shouldn’t have turned you on more. But it did.

She slid down your body, tugging your pants down with one hand, her eyes never leaving yours. “Let me see how heartbroken you really are, baby.”

She went down on you slowly, deliberately—tongue teasing, lips curling into a smirk every time you gasped or cursed her name. She loved the control. Loved the way your hands tangled in her hair, the way your thighs tensed with every motion.

When you finally couldn’t take it anymore and pulled her up, kissing her hard, she only laughed breathlessly against your lips.

“You gonna fuck your big sister now, huh?” she teased. “Gonna cry on my shoulder and cum in me all in the same night?”

“You’re insane,” you muttered.

Jiwoo winked. “You love it.”

You did. God help you, you did.

Your hands gripped her hips like a lifeline as she slid down on you, inch by inch. Jiwoo gasped when you bottomed out inside her, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as her body trembled slightly from the stretch.

“F-fuck—Jiwoo—” you groaned, barely able to breathe. She was tight, hot, soaking wet. Every part of her clenched around you like she was made for this—for you.

Jiwoo opened her eyes again slowly, lips curled into that same smug, wicked smile. “Yeah?” she breathed, grinding her hips in a slow, devastating circle. “That good already?”

Your head tipped back into the pillow as a guttural moan left your throat. “You feel… so fucking good.”

Her nails scratched lightly down your chest. “You think your little high school girlfriend could take you this deep?” She sank down again deliberately, drawing another strangled moan from you. “Huh, baby?”

“Don’t talk about her—”

“Why not?” she whispered, leaning forward, her hands on your chest for balance. “You’re inside me now. Not her. She didn’t deserve this cock—I do.”

She started moving faster, hips lifting and dropping in a rhythm that sent lightning through your spine. The slapping sound of skin meeting skin filled the room—wet, filthy, intimate.

Your fingers dug into the soft flesh of her ass, guiding her movements now. She let you take over for a moment, panting, flushed, letting you thrust up into her. Her hoodie slid up, exposing her stomach, then her bare chest. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

You reached up to cup her breasts, fingers brushing her nipples, and she gasped—then laughed breathlessly.

“God, you’re desperate,” she teased, biting her lip as she rode you harder. “You gonna cry again? Or are you just gonna fill me up like a good little brother?”

You pulled her down into a kiss—sloppy, deep, tongues clashing. She moaned into your mouth as you rolled your hips up, fucking her deeper, harder.

Her rhythm started to break. Her body trembled again, this time not from teasing, but from the steady build toward release.

“Ah—fuck—you’re hitting so deep—” Jiwoo choked out, head falling to your shoulder. “Shit, baby, you’re gonna make me—”

You flipped her before she could finish the sentence—rolling her onto her back, still buried inside her. Jiwoo let out a surprised laugh, then moaned when you slammed back in.

“Whoa—someone’s getting bold,” she breathed, wrapping her legs around your waist. “So rough all of a sudden… is this how you fuck your ex in your head?”

You stared down at her, breath ragged. “No. This is all for you.”

That shut her up—for a second.

Her voice was breathless, high-pitched, whiny now. “Then don’t stop. Don’t you dare fucking stop.”

You didn’t.

You kept thrusting, harder now, the bed creaking beneath you, her nails clawing into your back as she got louder, more desperate.

“Jiwoo—fuck—I’m close—”

“Inside,” she gasped. “Don’t pull out—I want it. I want all of it.”

You slammed into her faster, your rhythm turning frantic as your climax approached.

“Jiwoo—!”

“Cum for me, baby—fill your big sister up, fuck—”

You exploded inside her with a growl, hips jerking as your release overtook you. Jiwoo cried out beneath you, arching her back, body shuddering as she came too—legs locked around you, holding you in as deep as possible.

You collapsed onto her, both of you soaked in sweat and panting, your heart pounding in your ears.

She ran a hand through your hair, laughing softly.

“Well,” she whispered, kissing your cheek, “I think I win Best Comforter of the Year.”

You kissed her again, dazed.

“…You’re insane.”

Jiwoo grinned.

“But I made you forget her, didn’t I?”

The smell of eggs woke you before the sun did.

You blinked, barely registering the mess of clothes scattered across your floor. Jiwoo’s hoodie was hanging off the corner of your bed, your boxers were inside out on the floor, and the faint soreness in your thighs reminded you that last night hadn’t been a dream.

Holy shit.

You really fucked your step-sister.

And she really enjoyed it.

You dragged yourself out of bed, tossing on sweats and a shirt, and padded barefoot to the kitchen.

Jiwoo was already at the stove. She was wearing your hoodie now — sleeves too long, hem barely covering the curve of her ass, and absolutely nothing else. She flipped eggs with one hand and sipped orange juice with the other.

She glanced at you with a lazy smile. “Morning, loverboy.”

You froze. “Jiwoo—don’t say stuff like that.”

“What? Too soon?” she smirked. “Should I have waited till after breakfast to call you that?”

You sat at the counter, rubbing your face. “This is insane. What if someone finds out?”

“Relax,” she said, sliding a plate in front of you. “Dad's on a business trip and Mom’s doing yoga in Jeju. We’ve got the house to ourselves for a whole weekend.”

“That’s not the point,” you muttered.

Jiwoo leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “You didn’t seem so worried about that when you were balls deep in me last night.”

You nearly choked on your orange juice.

“Jesus—Jiwoo.”

She giggled and pulled back. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

You glared at her. “You’re seriously not weirded out?”

She took a slow bite of egg, chewing with a thoughtful hum. “I don’t care that we’re blood-related. You’re hot. I’m bored. You needed to forget your ex. And I like making you squirm.” She licked her fork. “So no. I’m not weirded out.”

You said nothing. Just stared at your food.

“Still thinking about her?” Jiwoo asked softly.

You glanced up.

She wasn’t smirking anymore. Her eyes were darker now—watching you carefully.

“…Not really,” you admitted.

She smiled. “Good.”

You escaped to the bathroom after breakfast, needing to wash off the confusion—and the scent of sex still lingering on your skin.

You peeled off your clothes and turned the shower on, stepping under the spray. The hot water felt like absolution.

Until the door creaked open.

You turned fast. “Jiwoo?!”

She was leaning against the frame, arms crossed under her chest, wearing the same damn hoodie.

“What the hell—can’t I get ten minutes alone?”

Jiwoo walked in slowly, shutting the door behind her with a quiet click.

“You sure you wanna be alone?” she asked, voice low. “You looked like you were about to cry again.”

You stepped back as she approached the fogged-up glass.

“Jiwoo. I’m literally naked.”

She raised an eyebrow. “So? You think I didn’t see all of you last night?” Her fingers hooked under the hoodie and peeled it off slowly, dropping it to the tile.

She wasn’t wearing anything.

You swallowed hard. “Jiwoo—what are you doing?”

She stepped into the shower with you, not even blinking as the water soaked her hair and skin. She was glistening now—wet and beautiful and way too close.

“I’m helping you forget,” she whispered. “Clearly, one round wasn’t enough.”

You backed up until your back hit the tile. Jiwoo didn’t stop.

Her hand wrapped around your shaft before you even realized you were getting hard again.

“You say her name once,” Jiwoo murmured, “and I stop.”

You looked at her—completely soaked, lips parted, eyes burning into yours—and said nothing.

“…That’s what I thought.”

Jiwoo sank to her knees in the shower, water streaming down her face and breasts. Her lips wrapped around the tip of your cock and you nearly lost balance. The heat of her mouth, the suction, the way her tongue curled under you—

“F-fuck—Jiwoo—”

She moaned around you, fingers curling around the base as she took you deeper, slower, more purposeful this time. Her eyes never left yours. She was proving something—and you were losing the argument.

Your hands braced against the wall as your hips twitched. “I’m gonna—Jiwoo, I’m gonna—”

She pulled off with a wet pop and looked up at you, face soaked in water and spit. “Not yet.”

She stood and turned around, pressing her palms against the glass wall of the shower, her ass arching toward you.

“You’re not done making me forget, are you?” she asked sweetly.

You didn’t answer.

You grabbed her hips and slid inside in one thrust. Jiwoo let out a long, desperate moan.

“Oh fuck, that’s it—yes—just like that—”

You pounded into her, harder now, water splashing with every thrust, steam rising between your bodies. Her ass bounced against your hips with every movement, and the way she clenched around you made your head spin.

“You’re gonna wreck me,” she whimpered, voice trembling. “God, you’re gonna fucking ruin me.”

You leaned in close, grabbing her hair, whispering against her ear. “Good. Maybe then you’ll stop acting like this doesn’t mean anything.”

That silenced her.

For one second.

Then she looked over her shoulder with a wild grin. “Baby,” she gasped, “I want it to mean something.”

That was it. You grabbed her tighter, fucked her deeper, until the shower walls shook and Jiwoo was moaning your name like a prayer.

When you came inside her again—loud, breathless, bodies slick and shaking—she collapsed into your arms, dragging both of you to the floor of the shower.

You sat there, holding her, heartbeat against heartbeat, both of you panting under the rain of water.

After a long pause, she finally whispered:

“…Still thinking about her?”

You shook your head slowly.

“Good,” she smiled, nuzzling your chest.

“Because if you ever do, I’ll just have to fuck the memory out of you all over again.”

#smut fanfiction #smut story #smutty smut smut #smutty fanfiction #smut tag #smut tw #smut smut smut #female idol smut #kpop smut #smut #smut x reader #smut stuff #smut scenarios #triples smut #girl group smut #jiwoo #triples jiwoo #male reader #kpop story

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burrowkit · 3 days ago

Text

I feared the day would come to this. Unfortunately, my father fell too gravely ill last night and passed away. That means... that means the kingdom is mine. Queendom now, technically.

Since a child, I knew there was something wrong with me. I've never been able to put my finger on it, but my father... he always ensured I had the best of tutors. Not to say he would have done it any other way anyways but... there seemed to be some sort of maniac determination for me to succeed.

I hope I do.

At every coronation, the would-be monarch drops a single drop of blood into The Goblet of Divine Rights.

If it stays red? Peace.

But if it turns black... the would-be monarch is killed. This is because every time it turned black, the monarch became a tyrant. Destroying the kingdom with everything they could possess.

I know with every drop of blood in my body, the blood will turn black.

Not because I want it to, but because I know it will.

Something's wrong with me. I know it.

The trumpets sound, counting off my entrance. I'm forced to make my way to the door.

"Your Majesty," the guards great, bowing at me.

I want to yell at them, remind them that that was my father. I'm Your Highness. The Princess.

It won't do me any good, now.

I force my feet to keep moving, until I reach the Hall of Chaos and Fate. There, I can't seem to step over the threshold.

One of the guards grabs my arm, as if escorting me, gently pulling me over the line. We make it to the end of the Hall.

"Your Majesty," the ancient priestess greets. Stories have been written about her for centuries. How she exists without time and death. "Your hand, if you please," she motions, extending her hand, palm up. Her other hand holds the single pin that'll be used to withdraw my blood.

I want to fight it.

I want to run away, to scream.

"Your Majesty, I promise, nothing will happen to you," she informs me, voice quiet.

My mother passed away a few years ago. And this priestess, although she refuses to don a name, was one of my main tutors. Guiding me on how to further my education.

To help make me great.

Tentatively, I offer her my hand. I hiss in pain as the jams the pin into my index finger. Not that I have much choice.

She grips my wrist, gently dropping a single drop into the Goblet, and pressing a towel to my finger. I hear her whisper a few words, and the stinging instantly stops.

I close my eyes, terrified of what will come of my blood.

It's only when the priestess curses do my eyes snap open.

Her eyes are wide, terrified. It takes her a moment for relief to spread over her face, she grins wide.

"Thank you all, for attending. I have wondrous news," she announces, those beautiful eyes that seem to change colour by every second, seemingly staring into my soul. "The blood did not turn black," she announces first.

My heart speeds up. Why did she curse? Does she want my blood to mark me as a tyrant?

Her grin widens, as if hearing my thoughts. "It's not red, either."

Suddenly, the hall is chattering. Everyone has an opinion on this.

"SILENCE!" She demands, her voice ringing around the space. It's probably the loudest I've ever heard her talk. "We simply have forgotten a time when the blood would turn a different colour. Gold, Queen Rain produced the colour gold."

Absolute silence.

Oh, I'm sure everyone wants to discuss what gold means.

I stare into those multi-coloured eyes, a constant shift. Somehow, I feel at peace, despite my pounding heart.

She nods at me. "Queen Rain has been chosen by the divine to be gifted by wonderful abilities. These abilities will help ensure the kingdom, nay, queendom, exist for a long time. In peace. In prosperity. She is our purest choice."

I stare at her, shocked.

"You are all dismissed," she waves a hand.

Technically, as the now-almost-Queen, I should be the one dismissing. And yet, this Hall has always been a place for the priestesses. They hold court here over the monarchy.

Everyone files out, quickly. Gossip already spreading quickly.

"Darling child," she whispers quickly, hand still on mine, clinging to mine. "Your road will be long and tragic. One day, you may have to step aside," with her other hand, she cups my face, staring into my eyes. Into my face. "Do you understand me, child? One day, you will be asked to step aside and serve as a priestess. You will help ensure our world never falls to evil or pain or suffering ever again, is this understood?"

My eyes widen as I stare at her.

Our ancient priestess.

Bound without time and death.

Ensure the queendom exists for a long time.

"But-"

"I know, child, I know," she pulls me into a hug, stroking my hair gently. "You are not alone, by greatest of grandchildren. You will never walk this road alone. Ever you find yourself truly alone, just know, someday, somehow, another like us will surface. And it will one day be your duty to ensure the world continues to be full of peace."

At Every Coronation, Each Would-Be Monarch Is To Provide A Single Drop of Blood For The Goblet Of Divine Rights. If The Blood Stays Red, Their Reign Will Be Peaceful. If The Drop Turns Black, They Will Bring Tyranny And Ruin To The Kingdom…What Does It Mean When Your Blood Turns Gold?

#happy sad #golden blood #writing prompt answered #my e and h keys hate me

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freshllamapeace · 2 days ago

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A False Sense

Remmick x Reader

Holy crap I felt like I was writing interview with a vampire with the amount of dialogue and recounted there is in this. Uh slow burn and you talk like a lot…

Warning - Death, Vampires, blood, all that jazz, Dead dove (not really but part two will be)

Part ½, possible prequel

Bruises didn’t stick and wounds healed quick but… the memories, they were haunting. They refuse to leave, replaying in the back of your skull like a broken cassette tape. Yet you still managed to keep a smile on your face because you survived it. Even managed to kill the fucker and sever that damn connetion but in the back of your head you worry that maybe it isn’t over.

You sat on the floor of the woods, blood dripping from your mouth, dirt staining your hands. The man before you was breathing heavily, your eyes watching as his chest rose and fell and his Adam's apple bobbed.

“Do you think that's enough?” He asked sheepishly, sweat running down his forehead. His breath was hot and his eyes were sunken. He was tired, you had taken more than you promised. You smile, teeth shining in the moonlight. Grabbing the blade you'd been using all night long to carve the man up, you gently wiped the metal on your dress allowing the red ichor to stain the fabric before pocketing it. Laying your back to the earth, you look to the stars. They shined down bright and friendly like an old friend. The one constant in your immortal life were those twinkling lights, people came and went, animals died, and nature often left destroyed but those pretty lights never left. Sure there were nights where it was harder to see them than others but you knew they were still there and that's what brought you comfort night after night. “Yeah I think so.” You stated, closing your eyes and allowing the cold air to affectionately kiss at your skin. “I think I may have over done it tonight.”

“I think so too.” Louis grimaced in pain as he laid next to you. His eyes running up and down your body, looking for something, anything that was out of place and would point to the monster he believed you to be. The longer his eyes looked the more his mind drifted to the conclusion that there was nothing out of the ordinary about you, you had no tells. And that, well that wasn’t okay. It put him on edge, his skin crawled and tiny goosebumps would materialize on his brown skin. Just the thought that he couldn’t tell your kind apart from his kind frightened him but still he said nothing. “You know it’s been three years since you smashed into me and my sister's life like battering ram. And still you ain’t very forthcoming about yourself.” He pauses looking to you for a reaction that wouldn’t come. “It ain’t fair you know.”

Letting out a deep sigh in what could only be human mockery, you groan. Slowly you flutter your eyes open as if waking from a thoughtless slumber. “Three years, huh? Time really is but a stubborn illusion, a fleeting moment constantly on the run.” You smile, soft, kind. “Fine… I'm an open book. What do you want to know?” You ask as you use your elbow to lift you up. Looking deep into Louis' worn out eyes. You should get him home soon.

“How’d you come to be like this? And don’t reply with no poetic bullshit, okay? I ain’t stupid, I want the real answer.” Bold boy, he was. His hunger for answers pumping through his veins, a need for knowledge ripping through the air. Your instincts told you to dance around the question, run him in circles till he was dizzy just like you always did but what good would come out of that. You’d spent the last three years doing so and now the jig was up. “Well ain’t that a loaded question.” You laugh trying to hide your unease.

“I was hunted… hunted like a baby fawn.” You took a deep breath, the memories engulfing you like a dark cloud. The face you tried so hard to forget flashing in your mind like a film reel. “He said he loved me. Said he knew me better than I knew myself.” You allowed yourself to let out a bitter chuckle. “In the end, I guess he did.” Louis looked on quietly, his eyes never leaving yours. “I let him in one night. My hunger, my lust, it clouded my judgement. He wasted no time showering me with love and adoration, it was nice.” A distant smile appeared on your face before dropping.

“I allowed the events of the night to creep up on me, lulling me to sleep in his arms. When I woke the sweet remnants of sleep still hung to my body but also this indescribable dread. It clung to me like a leach, buried itself in the pit of my stomach. He was gone of course, the morning rays shining down on my dark skin, giving it a reluctant golden hue. I still remember how beautiful that sunrise was that day. The midtones of orange, yellow and even a luminescent pink clashing with each other for control of the sky, as the sun smiled down at all creation. It was so warm, so friendly, I could’ve fallen back into the arms of slumber in an instant if it wasn’t for the nauseating dread that was clinging to me.” You didn't realize it but your breathing became uneven as your mind went to the events that followed after that sunrise. You closed your eyes if only for a moment.

You were there again. Feet anxiously climbing down the stair case as a sickening rotting fragrance filled your nose. Eyes wide as you looked at the gore before you. This wasn’t real, it couldn't be. Your dads body was broken, contorted in ways that didn’t seem possible. His bones poked out where they shouldn’t and stomach gashed open with his intestines spilling out. His eyes were haunting, the lively brown hue they carried, now gone and greyed over. Not far from him was your mother. Her face stretched out in horror, the expression ingrained in her loving brown features. Her throat was completely shredded, all components on display. You could even see the pale white bone making an appearance through the heaps of blood. A wail so guttural and raw left your mouth that night and you cried for hours on end. You had come to believe it was your fault.

“Y/n you’re crying.” You blinked a moment. You mind racing at an inhuman pace you struggled to catch up. You smile, wiping the cherry tears from your face, you laugh. “Sorry about that.”

“Anyways I woke up that day to my parents dead in the living room and my dog, Little Daisy gored on front porch.” You breath, pulling your body forward you sat up before crossing your legs. “He left me to stupor in his actions, he enjoyed watching it eat at me from a far. It took me months to leave the house after that. Reduced to a hermit, I lived in fear. But it’d be years before he’d strike again. He waited, waited til I was comfortable, happy, safe. He was always content to play the long game. Something I never grew to understand.”

“Why didn’t he just kill you that night? Turn while you were laying up in bed with him.” You laugh sharp and bitter. “You listening to me? He didn’t kill me because what’s the fun in that?” You asked. “I let him in and for that, there needed to be consequences. My parents and little Daisy were just that… Consequences.”

“But you let him in again, didn’t you?” Louis accused. “How else would he have gotten his hand on you?”

“Of course not. I would’ve never let him in, I don’t purposely make the same mistake twice.” You left those words in the air for a moment. Silence surrounding the two of you.

“Like I said, he waited. Waiting till he became a distant memory in the back of my mind. Waited for me to get bold. Waiting was what he was good at. It took a while but I did get bold, started testing my luck by going outside when the sun sunk low. I had to… needed to, the house was suffocating, had been for years but I couldn’t bring myself to go anywhere else. All my memories resided there, riding my first bike, the many piggybacks my father gave me, my mother and the ‘secret’ girls night we’d have when dad was working late. I latched onto it all because outside of memories all I had was the house. My parents weren’t well off so to give them a proper burial I sold things, things that I would’ve treasure if I knew better.”

“But April 26 19XX I chose to be bold. Bold for the last time. I sat on the wooden swinging chair that resided on the porch, an old thing with striking baby blue paint littered on it. Long aged, the paint was chipped and peeling but she was still a beauty. I was tired, lazy, the book that resided in my lap long since abandoned and my eyes began fluttering closed. It’d been a long time since I’d had the chance to fall asleep with the wind kissing so lovingly on my skin. I took the risk, I acted boldly, I closed my eyes and fell asleep.” “No” Louis whispered clearly enraptured by your story.

“I don’t know what time I woke up but when I did the moon was softly shining down on me. It was comforting but only for a moment. I felt time slow as the wood of the chair creaked. He was sitting beside me doing what he did best, watching and waiting.” You wouldn’t dare go over the intimated details of how that night unfolded. The things you endured that night never meant to be recounted or relived. “He turned me that night, just before sunrise.” Your voice was quiet barely audible above the crickets and cicadas as they sang.

“But you say you killed him!” Louis said his voice full of hope. The words noticeably coming out loud and proud. “That what sis says anyways.” He said his tone shifting to be a bit meeker after noticing his voice had scared aways many of wildlife that resided in the forest. Another true and genuine smile found itself pressed into your lips. The brother and sister duo really did crack you up with their antics. A shame you were only feeding on the one tonight. “Where’s your sister anyways?” You asked.

“My question first.” Eager was the serpent to feast. His hunger for knowledge leaves holes in his stomach that only you could fill. You chuckled. “Yeah I suppose I did. But that didn’t come first, What came first was severing the ‘connection’ we had.” “Connection?” He questioned.

“Vampires have this connection to one another, like a symbiosis relationship. Not only did he get my memories but I got his. I saw the countless nights he spent waiting for me. I saw his first hand account of him murdering my parents, my dog. And those memories, they drove me crazy. They replayed in my head like a fucking siren. It felt like it was his doing, like he was the reason they wouldn’t stop like he wanted me to watch those moments over and over again. And maybe he did, he had a peculiar way he went about things.” There was a profound sadness now present in your eyes. Louis sat seemingly amazed at just how expressive your eyes were. They told their own story time and time again.

“Now about that sister of yours?” You asked, giving a friendly tilt of the head. As Louis opened his mouth to answer, the sound of a branch snapping could be heard loud and clear. You both snapped your head in the direction of the noise. Your body immediately stiffened and you felt as though all the blood you had just received ran cold. What stood before you was hardly a few feet away. A ghost of a man with blood soaked clothes, in his hand he held an iron grip on the decapitated head of Zuri, Louis’ sister. The spinal bone still attached, her eyes were stuck staring back at you in horror. You could only imagine what her last moments looked like.

“She ain’t wanna miss out on the pleasantree’s thought I'd bring her with me.” Remmick voice and smooth and sweet like honey, always was. Even when he would whisper in your ear about how he would break every bone in your body. It made you sick. Louis cried out his eyes never leaving his sister's head, tears started to rain down his face like a water hose that was not quite shut off. “How?” The word came out quiet, frightened.

“I did what I do best darlin’… Watched and waited.” He mocked. He had been there lurking far longer than you realized.

__________________________________

I wanna do mafia AU next man

#dead dove do not eat #remmick fanfic #remmick x reader #remmick x you #sinners #sinners fic #remmick sinners #sinners 2025 #dead dove fic #remmick #remmick x black!reader #dark! remmick #slow burn #vampires

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thedensworld · 1 day ago

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When Love Kills | W. J

Pairing: Wen Junhui x reader

Genre: mafia au!, exes au!

Type: angst, fluff, action, smut (mdni!)

Word count: 12k

Summary: Love is a double-edged sword—one for a kiss and one for a kill. Jun was meant to do one thing: uphold his family’s ruthless legacy. But everything changed when he met the woman he loves.

Jun arrived in South Korea after six years, returning to a place that felt strangely like home. The city had changed—skyscrapers seemed taller, neon lights brighter, and the streets more crowded, all moving at a relentless, breakneck pace. Yet the air held a sense of nostalgia, a reminder of the time he first set foot here a decade ago, learning the language, understanding the world of business, and tasting a freedom he rarely experienced back home.

The driver navigated the bustling roads, eventually pulling up at a high-end hotel where Jun would stay until his work was done. A simple task, at least in theory—secure the prime minister’s daughter.

Ji Jaekyung, the prime minister, had quietly forged an alliance with a rival syndicate in South China. Betrayal was something Jun’s father could never tolerate, and he had ordered his son to ‘take care of it.’ But Ji Jaekyung was a cautious man, his daughter a carefully guarded secret. No photographs, no public appearances—she was a ghost even in this hyperconnected country. Yet Jun had his ways.

A single bank account—the one receiving regular transfers from Jaekyung—had led Jun to her. A small apartment in a quiet neighborhood, nothing extravagant, almost too ordinary. Tonight, he stood across the street, watching through the café window. She was there, laughing, her short hair framing her face, eyes crinkling with joy as she spoke with someone—a boyfriend, perhaps? That would make things more interesting.

Jun’s gaze lingered, a strange pang tugging at his chest. He hadn’t expected this—hadn’t expected to feel anything at all. But there was something familiar about the sight of this city, a memory buried beneath years of distance.

Back in his hotel room, the city lights spilled through the tall glass windows, casting a cool glow. He should be focused, preparing his men for tomorrow's briefing, but his mind refused to stay on task. His thoughts wandered, retracing old memories of this city—the late-night walks, the crowded markets, the warm, humid summers.

And most of all, the girl he met one summer night. You.

He hadn’t thought of you in years, and yet now, in this familiar city, the memory of you felt too close, too vivid. The taste of yout laughter, the warmth of your touch—it all rushed back with a force he hadn’t anticipated.

But that was then. This was now.

Tomorrow, he would have to forget sentiment. His father had given him an order, and sentiment had no place in this world.

Jun woke up in the morning with a dull ache of desire, a boner—one night in Seoul, and already his dreams were haunted by memories of you. He sighed, glancing down at the unmistakable evidence of his thoughts. His hand reached for his phone, fingers dialing quickly.

"I’ll be late for the meeting," he informed his men, voice steady despite the heat pooling in his chest. "Something urgent to take care of. Very healthy, I assure you."

He leaned back against the pillows, letting his mind wander. "Y/n…" he whispered, the name a ghost on his lips. Memories rushed in uninvited—one summer night in college, the first time he saw you.

It was the beginning of summer break. Jun and his friends had decided to blow off steam at an arcade. The place was alive with flashing lights and laughter, but nothing captured his attention like the girl on the dance game platform. Long hair swaying, laughter bright and infectious, you danced with a carefree joy that seemed to pull all eyes toward you.

"This is Y/n," one of his friends had introduced, nudging him. "She’s an art student."

Art student—that explained the wild creativity in your movements, the way you painted the air with every step. But what lingered most was your scent, a subtle sweetness that seemed to linger even when you weren’t near, an intoxicating memory.

One date became two, then three, and soon, he found you in his bed, bare and vulnerable, the world beyond those sheets forgotten. For the first time, Jun felt himself attach to someone—truly, dangerously. And it was you.

You held him with a warmth and softness no one else could replace—a touch that seemed to whisper comfort, a presence that wrapped around him even in the coldest of nights. If he ever met you again, he would make sure you knew that nobody else had ever taken your place. But there was one problem—he didn’t know if he would ever meet you again.

"Y/n, where are you?"

Jun waited in the shadowed corner of an old, abandoned building, its peeling walls and broken windows a testament to forgotten days. His fingers drummed lightly against the worn leather of the chair’s armrest, impatience simmering beneath his calm exterior. His people were on their way, and they had clear instructions.

"Bring her alive. Don’t you dare touch her," Jun had ordered, voice cold and precise. At least not before he arrived. Killing her immediately would be such a waste. There was so much potential—so many ways she could be useful. And if there was one thing his father valued, it was Jun’s efficiency. He never wasted anything. He never left a trace.

The creak of the rusty door pulled him from his thoughts. Jun stood as three men entered, one carrying a figure slung over his shoulder like a sack of rice—unconscious, her limbs hanging limply.

"Money first, then we’ll hand her over," one of the men demanded, his voice gruff.

Jun’s gaze slid to his right, where Minghao stood with a quiet, composed demeanor. A silent nod from Minghao, and Jun gestured for the money to be handed over. One of the men seized the briefcase, snapping it open and greedily flipping through the crisp bills.

They set the girl down on a dusty chair, her head lolling forward, long dark hair cascading over her face. But as Jun stepped forward, a chill ran down his spine. Something was wrong.

"Are you sure this is the right girl?" Jun’s voice was sharp, a sliver of suspicion threading through his usual calm.

"She's the only one there," one of the men replied, barely looking up. "Exactly where you told us."

Jun’s jaw tightened. The girl he had seen last night had shoulder-length hair. This one… He reached out, brushing a few strands aside—and his world seemed to freeze.

Familiar features stared back at him, pale and unconscious but unmistakable.

"Y/n…" he whispered, the name escaping him like a secret he had tried to bury.

Ji Y/n. His ex-girlfriend. The woman who had vanished from his life six years ago.

"What’s wrong, boss?" Minghao’s voice cut through the tension, but Jun barely heard it.

His chest tightened, a storm of emotions crashing against his resolve—shock, confusion, and something he didn’t dare name.

He forced a steady breath, eyes never leaving your face. "We’re going to stay here longer than expected," he murmured, his voice betraying none of the chaos inside.

The drive back to his hotel was tense and silent, the hum of the city outside muted by the weight of his thoughts. In the back seat, you lay slumped against the leather, still unconscious, your chest rising and falling with a steady rhythm—a reminder that this was real. That you were real.

Once inside his suite, Jun dismissed his men, locking the door behind him. He stood there for a moment, staring at your figure on the king-sized bed, trying to process the chaos in his mind.

Six years. Six years of unanswered questions, of searching without knowing he was searching. And now, you were here. But why? How?

Stepping closer, he leaned over you, his hand brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. The softness of your skin was the same, the gentle curve of your lips unchanged. Memories threatened to overwhelm him—the laughter you shared, the nights tangled in each other’s warmth, and the sudden, aching emptiness when you disappeared.

His jaw clenched. He needed answers, but he wouldn’t get any while you were unconscious.

He turned away, forcing himself to think logically. First, he needed to make sure you were unharmed. Jun grabbed a damp towel, gently wiping away the faint traces of dirt on your cheek. Your breathing remained steady, your pulse calm beneath his fingertips.

But who were you now? What had brought you to this dangerous world? Are you the daughter of Ji Jaekyung?

Jun leaned back against the wall, his gaze never leaving you. For now, he would wait. Because the moment you opened your eyes, he would demand every answer you owed him.

Morning light filtered through the hotel’s thick curtains when you finally stirred, your head pounding, ears ringing. A dull ache spread through your body as consciousness returned in fragments. Flashes of memory hit you—the door of your apartment bursting open, three towering men storming in. You thought it was Jena, your friend, coming by. But then rough hands grabbed you, muffled your screams, and darkness swallowed you.

A familiar voice pulled you from the fog of confusion.

"Awake already?"

You blinked, eyes adjusting to the bright room. Clean sheets, a spacious layout—luxury everywhere. Panic tightened in your chest until your gaze landed on the figure leaning casually against the wall.

"Moon Junhui…" you whispered, disbelief lacing your voice.

A faint smile played on his lips. "So you do remember me."

You pushed yourself up on the bed, the silk sheets slipping from your shoulders. "Where am I? What is this—"

"A hotel room. My hotel room." He stepped closer, leaning against the desk, arms crossed over his chest, an unsettling calm in his eyes. "Relax. You’re not going anywhere… yet."

Silence thickened between you, tension simmering beneath the surface.

"What is Ji Jaekyung to you?" Jun’s question cut through the air.

You frowned, your heart pounding faster. "What’s wrong with him?"

"So, he’s not your father?"

You hesitated, then nodded slowly. "He… he is my father."

Jun’s gaze sharpened, a dangerous curiosity in his eyes. "You don’t sound so sure. Your father passed away when you were sixteen, Y/n. So tell me… which one is a lie?"

Your breath hitched, the truth clawing at your throat. Six years of running, hiding, trying to forget. And now you were trapped—trapped in a room with the one person you never thought you’d see again. The one you once loved… and you tried to hate.

He moved toward you, and you instinctively scooted back, your back pressing against the headboard. But before you could retreat further, his hand caught your wrist—not harshly, but firmly.

"Relax," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your arm, where a faint blueish mark had begun to form.

Jun’s eyes darkened. "Why would you defend yourself against men twice your size?" His thumb traced the bruise lightly, his touch almost gentle despite the situation.

You didn’t answer, your throat tight, a mix of fear and stubborn pride keeping you silent.

Jun sighed, pulling out his phone and calling for room service, his tone cold and commanding. "Bring a first aid kit. Now."

But as he ended the call, his gaze lingered on you—intense, unreadable. Memories you tried to forget flooded back—his touch, his voice, the warmth you once craved. And you hated how, even after six years, he still held something in your chest—an ache you couldn’t ignore.

"Now, you’re going to tell me—who is Ji Jaekyung’s real daughter?" Jun’s voice cut through the quiet of the room, sharp but calm as he watched you finish your breakfast.

He had tended to your bruises himself, his touch surprisingly gentle, ordering room service to bring you a warm meal. He hadn’t said much, letting you eat in silence while he took a shower. But now, standing before you in his neatly tailored suit, his patience was gone.

"I’m his daughter," you replied, your voice steady.

Jun chuckled, a low, humorless sound. "I dated you, Y/n. I knew your family. Ordinary people. They weren’t part of any political circle, let alone connected to Ji Jaekyung."

You met his gaze, unwavering. "I told you, I’m Ji Jaekyung’s daughter. If you have anything to do with him, then do it to me."

Jun’s expression didn’t change, but there was a brief flicker in his eyes—something like frustration or disbelief. He said nothing more, simply adjusted his suit jacket and stepped away. Moments later, you heard the door click shut behind him.

Silence settled around you. He was gone, leaving you alone in the spacious, luxurious room. A chance. Maybe your only chance.

Just as you stood, a voice cut through your thoughts.

"I’m Minghao, Mr. Wen’s right-hand man."

You froze, turning to see a young man leaning casually by the door. He had a calm, almost disinterested expression, but his gaze was sharp.

You sighed, leaning back against the plush chair. "You mean Moon Junhui?" you corrected, using Jun’s Korean name.

Minghao’s lips twitched slightly, a hint of a smile. "Yes. He went out for a business meeting and left you with me. You’re not allowed to leave without my supervision."

Your hands clenched in your lap, a mix of frustration and resignation washing over you. That man—he hadn’t changed at all. Still controlling, still calculating.

And yet, even now, your chest tightened with a confusing ache—anger, fear, and something else you refused to name.

Jun returned to the hotel room as the evening sun cast a warm, fading light through the curtains. His suit jacket was the first to go, discarded over a chair, his gaze immediately falling on you, curled up on the bed, still asleep.

"Did she say anything about Jaekyung?" Jun asked, loosening his tie.

Minghao, who stood by the window, shook his head. "No, sir. She insists she’s his daughter."

Jun’s lips curled into a faint smile. "I believe even his real daughter would rather disown him," he muttered, waving Minghao off. "You can leave for tonight. I’ll be going alone."

Minghao nodded, slipping out quietly.

Jun walked over to the bed, his gaze softening slightly as he looked at you. A moment of quiet hesitation. Then he leaned down, gently touching your shoulder. "Wake up. I’ll drive you back to your apartment."

You stirred awake, blinking against the dim light. His words barely registered, but you nodded, getting up slowly. In the car, the silence stretched between you two, thick and tense. Jun’s eyes remained fixed on the road, his expression unreadable.

At your apartment, you fumbled for your keys, and Jun followed you inside without asking, his eyes scanning your modest living space.

"Who's this? Your boyfriend?" Jun asked, picking up a framed photo of you with a younger man, both of you smiling brightly.

"So you like them younger now?" he teased, a hint of something bitter in his voice.

"Not your business, Jun," you muttered, already searching for your phone, checking if you missed any important messages.

A sudden knock at the door cut through the tension. "Y/n, are you ready? We need to be there before the Prime Minister," a man’s voice called out.

Panic surged through you. You spun around, grabbed Jun by the wrist, and dragged him into the kitchen. "Stay here. Don’t make a sound."

You rushed back, smoothing your clothes, and unlocked the door with a bright, apologetic smile. "Sorry, I fell asleep. I’ll be ready in 15 minutes."

"Got it. Don’t take too long," the man replied, his footsteps fading down the hall.

You turned to find Jun leaning against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips. "You need to go, Jun."

"Going somewhere with the Prime Minister, are we?" he drawled, his tone laced with amusement. "So tell me, are you his daughter or his mistress, Ji Y/n?"

Your patience snapped. You tried to step past him, but his hand shot out, catching your wrist. His touch was firm but not painful, his eyes searching yours. The heat of his presence was too familiar, too close.

"Let go," you hissed.

"Make me," he challenged, his voice low.

In a swift motion, you stomped on his foot, and he grunted, instinctively letting you go. You didn’t spare him another glance, marching off to your bedroom to get ready.

Behind you, Jun leaned against the wall, rubbing his foot with a mix of pain and reluctant admiration. "Still got some fight in you, huh?" he muttered under his breath, a faint smile pulling at his lips.

Jun watched you all night, his car parked discreetly across the street. He saw everything—from the moment you stepped out of the sleek black car, escorted into a high-end restaurant, to the late hours when an older man led you into a lavish hotel lobby.

His jaw tightened, fingers gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. His chest twisted with a mix of rage and disgust. He had pieced it together, or at least he thought he had. Ji Jaekyung was using you, presenting you as his daughter to entertain his clients—perhaps even worse. The thought sickened him.

By the time dawn brushed the city with pale light, Jun was already waiting in your apartment, a storm of emotions swirling beneath his calm exterior. The door creaked open, and you stepped in, your makeup smudged, hair disheveled, exhaustion written all over your face.

"Tell me," Jun's voice cut through the quiet, cold and sharp. "What is that bastard making you do?"

You froze, surprise flashing across your features before you frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"Ji Jaekyung," he spat the name like a curse. "What is he making you do? Is he forcing you to entertain his clients? To sleep with them too?"

Your expression twisted with shock, then fury. "Fuck you, Jun. It’s none of your business!"

"None of my—" He stepped forward, his towering presence making the small space feel even tighter. "It becomes my business when I see you being treated like—"

"Like what?" you snapped, your voice rising, tears stinging your eyes. "Like a tool? A pawn? How the hell did you even here?"

"Don’t twist this, Y/n! I’m trying to help you, but you’re too stubborn, too damn prideful to admit you need it!" His voice escalated, fingers twitching with the urge to shake you awake.

"By accusing me of being a whore? By making me feel even smaller than I already do?" You tried to push past him, but he blocked your way, his glare unwavering.

"I’m not letting you walk away from this. Tell me the truth!" he demanded, his voice like a thunderclap.

"Get out of my way, Jun!" You shoved him, but he didn’t budge. His anger, his judgmental gaze—everything overwhelmed you.

"I won’t! Not until you—"

The sharp crack of your palm against his cheek silenced him. The room fell still, the sound of the slap echoing. Your chest heaved, tears spilling freely now.

"I’m tired, Jun. I’m so damn tired," you whispered, your voice breaking. "I don’t need your judgment. I don’t need your pity. And I don’t need you."

After leaving South Korea six years ago, Jun had learned how to mask himself. He buried the version of himself that only Seoul had known—the carefree, warm-hearted boy who once believed in love. In his father’s world, there was no room for softness. He trained relentlessly, sculpting himself into a weapon, a businessman, a strategist. He drowned himself in work, in power, in everything that would keep his mind too busy to think about you.

But tonight, as he watched you being paraded like a mistress—escorted by a man old enough to be your father, vanishing into the shadowed halls of a luxury hotel—every wall he built crumbled. All the effort to forget you was worthless. Because seeing you like that didn’t just hurt—it enraged him. You were his lover, and you were never meant to be anything else.

The phone in his hand felt like a lifeline, his father’s voice crackling on the other end. "It’s taking longer than expected to find his daughter," Jun reported, struggling to keep his voice steady.

"I’ve managed a few business matters here well," his father replied, almost dismissive. "Honestly, it would be easier to end him than to keep searching for his daughter. The man’s a coward—paying someone to pretend to be his child."

"I know. Ji Jaekyung is a damn snake," Jun muttered, jaw clenched. But now, a new resolve burned in his chest. He wasn’t just going to finish his father’s mission—he was going to save you, even if you didn’t want to be saved.

"Listen to me, Y/n," Jun's voice was sharp, cutting through the suffocating silence. He turned to face you, his expression a fierce mix of anger and desperation, while you stood there with tears streaming down your cheeks.

"Jaekyung has a lot of debt with my family in China. He promised his daughter as collateral for the deal, and he broke that promise. If you keep pretending to be his daughter, you’re walking straight into danger. Real, unforgiving danger."

His words struck like a whip, each one leaving a mark, but before you could even process them, Jun stormed out, the door slamming behind him with a thunderous bang. The sound echoed in your chest, leaving you alone in a silence that felt louder than anything else.

Your mother was murdered the night you left Jun.

The call came from the police, their voices cautious and clinical. They informed you that your mother had been found dead in her apartment. They tried reaching your brother, Seungkwan, but you knew they wouldn’t succeed—it was nearing the KSAT, and Seungkwan usually buried himself in his studies outside.

The first piece of evidence they found was a security camera recording of a stranger leaving your mother’s place in the dead of night. A dragon tattoo was visible on his arm—a dragon you recognized. The same ink Jun bore on his back.

"It's from a Chinese crime syndicate," the officer explained, his voice tinged with grim seriousness. "We suspect your mother may have been involved with them."

But you knew better. Your mother was no involved to the syndicate. And you couldn’t let Seungkwan know. He had worked so hard, pushing himself to become a police officer so he could catch the person who killed your father. Another tragedy would shatter him.

It all spiraled into a tangled mess. Your parents had once worked for Ji Jaekyung, and both were killed by people with that dragon tattoo. Now Jun, with the same tattoo, had shown up—searching for Jaekyung’s daughter.

One night, a man in a sleek suit appeared at your door 6 years ago. His expression was as sharp as his attire.

"Ji Jaekyung wants to meet you."

Seungkwan was asleep, exhausted from his studies, so you left quietly.

The proposal was straightforward: become Ji Jaekyung’s daughter. Smile, play the role, and he would pay you enough to support Seungkwan’s dream of entering the police academy. No further explanations, just one threat:

"Or else, we’ll have to do something about your brother."

That was the leash around your neck.

From that moment, you were a hostage in a game far beyond your control. You learned about Long Wei, the syndicate Jaekyung was tangled with—the same syndicate responsible for your parents' deaths. You thought you could uncover the truth by diving into this chaos, but instead, you were trapped deeper.

You hated all of it—the politics, the business, the way innocence was trampled for power. But you had no voice, no power. Just a thin, fragile line of survival with a bullet always aimed at your head.

"I brought chicken!" Seungkwan's delighted voice filled your apartment, a burst of warmth you didn’t realize you needed. You looked up from your laptop, seeing him still in his uniform, clearly fresh from his shift.

"You didn’t even change," you noted, a soft smile tugging at your lips.

"Figured I had some clothes here anyway," he quipped, already darting into your room. "Don’t start without me!"

Moments later, he emerged in a faded pajama set he had once left behind, immediately joining you at the small dining table where you’d set out the chicken and a few cold beers.

"My shift was a nightmare," Seungkwan grumbled around a mouthful of chicken. "Two separate thefts in one shift! Why do criminals love my schedule? Seriously, is it me?" He gestured dramatically, his expression an exaggerated mix of exhaustion and outrage.

You laughed, the sound easing some of the tension you’d been carrying. "Maybe they just love giving you a challenge."

"Chicken is the best stress relief," he declared, tossing another piece into his mouth.

But your laughter faded when your phone buzzed, and you saw the caller ID—Ji Jaekyung’s assistant. A sense of dread settled in your stomach. The man wanted you at a meeting with clients tomorrow. Seungkwan’s eyes darkened as he recognized the name.

"I’m annoyed," he muttered, throwing his fork into the chicken box, his mood dampened.

"I’m sorry," you whispered, your hand reaching for his, giving it a gentle squeeze. "We have to get through this."

Seungkwan’s jaw tightened. "If only our parents hadn’t worked for that bastard, we wouldn’t be stuck in this mess—especially you."

A thick silence settled between you, rage and sadness lingering like an uninvited guest at your table.

"I promise, I swear," Seungkwan’s voice trembled, his grip on your hand tightening. "I’ll catch everyone who made our lives this hard. I won’t let them win."

"You have a beautiful daughter, Mr. Ji."

The familiar man across from you smiled, his words smooth but laced with something darker. So, this was how people like him played their games—one meeting with Ji Jaekyung, a pleasant exchange of words, deals sealed over expensive wine. And in the end, it was always the innocent who paid the price.

Just like your parents.

Would you be next?

Jun tilted his head, watching you squirm in your seat, your gaze fixed on the ornate carpet beneath you. Beside you, Ji Jaekyung wore a pleasant smile, sipping his wine with the ease of a man who controlled the room.

"Your visit was rather surprising, Jun. I was expecting one of your uncles, actually. I can't believe they sent the serpent himself," Ji Jaekyung mused, swirling his glass.

Jun chuckled, his voice light, but his eyes sharp. "I apologize if my visit seems a bit impolite. I was just playing around in the city—feeling nostalgic."

Jaekyung nodded, a smile never leaving his face. "Ah, nostalgia. I heard you graduated here. My daughter is an alumna of the same university."

Jun’s gaze shifted to you. "Is that so?" he murmured, leaning back with an air of casual interest. "You're very secretive about her for someone so beautiful."

Ji Jaekyung’s hand moved to your hair, brushing a strand behind your ear with a touch that felt cold rather than comforting. "She is beautiful. I simply want to protect her. You know how it is—enemies can be unpredictable."

"That's very fatherly of you," Jun said, his smile unwavering. "Do you consider me an enemy?"

Ji Jaekyung laughed, the sound loud and full, yet hollow. "Of course not. You're practically family. I know your grandfather, your father, your uncles... No, you could never be an enemy."

Jun’s smile widened, though his eyes never softened. "Since we’re practically family, may I take your daughter with me tonight? I find myself feeling a bit lonely here in Seoul."

Your eyes widened, a jolt of shock running through you. He had trapped you with a simple question—one that Ji Jaekyung couldn’t refuse without appearing rude, and one you couldn’t reject without risking angering either man.

"Of course, of course," Jaekyung agreed with a chuckle. "I’m sure my Y/n doesn’t mind. You don’t mind, right?" His gaze shifted to you, a smile masking a warning.

The weight of your fate pressed against you like a stone. You were nothing more than a pawn in their game, your life a currency exchanged with a polite smile. And maybe that was all you were meant to be—something to be used, polished, and displayed, but never truly free.

Jun drove in silence, the city lights spilling over the windshield, their glow a pale wash against the dark leather interior. The gentle hum of the engine filled the void between you, but it did nothing to calm the storm in your chest. Every breath felt sharp, every heartbeat a painful reminder of how your world kept spiraling out of control.

Your gaze remained fixed outside, the blurred neon signs and bustling sidewalks passing like ghosts. But your mind wasn’t in the present. It was wandering, lost in the echoes of a time you had tried so hard to forget.

Six years ago, you were different—bright-eyed and hopeful, your world centered around love and simple dreams. Jun was a part of that world, his laughter a melody you cherished, his touch a promise of comfort. But then everything shattered. Your mother was murdered. Your father’s name was stained with secrets and blood. Seungkwan was left clinging to his dreams of justice while you were forced to live as someone you weren’t.

Was it all a lie? Was Jun just another player in this twisted game? Even then, when he held your hand, whispered sweet promises—was he already playing a role? Was everything a calculated move, leaving you to fend for yourself in this nightmare?

The ache in your chest grew unbearable. You wanted to scream, to demand answers. But part of you was terrified—terrified of hearing the truth, of confirming that the one person you once loved was just another betrayal.

The car eventually slowed, pulling into the familiar driveway of the grand hotel where Jun was staying. He stopped in front of the entrance, but neither of you moved. He let out a quiet sigh, fingers tapping against the steering wheel in a slow, rhythmic pattern.

You didn’t respond. Your fingers dug into the fabric of your dress, knuckles white. You had nothing to say to him. Nothing that wouldn’t break you further.

After a long moment, Jun stepped out, moving around to open your door. Ever the gentleman, even when his actions felt like cruel mockery. You stepped out, your legs feeling like lead, and followed him into the grand, silent lobby. The warm, golden light of the chandeliers felt oppressive, a stark contrast to the cold emptiness pooling in your chest.

The elevator doors closed around you, trapping you in the suffocating silence. You stood beside him, his reflection in the mirrored walls a ghost haunting your thoughts.

When the elevator chimed, you stepped out without waiting for him. But he followed, his footsteps quiet but ever-present. He opened the door to his suite, and you walked in, each step feeling heavier than the last. The familiar scent of expensive cologne and polished wood washed over you.

Your hands moved mechanically, a reflex born from nights of forced smiles and silenced pride. Your fingers reached for the zipper of your dress, pulling it down, the fabric slipping off your shoulders. Cold air touched your skin, but you didn’t feel it. You were numb, lost in the hollow routine you had perfected—a doll performing its part, a daughter sold for survival.

But just as you began to let the dress fall, a strong, calloused hand caught your wrist.

“Stop.” Jun’s voice was sharp, cutting through the suffocating silence. His grip tightened, his touch burning against your skin.

You looked up, your hollow eyes meeting his. His expression was unreadable, but his jaw was clenched, a faint tremor in his grip. Anger radiated from him, his dark eyes stormy, but beneath the fury, something else lingered—hurt, desperation.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, his voice low but shaking with barely contained rage.

“What do you think?” Your voice was empty, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “This is what I’m supposed to do, right? Isn’t this what you wanted? What he wanted?”

“I never—” His voice broke for a second, but he quickly composed himself. “Don’t ever say that. Don’t you dare think I’m like them.”

“Then why did you take me?” Your voice rose, trembling, your chest heaving with a rush of anger you didn’t even know you had left. “Why, Jun? Is this your revenge? Is this how you prove your power over me?”

“Revenge?” He scoffed, his eyes narrowing. “You think this is revenge? Watching you—watching you reduce yourself to this?” He released your wrist, but the heat of his touch lingered, burning against your cold skin. “This isn’t you, Y/n. This was never you.”

“Then who am I, Jun?” you shot back, your voice cracking. “A liar? A puppet? A pawn in your sick game?”

“No.” He took a step closer, his anger palpable, but there was something else—pain, raw and unhidden. “You’re the woman I—” He stopped himself, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “Damn it, Y/n. You’re not some doll for them to play with. Not for him. Not for me.”

“Then what am I?” Your tears broke free, hot against your cheeks, your voice desperate. “Because this is all I know now, Jun. This is all I’ve become.”

A thick silence fell between you, your breaths heavy, your tears blurring your vision. His fists were clenched at his sides, his chest rising and falling rapidly as if fighting to keep his own emotions in check.

You stood there, trembling, your arms wrapped around yourself like a fragile shield. Jun’s presence was overwhelming—tall, intense, his dark eyes fixed on you with a mixture of shock and anger. But you couldn’t stop. The dam had broken, and the words poured out like a torrent you couldn’t control.

“My father… he was killed. By people with those dragon tattoosn. And I thought it was just a coincidence, I thought… I thought I could escape. But I couldn’t.” Your voice wavered, your breathing coming in short, frantic gasps. “I met you, and for once, I thought I could be happy. But then… my mother—my mother was murdered too. They said it was the same people. The same syndicate. Your people.”

Jun’s eyes widened, his brows knitting together. He tried to reach out, but you stepped back, your voice rising.

“Don’t touch me!” you cried, the tears streaming down your face. “Don’t you dare touch me, Jun. I was a fool. I thought I could protect Seungkwan, that I could find a way out. But I ended up becoming Ji Jaekyung’s puppet. I became his fake daughter, a plaything for his clients, all because I had no choice. And now you—” Your voice broke, a sob escaping your lips. “Were you part of it, Jun? Were you always part of it? Did you know everything?”

“Y/n, stop—” he began, but you cut him off.

“Stop what? Lying to myself? Pretending that you’re different from them?” You laughed bitterly, your knees giving out as you sank onto the cold floor. “I don’t know who you are anymore. I don’t even know who I am. I’m just a pawn in their game—a doll they pass around. And you… you might be just another player.”

Jun moved towards you, but you curled into yourself, hiding your face in your shaking hands.

“Did you use me, Jun? Did you ever care? Or was this all a game to you? A way to keep me under control? To keep me as a bargaining chip?” Your voice was hoarse, your body trembling uncontrollably. “Because that’s what I’ve become—someone they use, someone you might have used too.”

“Y/n, no,” Jun’s voice was rough, desperate. He knelt before you, reaching out but hesitating, his hands hovering in the air. “I swear, I didn’t know. I didn’t—”

“Then why?” you looked up at him, your tear-filled eyes pleading. “Why are you here? Why are you pretending to protect me?”

“I’m not pretending.” He leaned forward, his own voice breaking. “I never used you. I never lied to you. I… I didn’t know about your parents. About your mother. I swear, Y/n.”

Your vision blurred, your breathing ragged. You wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe those desperate, pained eyes looking back at you. But the darkness around you was suffocating, and trust was a luxury you no longer had.

“Then what are you, Jun?” you whispered. “A savior? Or just another monster wearing a kind face?”

His hands finally found yours, his touch warm, but you couldn’t feel it. You were drowning, trapped in a whirlpool of doubt, fear, and grief.

“I’m someone who won’t lose you again,” he whispered, his voice raw. “Not to them. Not to anyone.”

Jun’s arms held you tighter, his embrace warm but desperate, like a man trying to keep you from slipping away. His hand cradled the back of your head, his lips pressing against your hair as he whispered, “Y/n, listen to me. I swear to you, I didn’t know. I didn’t know they would hurt your family. I didn’t know you were trapped like this.”

His voice trembled, yet there was a firm resolve beneath the fear. “I swear, I’m not a part of Jaekyung’s schemes. I came here to deal with him, to bring him down for everything he’s done—not just to you, but to everyone he’s destroyed.”

You leaned back slightly, your tear-streaked eyes meeting his, searching desperately for any hint of deception. Your voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. “Are you telling me the truth? You’re not lying to me again?”

“I’m not lying. Not now, not ever again.” Jun’s gaze never wavered, his thumb gently brushing away your tears.

Your fingers tightened on his shirt, fear and desperation clawing at your chest. “Then save me, Jun. Please. I can’t do this anymore."

Jun’s thumb brushed against your cheek, wiping away the last of your tears, his touch so gentle that it sent a shiver down your spine. His eyes searched yours, a storm of emotions swirling within them—regret, longing, and something deeper, something that had never truly left even after all these years.

And then his lips were on yours.

It wasn’t a hesitant kiss, nor a cautious one—it was a kiss of desperation and yearning, of a man who had lost you once and was terrified of losing you again. His lips moved against yours with an urgency that sent warmth flooding through your chest, his hand slipping to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as though he needed you to breathe.

You melted into him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, clinging to him as though he was the only solid thing in your crumbling world. His other arm wrapped around your waist, pressing you against him, and you felt the rapid beat of his heart against your chest, matching the wild rhythm of your own.

Jun’s kiss softened, the fierce urgency giving way to something deeper, something that spoke of all the years of regret, the nights spent wondering if he should have come back sooner. His lips trailed over yours, slow and tender, as though memorizing the shape of your mouth, whispering promises with every touch.

Your hands slipped up to his shoulders, and you felt his muscles tense beneath your touch. But he didn’t pull away; if anything, he pulled you closer, his fingers tangling in your hair, his forehead resting against yours as his lips moved softly, lovingly against yours.

“I missed you,” he breathed against your lips, the words a quiet confession. “I never stopped thinking about you, never stopped loving you.”

A soft, broken sound escaped your throat, and your fingers tightened on his shirt. “Don’t leave me, Jun. Please… promise me, don’t leave me.”

“I won’t,” he whispered, and you could hear the promise in his voice, the desperate need to be the man you could trust again. “I swear, I won’t.”

His lips found yours again, slower this time, savoring each second, each gentle press, his hands cradling you with a care that made your heart ache. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was a promise, a silent vow that you weren’t alone anymore, that he would stand with you, fight for you.

And for the first time in years, in his arms, you felt safe.

Jun's sleek, black car sliced through the bustling city streets, the quiet hum of the engine a sharp contrast to the tension hanging in the air. Minghao sat in the passenger seat, his gaze fixed ahead, but his voice clear and steady.

“Her parents worked for Ji Jaekyung for a long time,” Minghao began, fingers drumming lightly on his knee. “Her father, Ji Ho-seok, was a lawyer—he worked for us. Her mother was a housewife, quiet but smart.”

Jun leaned back against his seat, his jaw clenched as Minghao laid out the twisted history. The dim overhead light cast sharp shadows over his face, making the anger in his eyes even more pronounced.

“So, Ji Ho-seok wasn’t just a victim of his own honesty,” Jun muttered, his voice low and edged with rage. “He was framed. Jaekyung made him a scapegoat, painting him as a traitor to Longwei so they would take him out.”

Minghao nodded, his expression grave. “That’s right. Jaekyung manipulated the narrative. Ho-seok’s death wasn’t just an accident. It was a calculated move. He convinced Longwei that Ho-seok was a threat, a liability who might expose their business dealings in Seoul.”

“And then he didn’t stop there,” Jun continued, his fists tightening. “Six years ago, he found out about Y/n. He used her—forced her into this fake daughter role to exploit his connections. And when her mother tried to protect her…”

“Jaekyung had her killed. Made it look like another syndicate move, but it was all part of his plan,” Minghao finished. “He knows that Y/n’s survival means his control over her. The moment she tries to escape, he can turn everything against her.”

Jun’s chest heaved with barely contained fury. The woman he loved had been caught in this twisted game for years—used, threatened, and forced to play a role that trapped her.

Jun strode into the safe house with Minghao and a group of guards trailing behind him. The cold, metallic hum of the place seemed to amplify the shock on the faces of the Longwei members stationed in Seoul. Their whispers died down immediately, replaced by a tense, suffocating silence. It wasn’t every day that their young boss appeared without warning—especially not with that fierce, unyielding glare in his eyes.

“Everyone, listen up.” Jun’s voice cut through the air like a blade, cold and authoritative. “I want this man found by tonight.”

Minghao stepped forward, holding up a clear, high-resolution image of a man—his features hardened with age, but the distinct dragon tattoo on his forearm was unmistakable. The room seemed to shift, the guards exchanging uneasy glances.

“This man killed Ji Ho-seok fifteen years ago,” Minghao announced, his voice steady but intense. “He was one of us—Longwei. But he betrayed that honor the moment he became a pawn in Ji Jaekyung’s game.”

Jun’s gaze swept over the room, his jaw clenched. “I want him alive. No excuses. No mistakes. If he tries to run, you make sure he regrets it.”

The men nodded, already pulling out their phones, making calls, and exchanging brief, whispered instructions. They knew better than to disappoint Jun—especially when his voice carried a darkness they rarely heard.

Jun stepped quietly into the hotel room, the soft click of the door almost drowned out by the city’s distant hum. His eyes immediately found you—sitting by the window, wrapped in one of the plush white robes, your knees drawn to your chest. Pale morning light filtered through the glass, painting you in a soft, ethereal glow, but your expression was distant, lost somewhere beyond the bustling streets below.

“You’re back.” Your voice was soft, barely above a whisper, but it carried a weight he couldn’t ignore.

“I promised I wouldn’t leave you alone.” Jun closed the door gently behind him, shrugging off his suit jacket and tossing it onto a nearby chair. His gaze never left you, taking in the way your fingers absentmindedly traced invisible patterns on your knee.

Silence stretched between you two, but it wasn’t the comforting quiet you used to share. It was heavy—thick with questions, with fears, with everything left unsaid.

“I thought about everything… about how this started. How one decision ruined everything,” you murmured, your voice cracking just slightly. “I feel like I’m drowning, Jun… I don't even know if there’s a way out.”

He crossed the room in a few strides, kneeling beside you. His warm hand reached for yours, covering your cold fingers. “There is. I swear there is. And I’ll make sure you’re free from all of this.”

You looked down at him, searching his eyes, desperate for even a flicker of certainty. “You promise?”

“I do.” His voice was steady, his grip firm, grounding you. “I’ve already started. Minghao is tracking the man who killed your father. We’ll get answers. And I won’t let Jaekyung touch you again.”

Your eyes stung, a tear slipping free despite your best effort. “It’s just… I keep thinking you’re going to disappear too. Like I’ll wake up, and you’ll be gone… just like everything else.”

Jun’s hand moved, cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tear. “I’m not going anywhere, Y/n. Not now. Not ever.”

His forehead pressed gently against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “I lost you once. I won’t lose you again.”

You met Seungkwan at a quiet, tucked-away cafe far from the city center. He was already there when you arrived, his uniform jacket draped over the back of his chair, his face pinched with worry. The moment you sat down, his sharp gaze settled on you.

"You look tired," he noted, his tone softening just slightly. "You haven't been sleeping well, have you?"

You offered a weak smile. "Sleep has become a luxury I can't afford."

Silence hung between you as you stirred your coffee, the warmth seeping into your fingertips. Finally, you took a deep breath, bracing yourself. "Seungkwan, I need to tell you something."

His expression tightened, and he leaned in, immediately alert. "What is it?"

"It's about Jun. He... he’s here. And he promised to help me. To help us escape from Ji Jaekyung," you whispered, watching his reaction closely.

Seungkwan's face darkened, his jaw tightening. "Jun? Your ex, Jun? He's with Longwei. He's part of the syndicate. The same people who ruined our family."

"I know," you admitted, struggling to keep your voice steady. "I know what he is. But he promised me, Seungkwan. He’s not like the rest of them. He’s trying to help."

Seungkwan leaned back, crossing his arms, his disbelief painfully clear. "Help? A man from the same group that killed our parents? That controlled Jaekyung? How can you even believe him?"

"Because he’s different!" Your voice broke, drawing a few glances from nearby tables. You forced yourself to lower your tone, tears burning in your eyes. "Because I have no one else to turn to. Because I’m so tired, Seungkwan. I’m tired of being Jaekyung’s pawn. I’m tired of living in fear, of pretending, of wondering who will be next—us, our parents, everyone we love."

Seungkwan's expression softened, but the tension didn't leave his shoulders. "Sister…"

"He promised me, Seungkwan. He promised to protect me. I know how this sounds, but I trust him. Maybe I’m a fool, maybe I’m desperate, but I need you to believe in me. Just this once. Please, understand."

Seungkwan ran a hand through his hair, letting out a shaky sigh. "And what if you’re wrong? What if this is just another trap? What if he’s using you like everyone else?"

"I don’t know," you admitted, your voice a bare whisper. "But I’d rather take a chance with Jun than keep living this nightmare. I can’t do it alone anymore."

Silence stretched between you two, only the faint clinking of cups and murmurs of the other patrons filling the air. Finally, Seungkwan leaned forward, his gaze soft but still cautious.

"Then let me help too. Don’t keep me in the dark. If you trust him, fine—but I’ll be watching. And if he betrays you, I won't hesitate."

A small, shaky smile tugged at your lips. "Thank you, Seungkwan."

"I just want you safe. That's all I ever wanted."

You stepped out of the cafe, the cool air brushing against your face, calming the lingering ache in your chest. The black sedan parked by the curb seemed almost out of place in this quiet neighborhood, but the tinted window rolled down as you approached, revealing Jun's familiar, composed face.

"How was the talk with him?" Jun asked, his voice steady but his gaze searching.

You slipped into the passenger seat, closing the door with a sigh. "He’s skeptical, but I told him everything. He’s worried, but… he’s willing to trust you. For now."

Jun's lips curved slightly, a trace of relief in his expression. "That’s a good start."

The car smoothly pulled away from the curb, and for a while, silence filled the space between you. But Jun’s hand found yours, his thumb brushing against your knuckles, a quiet comfort you didn’t realize you needed.

"Let’s take a break today," he suddenly suggested, glancing at you. "There’s a place I want to take you."

You blinked, a hint of surprise in your eyes. "Where?"

"You'll see."

The cityscape gave way to quieter streets, familiar corners, and warm nostalgia began to seep into your chest. Your heart skipped a beat when you realized where you were—your old university district.

The car stopped by a small, colorful alley with photo booth stations lining one side, neon lights flickering in the daylight. Memories rushed back, the laughter, the warmth, the days when everything was simpler.

"We had our first kiss there," Jun pointed to a particular photo booth, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "You remember? You were so nervous, kept laughing to avoid looking at me."

Your lips curved, a small laugh escaping. "And you kept teasing me until I got so annoyed that I pulled you down and kissed you first."

"Best surprise of my life." He chuckled, a softness in his gaze that made your heart ache.

Jun led you down the alley, his hand still holding yours, and he insisted you both take a new set of photos. The first shot captured your shy smile, the second was Jun leaning close to kiss your cheek, and by the third, you were both laughing, caught in that familiar, carefree feeling.

As the photo strip printed, Jun pulled you aside to a small cafe next door, the same place you used to visit after classes. He ordered the same iced coffee you loved, and you shared a slice of cake by the window, the warm sunlight painting gentle patterns on the table.

"You know," he murmured, watching you take a bite. "I thought I lost this feeling... That simple happiness of being with you."

Your fingers tightened around the cup. "I thought I lost you."

Jun leaned forward, resting his hand on yours. "You never did. And I won’t let you go this time."

Warmth spread in your chest, the weight of fear and doubts momentarily melting away. This was Jun—the Jun you loved, the one who made you feel alive. And for the first time in so long, you felt like you could breathe.

Jun drove with one hand on the wheel, the other gently holding yours. The city’s noise faded into the distance, replaced by the rhythmic whoosh of waves as the beach came into view. The golden hue of the setting sun stretched across the sky, its reflection dancing on the water’s surface.

He parked near the empty shoreline, and together, you stepped out, letting the cool breeze brush against your face. Without a word, Jun pulled down the back bunk of his car, and you both settled on it, facing the endless sea. His jacket draped over your shoulders, enveloping you in warmth as his arms wrapped securely around you.

Silence fell comfortably between you, the soothing crash of waves filling the space. The sky melted into a fiery orange, then a soft purple, stars slowly emerging one by one. But as the darkness grew, so did the weight in your chest.

Finally, you leaned against him, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek. Jun’s voice was soft, almost hesitant, cutting through the quiet embrace of the evening. "Why did you leave me?"

Your breath hitched, eyes fixed on the waves crashing against the shore, a rhythmic reminder of how time never stopped, even when your world crumbled.

"I didn't leave, Jun... I was forced to disappear." Your voice trembled, the bitterness of the truth catching in your throat. "After my mother was killed, Ji Jaekyung came to me. He knew everything—who I was, who my family was, how vulnerable I was. He gave me a choice, or at least pretended to. Play his daughter, entertain his clients, and in return, he'd keep Seungkwan safe. But I knew it was never really a choice."

Jun's hold around you tightened, his jaw clenching against the side of your head. "And you couldn’t tell me? You couldn't come to me?"

A faint, sad smile curved your lips. "How could I? I didn’t even know if I could trust you back then. After I learned about your family’s connection. Everything became a blur, and I was scared. I didn’t know if you were part of it... if you were just another trap."

Silence stretched, heavy and cold. Jun’s fingers trembled slightly on your shoulder, his breath warm against your temple. "I would’ve torn the world apart for you… if you had just told me."

"Would you?" You whispered, a tear slipping down your cheek. "Or would you have seen me as a burden—a weakness in your world of power and secrets?"

Jun leaned back slightly, just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes fierce, filled with a pain that mirrored your own. "You were never a burden. You were everything I wanted… everything I thought I couldn’t have. And I was an idiot to let you go."

Your hand reached for his, intertwining your fingers. "Then don’t let me go this time, Jun."

"I won’t," he whispered, his lips brushing against your forehead, a promise sealed in the warmth of his touch.

Jun's strong hands gently lifted you onto his lap, and once you settled, he cupped your cheek with tenderness, his thumb brushing your skin as if you were the most delicate porcelain. His other hand began a slow exploration, starting at your thigh and gliding with a featherlight touch beneath the hem of your dress. His fingers traced every curve and dip of your body as he leaned in closer, capturing your lips in a soft, lingering kiss.

"You're mine, Y/n," he murmured against your mouth, the words a gentle command. His hand slid to the nape of your neck, pulling you deeper into the kiss with a fervent intensity. "Say you're mine," he urged, his fingers dancing up your thighs, lingering at the curve of your waist before tracing the outline of your stomach.

You gasped his name, a soft moan escaping as his fingers brushed against your most sensitive spot, teasing and exploring with deliberate slowness. His lips never left yours, devouring you with a passionate hunger as his fingers slipped inside, moving with a steady, rhythmic intent. Captivated by the sounds you made, each soft whimper and sigh, he began to undress you, the cool night air whispering over your bare skin.

Your fingers moved with urgency, unbuttoning the last remnants of clothing between you both until skin met skin. He lifted you effortlessly, laying you back against the soft, worn cushions of the car's backseat. Spreading your legs, he positioned himself between them, his gaze locked on yours.

"Tell me each name that bothered you," he said, his voice a low promise. "I'll show them that touching you means messing with me."

With infinite care, he entered you, and the world around you seemed to disappear. The warmth and tightness enfolded him, and in that moment, there was only the two of you, cocooned in each other's embrace, with the gentle sound of waves lapping in the distance, an intimate symphony to your shared solitude.

Twelve men sat rigidly on the cold, metal chairs, fear starkly painted on their faces. Thick ropes wound around their torsos, binding them to the chairs, their wrists tied behind their backs, rendering them helpless. The dim light overhead cast a sickly glow, accentuating the sweat beading on their foreheads. The room smelled of damp concrete and something darker—panic.

Jun stepped into the room, Minghao trailing behind him with a steely gaze. Jun’s sharp eyes scanned each terrified face, lingering on the man he recognized—the one he saw that night, leading you through the hotel lobby. Rage simmered beneath his calm exterior, a silent storm brewing.

He remembered your voice, trembling but steady, each word a needle prick against his chest.

"What did they do to you?" he had asked, his jaw clenched, his eyes never leaving yours, desperate for the truth.

"Everything... They did... everything."

The quiet crackle of the burning charcoal snapped him back to the present. A thick metal rod, its tip glowing a fierce orange, sat on the smoldering heat, a twisted promise of pain.

"What should we do to them, boss?" Minghao's voice was steady, but there was a tension beneath his words, a coldness matching Jun’s simmering fury.

Jun's gaze never left the men, especially the one he recognized, whose face had turned ghostly pale.

"For whoever laid their hands on her," Jun’s voice was calm, almost emotionless—a chilling contrast to the violence in his words. "I want them to touch that." He pointed to the searing metal rod, the heat radiating from it like a promise of hell.

Minghao nodded, signaling to the men holding the rod. They stepped forward, the fiery glow reflecting in the captives’ wide, terror-stricken eyes. Some thrashed against their bindings, whimpering and begging, while others shut their eyes, murmuring desperate prayers.

Jun’s phone buzzed in his pocket, the screen flashing with a familiar name—Ji Jaekyung. He signaled Minghao to keep an eye on the captives before stepping away, his expression unreadable. With a swipe, he answered, his voice calm but guarded.

"Mr. Ji," Jun greeted, leaning against the cold wall.

"Jun, my boy!" Jaekyung's voice carried a forced warmth, laced with a hint of tension. "I haven’t seen my daughter since yesterday. She’s not answering her phone. I thought you two would be together. Care to tell me where she is?"

Jun’s jaw tightened, but he kept his voice steady. "She needed some fresh air, Mr. Ji. I figured she'd enjoy some time away without all the... usual pressures."

Jaekyung chuckled, though the edge in his laughter was clear. "Fresh air? That's sweet of you, but you know how dangerous this city can be. Especially for a young woman like her."

"Don’t worry, she’s in good hands."

"Good hands, you say?" Jaekyung's tone turned sharper. "I hope you're not forgetting our arrangement, Jun. You understand how important my daughter is to me... and how unpleasant things can get if something happens to her."

Jun’s fingers curled tighter around his phone. "Rest assured, Mr. Ji. I always take good care of what's mine."

A brief silence stretched between them before Jaekyung's voice softened again, but the threat lingered beneath. "See that you do. I expect her back soon, Jun. Don’t disappoint me."

The call ended, and Jun lowered the phone, his gaze darkening. He looked back at the room where the captives were. His grip on the phone was so tight his knuckles turned white.

"Minghao," he called out, his voice cold.

Minghao approached immediately, reading the look in his boss’s eyes. "Jaekyung’s getting anxious?"

"He's getting suspicious." Jun’s voice was low, almost a growl. "Have someone follow him. I want to know every move he makes. If he sends anyone to look for her, I want to know before they even leave his doorstep."

Minghao nodded, already typing instructions to his men. "And the men here?"

Jun’s gaze returned to the captives. His voice was ice. "Continue. Make them talk. I want to know everything they did to her. And I want them to feel what it means to lay their hands on her."

With one last glance at the room, Jun stepped out, his mind racing. He needed to protect you, and to do that, he needed to stay two steps ahead of Ji Jaekyung.

Jun’s car sped through the city streets, neon lights casting fleeting colors across his face. His grip on the steering wheel tightened as he dialed the secure line to his father. The call connected after a few rings, and a deep, authoritative voice echoed through.

"Jun?" His father's voice carried the weight of decades of power. "Is something wrong?"

"Father," Jun began, his voice steady but tense. "I need your permission to eliminate Ji Jaekyung."

A sharp silence filled the line, followed by a low, incredulous chuckle. "Holding his daughter isn't enough? Have you lost your mind, Jun?"

"No, Father. I've seen enough." Jun’s voice remained firm. "Ji Jaekyung has tainted the deal further than Longwei expected. He’s using our name, manipulating our men, and worst of all—he's exploiting innocent lives. He uses a false daughter to shield his business, dragging her into a world of filth."

His father’s silence deepened, the weight of his contemplation almost palpable through the phone. "Are you certain this isn't personal?"

"It is personal too," Jun admitted without hesitation. "But even without the personal part, his actions have become a liability. He hides behind our name, but he’s a snake, corrupting our reputation."

"Jun, killing an ally can bring consequences. The balance in Seoul will shift. His partners, his clients, they might turn against us. He just needs a warning."

"But if we keep him, he’ll turn them against us with his lies and deceit. I can handle the fallout. I will clean up every trace."

"Would you stake your position for this decision?" his father asked, his tone now sharp, testing.

Jun didn’t hesitate. "Yes. If you give me your approval, I will do everything. No one will ever trace it back to us."

A slow exhale echoed from the other side. "Very well, Jun. But remember, this is your choice. If you fail, it’s your head on the line, not just his."

"I won’t fail, Father."

The call ended. Jun's jaw clenched as he tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. The weight of what he was about to do pressed down on him, but it was a weight he was willing to bear.

The car pulled up to the hotel, and Jun stepped out. His expression remained cold, but beneath that exterior was a storm of determination. He was going to protect you, no matter the cost.

The television screen in the hotel room flickered to life, its glow casting a pale light over the dimly lit space. You were curled up on the bed, staring blankly at the screen, trying to distract yourself from the whirlwind of emotions inside you. But then the program shifted, the tone turned urgent, and a news anchor appeared, her face a mix of shock and professionalism.

"Breaking News—South Korea's Prime Minister Ji Jaekyung has died in a tragic car accident earlier this evening. Authorities report that his vehicle lost control on a mountain road before crashing into a ravine. Emergency responders arrived on the scene, but Ji Jaekyung was pronounced dead on arrival. The cause of the accident is still under investigation, but preliminary reports suggest a possible brake failure. This sudden loss has sent shockwaves throughout the nation."

Your breath caught, and the remote slipped from your hand, clattering against the floor. A cold chill spread through you as your eyes widened. Ji Jaekyung… dead?

Your thoughts raced—was it truly an accident? Could it be connected to Jun? You remembered his words, his quiet but fierce promise to protect you. You covered your mouth, trying to suppress the mix of fear and relief flooding your chest.

The screen continued to show footage of the crash site—flashing lights, twisted metal, and officers cordoning off the area.

"The Prime Minister's office has yet to release an official statement. Reports indicate that Ji Jaekyung’s car was traveling alone, and there were no other passengers. The investigation is ongoing."

Your heart pounded against your ribs as the door clicked open. Jun stepped in, his sharp suit barely wrinkled, his expression unreadable as his eyes immediately found yours. He saw your pale face and glanced at the television.

"You did this," you whispered, a mixture of disbelief and shock in your voice.

Jun's face softened slightly, his steps careful as he approached you. "I told you I would protect you."

You stared at him, tears pooling in your eyes. "Did you… was it really an accident?"

"It was necessary," he said, his voice gentle but unyielding. "He can never hurt you again."

A tear slipped down your cheek, and your legs gave way, but Jun caught you, pulling you into his arms. His hold was firm, grounding you as your mind struggled to process everything.

"You… you killed him," you whispered against his chest.

"Yes," Jun murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "And I'd do it again to keep you safe."

The weight of everything crashed down on you all at once—fear, anger, betrayal, and an overwhelming sense of relief. Your chest tightened, and a sob tore itself free from your throat.

Your fingers gripped the fabric of Jun’s suit, twisting it as your body trembled. A wretched, broken cry escaped your lips, raw and unrestrained. Tears streamed down your cheeks, soaking into his shoulder as you buried your face against him.

"I-I thought… I thought he'd never let me go," you choked out, the words barely coherent between your sobs. "I thought… I thought I’d lose everything—Seungkwan, you—"

Jun’s arms tightened around you, a steady, protective embrace. He didn’t speak, didn’t try to hush your cries. He simply held you, letting you release every ounce of fear and pain you had bottled up for so long. His hand moved gently, cradling the back of your head, his other arm wrapped around your waist, grounding you.

"You’re safe now," he whispered, his voice steady, a calm in the storm of your emotions. "No one can hurt you. Not anymore."

Your sobs grew louder, uncontrollable. Years of suffering, of living under someone else’s shadow, of being used, manipulated, and threatened—all of it broke free. Your knees buckled, but Jun held you, sinking with you to the floor.

"I was so scared… so tired…" you cried, clinging to him. "I don’t want to be afraid anymore."

"And you won’t be," Jun murmured, resting his cheek against the top of your head. "I promised you, didn’t I? I will protect you… no matter what it takes."

You didn't know how long you cried—minutes, hours—it all blurred together. But through it all, Jun never let you go. He stayed, a silent, steady presence in the chaos of your breaking heart.

Life changed swiftly, almost ruthlessly. You followed Jun to Guangzhou, leaving behind the shadows of Seoul for the neon-lit city bustling with life. Jun was a name whispered with both fear and respect here, a man painted as the villain in countless stories. But to you, he was never a villain—he was your hero. The man who pulled you from the jaws of despair, who held you when you were broken, and who taught you how to survive.

Guangzhou was a different world. Jun's life was a world of negotiations done in half-lit rooms, whispers exchanged in crowded clubs, and loyalty measured in blood. You learned quickly that being Jun’s partner wasn’t just about standing by his side—it was about keeping up, about becoming strong enough to protect yourself and everything you held dear.

He introduced you to Minghao, who taught you self-defense. Hours spent in a private dojo, where you learned how to disarm a knife-wielding attacker, how to break a grip, how to move swiftly and strike precisely. Every bruise, every ache became a reminder of your growing strength.

Jun didn't just shelter you; he prepared you. Over sleek mahogany tables filled with maps and documents, you learned the art of strategy—how to anticipate moves, how to read people, how to negotiate. You became a quiet but sharp presence in his meetings, your observations valued, your voice heard.

"You’re not just my woman, Y/n," Jun whispered one night, his fingers tracing along your jaw as you lay in his arms. "You’re my partner. I need you to be strong. Strong enough to stand by me… and strong enough to protect yourself when I can’t."

And you became that.

Yet, being Jun's partner meant facing danger. You felt it the night a black sedan rammed your car, your body jolted against the seatbelt as your driver struggled to regain control. You heard it in the sharp, cracking sound of gunfire in a dim alley one evening, Jun’s arm pulling you against the wall, his body shielding yours.

You saw it in the cold glint of a knife pressed against your throat when you were kidnapped by a rival syndicate. You remembered the terror, the way your voice didn’t shake as you spoke to the man holding you, buying just enough time until Jun stormed in, his men dismantling the enemy with calculated precision.

But Jun, like he promised, was always there. When you were dragged out of the car wreck, he was the first face you saw, his voice soothing you even as blood ran down his cheek. When you were taken, he didn't sleep until you were back in his arms.

Your life was a dance on the edge of a blade, a world where chaos and calm intertwined. But in every shadow, Jun was your light. In every storm, he was your shelter. He was a villain in the stories of others, but to you, he was a savior.

Amidst all this, a call came from Seoul—Seungkwan’s voice on the other end, trembling but determined.

“I did it, Y/n,” he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. “I found him. I found the man who killed our parents.”

Your heart raced, the room around you fading into silence. “Seungkwan… where is he?”

“I have him in custody. He’s confessed. Ji Jaekyung set it all up—made him do it, made him kill them to cover his tracks.”

A cold rage settled in your chest, but also a twisted sense of relief. The ghosts of your parents had haunted you for so long, their deaths an open wound that never healed. Now, that wound had a face. A face that could finally be punished.

“Y/n?” Seungkwan’s voice softened. “Are you okay?”

Tears slipped down your cheeks, but a small, determined smile touched your lips. “I’m okay, Seungkwan. Because you did it. You brought justice to them.”

Jun noticed your tears as he entered the room, his gaze softening as he knelt before you. “What’s wrong?”

You met his eyes, your hand reaching out to grasp his. “Seungkwan found him… the man who killed my parents.”

Jun’s jaw tightened, his fingers threading through yours, offering his silent, unwavering support. “Then we’re one step closer, Y/n. To finally ending this nightmare.”

Or maybe, one more nightmare.

The grand hall of Long Wei's headquarters was a spectacle of opulence—crystal chandeliers casting a warm, golden glow over a sea of influential faces. Laughter and the clinking of glasses filled the air, but a sharp tension cut through the room as a man grabbed you, a knife pressed against your neck. Gasps rippled through the crowd, fear seizing those who watched. The man’s voice trembled as he shouted threats, his grip on you shaky, his eyes wild.

“Everyone back! I swear I’ll—”

But his voice faltered when he noticed the subtle change in the air—an eerie calm, an odd sense of confidence. You stood perfectly still, your breathing steady, your gaze unwavering. The knife against your skin was a cold whisper, but fear didn’t cloud your eyes. Instead, there was something else—annoyance.

Jun stood a few feet away, leaning casually against the marble pillar, a glass of wine still in his hand. His head was tilted slightly, a slow, amused smile tugging at his lips. He didn’t rush, didn’t shout. He simply watched, his eyes locked on you.

And you knew what that meant—his trust in you was absolute. Even though he was nervous, considering you were eight months pregnant, his confidence in your abilities never wavered.

The man’s grip tightened, his voice shaking. “I said move back, or she’s—”

Before he could finish, you moved. Your heel slammed down on his foot, hard enough that he cried out, his grip loosening just enough. Your hand shot up, grabbing his wrist, twisting it sharply until the knife clattered to the floor. His free arm reached for you, but you drove your elbow into his ribs with a force that made him gasp.

The room watched, frozen, as your fist collided with his jaw in a clean, precise strike, sending him sprawling to the ground.

Chaos erupted around you. Long Wei’s guards surged forward, tackling the man to the floor, rough hands ensuring he wouldn’t rise again. But you hardly noticed. Jun was already at your side, his arms wrapping protectively around you, pulling you close. His hand instinctively rested against the gentle curve of your stomach, feeling the faint movement within.

“You’ll be the death of me, baby,” he whispered, his voice half-scolding, half-loving, his lips brushing your temple.

You leaned into his touch, your own hand resting over his. “I didn’t even break a sweat.”

Jun chuckled, though there was a hint of exasperation in his voice. “If you weren’t eight months pregnant, I’d be proud. But right now, I’m just trying not to have a heart attack.”

Behind you, the party guests were beginning to murmur, the tension slowly dissipating. Long Wei’s men dragged the failed attacker away, and whispers of admiration and shock spread through the crowd. Even Jun’s father, who had been watching from the balcony, gave an approving nod.

“Come on,” Jun murmured, steering you gently toward a quieter corner. “Let’s sit you down. You’ve done enough for tonight, hero.”

You chuckled, letting him guide you, your fingers lacing with his. “Maybe next time, they’ll think twice before trying to mess with Long Wei’s family.”

Jun’s expression softened as he looked down at you, his hand never leaving your stomach. “They better. Because I can’t lose either of you.”

144 notes · View notes

ultralightpoe · 2 days ago

Text

Nancy Drew - Eddie Munson

Authors Note: This has been sitting in my drafts for MONTHS guys. And the sequel is only half done. But it needed to be freed, those drafts are piling up baddddddddd -Ultralightpoe

Word Count: 9k

Warnings: Um none?

Description: Eddie and reader are a sleuthing teammmm

Main Master List - - Stranger Things Master List

[Thank You For The Gif @eashmo ]

The Case Of The Missing Lunch Box.

“She’s an…. Odd one. But there is nothing wrong with that.”

Odd one.

Odd.

It was the term most used to describe you, always had been so long as you could remember. It was the word your aunt used to explain to your mom about what it had been like babysitting you. It had been the word your kindergarten teacher used when she explained your behaviour during free time.

Your principal had called you an ‘oddity’ the year you solved the swing case, the year you figured out that the 5th graders had been taking the screws off the swing set before school so that no one would be able to steal them before them at recess. You had spent far too much time trying to figure it out before your teacher told your principal to have a meeting.

Oddity. Which… did in fact have the word odd so you liked to think it still counted.

Odd, is the first word the doctor used to describe the symptoms your mother was having when she got sick. Odd was the first word your grandmother used to your father when she didn’t like how you were acting at the funeral, focusing on fixing the plates and cleaning the vases that held the flowers rather than crying in front of strangers that had a habit of touching you.

Odd. It was the word you would have used to describe the deep gashing feeling in your chest as you stared at your mothers photo that day instead of listening to the sermon. You knew her survival rate wasn’t high, she had told you herself. You knew she would pass and you had spent every second you could with her until it happened. And yet you felt like nothing would ever be fine again. Odd.

Odd that you cried while packing your room. You didn’t have friends here and it was better to leave the house your mother died in, and yet you couldn’t stop the feelings that destroyed you.

And odd had been the word your own father had used while describing you to your new teacher. He had held the strap of your backpack as if you would run away, and forced an awkward smile on his face as you blatantly refused to shake her hand. He took the time to describe your…. Oddness… while you organized the random desk they sat you at. Taking the time to clean up all the pencil shavings and neatly stack the papers, using a tissue to scrub off the drawings on the desk while the adults talked.

“My biggest hope for her here is to make friends. She struggled with it at the other school, and after the loss of her mother…. I am just worried.”

“She is at the perfect place.” The teacher smiled, making sure to smile in your direction as well to try and make you comfortable, but you merely saw the lipstick on her front tooth. And as if your father could read your thoughts he reached over to flick your ear with a knowing look while you tried to smile back.

And then he left, and the teacher showed you the desk that would be yours, muttering a “I just know you will fit in well here.”

But once the bell rang and all the students came running in you could merely watch as they all ignored you and kept to their own groups.

And when the kid sat in the desk you had sat in he let out an angry groan, looking around the room in accusation. “Which dipshit cleaned my desk?”

“Edward Wayne Munson!” The teacher snapped, right as he made eye contact with you.

So much for fitting in, not that you ever thought you would.

Being odd and all.

Two weeks, it merely took two weeks for you to earn the odd status you seemed to carry with you everywhere you went.

Carol Perkins said that you were a freak for how clean you kept your desk, and Tommy Hagan said you must be a robot clone, which started an entire chain of rumors and left your classmates beeping whenever you tried to speak with them.

And your teacher, Mrs. Stason had seemed to forget her promise of you fitting in. Or maybe she just truly didn’t see how much you were resented with how busy she was trying to maintain the classroom.

But it wasn’t truly upsetting. Not really. It meant that people left you alone. Especially at lunch, which gives you time to watch everyone.

You often watched Carol show her friends something from her mothers makeup collection that had been stolen, and Jamie liked to race back and forth in the cafeteria before he was yelled at by the aid. Tommy would brag about his lunch, always store bought, and he would almost always complain about his little brother's peanut allergy when any of his friends brought in pb&j sandwiches.

Eddie Munson, the boy that hated you for cleaning his desk, was the only one that seemed to be left out of the camaraderie of the classmates, in fact it seemed his lunch was always packed with cartoon comics that he read during lunch. With his Beatles lunch box, that had a bandaid working as tape in the corner.

But things got interesting when Tommy Hagan brought in his own Beatles lunch box and claimed that Eddie had been copying him the whole time. And all you could think was how silly it all was as Tommy threw a fit about it.

It was a Wednesday that the pattern was disrupted.

The routine was natural at this point. Mrs. Stason would let them have 10 minutes of reading time before she took them through the words of the day, in which she would use one of those words to announce lunch time.

“And today we will all SCAMPER to grab our lunches and make our way to the lunch room.” And that would cue the scraping of chairs as everyone rushed to their cubbies. But today, when Eddie normally rushed out of the room first to get his favorite spot in the cafeteria, he merely blinked at his cubby before digging around once more and gasping in anger as the room cleared out.

You slowly grabbed your own lunch as you watched the boy tear out his backpack and dig through it before flipping it up and down to dump out its contents as the teacher gasped out and moved to stop him. But he didn’t seem to notice her, instead he looked into the empty cubby once more.

“MY LUNCHBOX IS GONE!”

“Edward, please.”

“It’s gone!”��

“This isn’t the time for dramatics. Let’s walk to the office and see if anything was put in lost and fo-“ He doesn’t wait until she finishes her sentence, storming off and leaving her to follow. And you are left in the classroom by yourself, staring at the open door before something catches your eye.

There was a smudge in Eddie’s cubby. This wasn’t uncommon for the boy, considering you had cleaned his desk that first day, but this smudge? Pink.

Without thinking you swiped a finger through it, rubbing it between your fingers as it spreads softly before you looked to see that it had gotten on his backpack as well. It was recognizable and yet you couldn’t place where you had seen that shade of pink or what it was exactly. So you grabbed a tissue from the box and swiped some more of it in the tissue, making sure to fold it before tucking it in your desk and walking to the lunchroom.

When Eddie returns with the teacher he seems twice as aggravated. You offer him half your sandwich, he pushes it away and throws your muffin in the trash before storming off with heavy stomps.

Fair enough.

But it stuck with you, even as you walked home. It wasn’t until you saw your neighbor, Sandra, watering her plants that you recognized the shade of pink adorning her lips.

“Ms. Parsen?” You call, walking up to her as she turns to give you her full attention. She takes a minute to compliment your outfit and exclaim about how happy she was to see you since you had moved in. You allowed her to babble for a second before pulling out the tissue.

“Do you know this color?”

“It’s pink.” She smiles.

“Well yes. But would you recognize if it’s makeup?”

“Dearie, it doesn’t take the brightest pear on the tree to see that it’s lipstick.” She huffs, and though you don’t understand her reference you don’t bother arguing.

The next day at school when the teacher uses the word rogue to introduce lunch you decide to go on a little rogue mission of your own. Pretending to tie your shoe as the rest of the class leaves, before heading over to Carol's desk and flipping it open.

“What are you doing?” A voice asks, making you jump so hard the desk slams loudly, whirling to find Eddie Munson standing in the doorway.

His eyes widen at the sound before he shuts the door so no teachers will come and yell at you, turning back to watch you.

“What are you doing?” You parrot back, panicking that you had just been caught breaking the rules.

“I came….” His neck grows red as he looks around the room in an attempt to avoid your gaze. “I came to apologize. I packed an extra brownie for lunch….. cause I messed up your muffin.”

“It’s fine.”

“Nah. It wasn’t. You were being nice in offering me half your lunch. I was upset that I lost my uncle's lunch box. I knew my pa was gonna be mad.” At the mention of the missing lunch box you look to see his grip on a paper sack, and notice the welt on his hand. But Eddie didn’t seem like the type to answer questions freely. So you turned back to Carol's desk. “You shouldn’t do that. She gets real upset about people touching her stuff.”

“She won’t have to know.” You respond, reaching for her pencil case and opening it up to reveal a lipstick tube. Without bothering to look back to Eddie you lose the cap of it and match it to the tissue before rushing to his cubby and matching it to the stain on his backpack.

“The hell is that?” He asks, peering over your shoulder.

“That is my first clue.”

And so he follows you to the lunchroom, and sits with you while you question Carol, only she doesn’t break. And by the time the bell rings you are left with no answers.

Eddie, with his mouth stuffed with brownie, offers you the second by sliding it closer to you on a napkin. “Not right now.” You mumble, standing to follow the class back to your room.

And it’s there you stare at Carol….. Well, glare is the better term.

Eddie keeps turning around in his desk to watch you narrow your eyes at the girl, watching as she begins to fidget in her seat before recess is called. And you waste no time cornering her.

“I’ll tell the teacher about the makeup.” You threaten, folding your arms. “Tell me what you know.”

“I caught Tommy taking it!” She snitches, stomping her foot. “I was going to apply the lipstick that morning, only when I walked into the class I caught Tommy at the cubbies while Eddie was in the bathroom. We heard the warning bell so I rushed to help him put Eddie’s backpack back in the cubby before anyone saw.”

She rushes off after that, and Eddie is excited as ever. “Come on! Let’s go corner Tommy!”

“No. Follow me.” You order; turning to walk into the classroom with Eddie hot on your heels.

“Oh, dearies, it’s recess time-“ your teacher tries to explain before you stomp to Tommy’s cubby and tear it out.

“Now what do you think you are doing young lady?!”

“Here!” You smile, showing the lunchbox. “This is Eddie’s!”

“No dear. That’s Tommy’s. Eddie, it’s not fair to blame Tommy for losing your belongings.”

“No! Look. It’s got the bandaid on the corner- AND-“ you open it up to reveal day old comics that were meant to be read yesterday.

“What does that prove?”

You hand the tin off to Eddie before rushing to his desk, flipping it open and digging through the stack of papers you organized on the first day. “Here!”

In your hand you showed the rest of the comics Eddie kept, more proof.

“Oh. Well I best be getting Tommy. wait here you two.” She sighs, rushing down the hall to get to the playground doors while Eddie smiles at you clutching his lunchbox.

“He’s gonna be in so much trouble!”

You merely shrug, moving to organize the papers in your hand as you wait. 10 minutes later Tommy is explaining that he broke his biking home and hadn’t wanted to get into trouble so he took Eddie’s.

By the time you are all dismissed back to recess Eddie is wound up in excitement. “You solved the case! My pa can’t be mad at me anymore.”

And you can’t help the smile that makes its way across your face before you reach the doors.

Normally you sit by yourself at one of the tables, reading until the period is over. And so you move to do just that, only for Eddie to follow you.

“Aren’t you going to swing?” Just as he always did at recess.

“They are already full. No use.” He shrugs, following you to the table. “Whatcha reading?”

“Nancy drew.” You shrug back, showing him. He’s smiling from ear to ear as you blink back.

“You’re an odd one. Aren’t ya?” And for the first time, the word actually sounded like a compliment.

The Case Of The Vanishing Homework.

“Quit wasting my time.” Eddie Munson growls as his eyebrows pinch together and his lips twitch as he holds back a frown at the scene before him. “You’re playing with me, right?”

It was lunch time, and the rest of your class was rushing around where the two of you sat at the worn down picnic tables off to the side while Eddie seemed dead set on throwing a fit. The worn wood was warm under your thighs and the sun was currently beating down on you, forming a flush to your cheeks and sweat to the back of your neck.

It never made sense to you why they couldn’t add any shade to the playground.

“It’s what my dad packed.” You shrug, pushing your sandwich towards him. “Half or not.”

“Not.” Eddie snaps back, giving your turkey swiss sandwich a firm glare as he pulls his pb&j back to his side of the table.

“I think you are being a bit dramati-” You don’t get a chance to finish your complaint before you see his eyebrow raise a bit as he stares at your side of the lunch, eyes holding a curious glint as they narrow in on the bread. “Eddie just try it.”

“But the cheese has holes.”

“And all cheese is technically mold. We are middle schoolers now, grow up.” You scoff, pushing half the sandwich to him and snatching half of his before you split your carrots and he splits his brownie. A nice routine the two of you built up, since his lunchbox had yet to go missing again.

It was your 7th grade year, or the beginning of it really. Since you had met Eddie Munson 2 years ago it was safe to say you both had been attached at the hip. You shared lunch, and you did homework together. He came over to your house for weekly dinners and you spent hours in the library halls.

43 Cases solved within your friendship as well. Missing halloween candy, a broken window, a lost dog which led to a lost cat, and Eddie’s favorite was the case of the flaming bag bandit. Which ended up being some nerdy kid trying to get payback on his brother's bullies. [Eddie ended up leaving a couple more to help the cause, you never asked where he got all the dog feces]

There was a term in the dictionary your teacher had you going through everyday to pick a word of the day, and your word today just so happened to be ‘codependent’. And you would use that word to describe your friendship with Eddie. And you didn’t know if that was a good thing.

“Hey Eds.” You start, tilting your head a bit as he looks up at you with his mouth full of the sandwich he had been hating on a mere minute ago. “Do you think it’s bad that we are so codependent?”

“Cowendats?” He parrots with his mouth still full as he struggles to chew, covering his mouth when you show your outward disgust before finally clearing his throat and stealing your water bottle to drink from.

“Smaller bites unless you want to choke.”

“Codependent?”

“Yes. It means-”

“I know what it means, Who said we are codependent? They can mind their own business. We are the two most dependent people I know.”

“I just think-”

“There you two are.” A sharp voice interrupts you both, making you jump in your skin as Eddie visibly flinches, and then you both are scrambling for coverage. He’s snatching up the food as you grab both your bags, tripping over yourselves as you both try to escape the approaching hag.

Hag…… or better known as the 8th grade teacher, Mrs. Bradford. She had a reputation at the school for being a cruel cruel beast. Overdoing homework. Detention nearly everyday. Her classroom was spoken to be an absolute drab of grey. And the rumors of her shoving kids in closets did nothing to actually help her reputation.

“‘I’ve already seen you. No point in running.” She huffs, head tilting up to the sky in aggravation as you and Eddie freeze in your positions, slowly turning to look at where she currently stood. With hands on her hips and a heavy gaze she looks to the both of you, sweat beginning to form on her forehead. “I hear you like to solve cases. I have come to collect you.”

“Oh!” You nod, your spine far too tight for the movement to seem natural. “The only problem is we are on lunch and it’s almost over. We have math class-”

“Really important class.” Eddie rushes out, snapping his fingers in a ‘dang it’ motion before his jaw tightens while a grimace coats his features and he inhales in fake frustration. “And we were so willing to help…… come on let’s go.”

Within a split second his fake grimace is dropped and he’s grabbing your elbow to lead you away in a hurry, but not before Mrs. Bradford steps in front of you both with a bored expression. Eddie nearly runs face first into her chest, stopping so quickly that you run into his back.

“I have hall passes for your next class.” Mrs. Bradford explains, her eyes narrowed into tiny slits as she motions with a finger for you both to follow. “Come on now. Before I change my mind.”

She walks away then, assuming you both would follow, but instead you merely stand next to Eddie near the table watching her go.

“What do we do?”

“I don’t think we have a choice….” He answers, shrugging a bit. “And anything beats missing math class.”

“You NEED math class ,may I remind you.” You seethe, shaking your head. “You got a 2 on the last assignment.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“Well I do an-”

“Are you two coming?!” Mrs. Bradford snaps out, giving you both an angry look that has the two of you scrambling to catch up with her from down the hall. Your backpack slips from your shoulder a bit, Eddie is quick to help you place it back while shoving the rest of the swiss sandwich in his mouth. He smiles a bit when he hears you mutter about it under your breath, flicking your nose before taking the lead in following the teacher.

“Alright, come on. This is my classroom.” She grumbles out, opening the door to reveal a bland but clean room. “I had booklets due yesterday, they were given two weeks ago and today one of these delinquents stole them all.”

“Stole them?”

“They were sitting on this corner last night. By this morning they were all gone and the only one left is the one I use to grade everyone else’s work. My own packet.” She explains, picking up her own packet before tossing it on one of the desks by where you stood. Eddie watches the packet slide before stopping it with a finger and swooping it up to hand to you.

“I’m a bit confused on why you need our help?”

“I need to know who took them. They were a part of the final grade in this class, I was planning on presenting them at the parent teacher conferences tonight. But I guess that plan is mute. Just….. I don’t really know what I am expecting here. Principal Beltz told me to find you.”

“Any suspects?” You ask, watching her closely.

“Dana Mitchell was quite snippy when I was collecting them, told me she hoped I lost them. Trevor….. Well he had detention and left after me because I had a class to attend and he was taking forever to pack up his bag. And Jesse didn’t even do his. So I’m sure this is just a pathetic attempt to ruin everyone else's grades.”

“Alright.” Eddie nods, watching you trace along the edges of the booklet before flipping it open. “Give us a few to look around.”

“If you think I’m leaving a Munson in this room without supervision then you are completely mistaken.”

“I have supervision.” He argues, gesturing to you. Her eyes flicker back and forth before she sighs out and nods, grabbing her keys and heading to the door. She makes sure it doesn’t slam, heading down the hall and leaving you two in the room. Eddie is quick, jumping to sit on a desk as you reach into your backpack and grab the notebook your father had given you.

“Alright, what do we know?”

“The packets are 40 pages long- jeez I hope I don’t get her class next year- and there are at least 17 kids in her class. That would be a pretty heavy stack to steal.”

“What else?”

“Jessie didn’t do his. Trevor had detention and was the last person in the room. Dana Mitchell was pretty mad about it as well.” He lists before looking offended. “Why is it Dana Mitchell? She’s the only Dana we have.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why do they say her last name?”

“I…. I don’t know.” You shrug, bending down to check under the desk. “Green gum. It looks like it has a piece of torn paper connected to it.”

“So trash?” It was a question meant to piss you off with the way he is already smiling when you turn to glare. “Also, Mrs. Bradford doesn’t know how to spell.”

“What?”

“Half these words are misspelled.” In two easy steps you are right beside him, snatching the book and flipping through it.

“It doesn’t have a name, but this is for sure not Mrs. Bradfords.” You note, trying to find something to work with. “Wait. There.”

He peers down to where you point, where Jesse has been practicing his signature like a celebrity. “This is Jesse’s booklet. The only reason it’s here is cause he turned it in today.”

“Which means that Mrs. Bradfords is with the rest.”

“Alright. Look around for clues.” And he does, hopping down from a desk, only Eddie’s version of looking for clues is following behind you as you look at things.

“Boot print near the door.”

“Why does that matter?”

“Because the rest of the floors are completely clean. But the gum and the bootprint are both right here.”

“Nice. Nice.”

“And…. look!” You reach to snatch the earring that had fallen under the desk, showing him what you found, a blue hoop.

“Dana Mit- Dana wears those. They are so ra ra cheerleader but she seems to like em.”

“Seems like we have a primary suspect.” You nod, moving to stand up, allowing him to reach to help you up before patting yourself down.

“They are all on lunch. Let’s go.” He leads the way through the halls, smiling to the janitor and giving him a big wave. Paul notes this, stopping his work of trying to lift the can off his car to wave back. His stops chewing his gum to mutter out a brief hello before Eddie helps haul the can for him.

By the time you both make it to the cafeteria the hall is backed.

Dana seems to pinpoint you the second you walk into the cafeteria, rolling her eyes when you both sit across from her and pushing her tray away with a freshly manicured hand. “Nancy Drew and her boy toy.”

“She’s got an actual name you know?” Eddie snips out, eyes narrowed as his neck extends in a peckish manner.

“It’s worthy to note that it was her name that you corrected and not me calling you her boy toy.” Dana huffs out, chewing on her gum obnoxiously. “I didn’t steal the friggin homework.”

“How did you know we were here about the homework?”

“Because it’s in your hand dipshit.”

“Right.” Eddie nods, his neck tinging with a bit of red before he looks at you and you try not to laugh at his face. The weirdest thing about Eddie was his lack of care for embarrassment, it could take him less than 2 seconds to wipe something off and find the humor of it all.

You are about to make a joke for him until Dana pops her gum and pulls your attention back to her, noting when it gets stuck to her lip.

“Well thank you for your time.” You smile, standing up quickly and leading Eddie out of the hall. He sputters on his words, trying to figure out why you ended that so early but you were already walking ahead.

“Why did you end that? We had her nervous, ready to confess.” He grunts, struggling to keep up. “Let’s go back and get her to confess.”

“She didn’t do it.”

“How do you know that?”

“Why do you bother questioning me after all this time?”

“Not a clue actually.”

He waits while you take pictures before walking you back to class, bumping his shoulder with yours every time he gets bored, making you roll your eyes a bit until he decides to dead weight on you last minute, sending you both sliding across the floor in fits of laughter before a teacher yells at you to get to class.

By the time school is out for the day you have a plan, you just know Eddie isn’t gonna love it. “Tonight, at the parent teacher conferences we meet up by our classroom. Deal?”

He extends his pinkie out to you, which you grasp in your own before leaning forward to butt your foreheads together in your signature handshake. Groaning out and rubbing the sore spots when the hit hurts.

“That was a good one-”

“You get a metal plate installed?” You blurt out before laughing, leaning up to kiss his cheek and rush to your bike to get home.

By the time you get home your dad is back from work, struggling to remove his tie as you rush to grab your detective bag. He spots it sitting by the front door while you both eat dinner, narrowing his eyes at you in a protective manner. “Why do you have your sleuth kit out?”

“Oh no reason.” You shrug, moving to make a plate for Eddie since the mac n cheese was always one of his favorites.

“Right. Make sure to grab Eddie some broccoli too. And make sure he actually eats it this time please!” His voice grows louder when he makes it to the kitchen to clean up, and you grab Eddie exactly three pieces, already knowing you’ll struggle to get him to eat them.

By the time you make it to the school the plate is covered with a wrap and Eddie is nowhere to be seen, though you weren’t too worried about it yet while your dad began looking around. “Alright, who do you and Eddie hang out with?”

“What?”

“Your friends. You and Eddie. Where are your friends?” He asks, wiping dust off his jacket while you blink at him like he’s grown a third head.

“Eddie isn’t here yet.” You explain.

“I realize that. But where are the rest of your friends?”

You gape at him, embarrassment beginning to claim you as you realize that you don’t have any other friends and he expected you to, and right as you were beginning to mouth the lame excuse Eddie Munson showed up to save you. An arm wrapping around your shoulders easily as your fathers eyes widen.

You realize why your father looked so shocked the second you turn to your friend, who was smiling even though a dark bruise and a split lip covered half his face. “What? Am I so beautiful you are at a loss for words?”

“I made you a plate. Dad says you have to eat the brocc-”

“This must be the famous Nancy Drew.” Someone calls out, walking up to where the three of you had been standing. Your father stands straight, already glaring, before the man in the jean jacket grabs Eddie’s shoulder with a comforting squeeze and extends his hand. “I’m his Uncle Wayne. His father couldn’t make it tonight.”

“Oh. Right.” Your father nods, before hearing something clatter behind him and clearing his throat. “Shall we go in, Wayne? I’m sure we can get some good seats in the far back.”

“I like the way you think.”

“You. Do not wander off too far. You hear me?” Your dad asks, giving a fake glare which you nod to before leading Wayne into the classroom.

“Alright, what’s this plan of yours?”

“What happened to your face?” You blurt, unable to stop the question as Eddie removes his arm from your shoulder and pulls out his flashlight.

“Just a run in with a wall.” He shrugs, not looking at you as his hand swipes across the buzz cut on his head, scratching a bit which is a sign he is nervous or lying. Both, from what you can tell.

“Alright. You’re lying but I’ll allow it.” You huff, pulling out your sleuthing kit, snatching the camera from the sleeve and zipping it back up. “Follow me.”

He does, flicking his flashlight on once you get to the section of the school where the lights are already turned off for the night, going down the stairs into the basement.

“It was weird to me that the rest of the floors were clean, but not around the desk. There was even the boot mark by it as if someone had tripped.” You begin to explain, keeping pace with him as he leads you through the mechanical room. “And when Mrs. Bradford sat in her chair it groaned, and a screw had been sitting by a leg of the chair but it was full of new screws.”

“Which means?”

“That someone had messed with her chair. I think it was Trevor, he waited until she left after the detention to mess with her chair, a harmless prank.”

“Then how did it get fixed?”

“Thursdays are mopping and wax nights, Paul always wears his grey uniform on thursdays because of the wax ruining fabric and he hates that one. On Fridays he wears his blue, which he wore yesterday.”

“And he looked great.”

“Right, anyways, the boots he wore match the markings. Here’s what I think happened. Paul had back surgery 2 months ago, this is his second week back which means he’s bound to take lots of breaks especially since he hauls things with his back everyday-”

“Poor guy.”

“I think he went to sit in Mrs. Bradfords chair and because of Trevors prank he ended up falling. Which made him panic, he’s too nice, and he was worried about the chair so he took the time to fix it.”

“Got it.”

“I think when he fell he kicked the stack and they landed in his bin, which is why he struggled to lift it today.”

“But what about the gum? Dana chewed gum.”

“So did Paul. Dana’s was pink, bubblegum, it got stuck to her lip today at lunch. Pauls is spearmint. I guarantee it.” You finish explaining, leading him to the janitors closet. “I just need you to pick the lock so we can see in.”

“Anything you need.” He smiles, bending to make quick work of the lock before the door swings open and he smiles up at you at his work. “You and me against the world.”

You smile back before rushing past to dig through the bins before stopping at the one with a blue mark, pulling forward to look inside. “FOUND EM!”

He laughs, pulling forward to help you snatch them up in a pile, helping you carry them out until you make it back to Mrs. Bradfords class and setting them on her desk right as she finishes up her speech to the parents within the class. Eddie smiles at her, she rolls her eyes, and just like that another mystery solved.

By the next morning you manage to make it to class with a little extra time, stopping by the janitors closet to find Paul.

“What can I do for ya?”

“I wanted to make sure you were okay after your fall. And to bring you some fruit.” You extend the basket out, handing it to him as he laughs before setting it down to a stack of comics. “Munson already stopped by. You both make quite the pair.”

Yes. Co-dependent? Sure. But that didn’t matter at all.

The Case Of The Missing Hours.

Freshman year and not much had changed in the life of crime fighting. Case after case. Test after test. And you could handle it all, at least that’s what you told yourself.

Eddie had been removed from his dads custody though he hated talking about it, and had since moved in with his Uncle Wayne in the 1 bedroom trailer home near the edge of town. Wayne had allowed him to take the room, and at first you had HATED it. He never kept his room clean, and it was a new territory to you that broke your everyday pattern.

But over time that began to change.

Your father began working morning noon and night, which often times left you alone at the house. For some this seemed to be the perfect way to spend their time, for you it just left time to overthink. You couldn’t sleep lately, with so much to do and anytime you nearly got to sleep something woke you up. A tree hitting a window. A car alarm from down the street. A creak in your house that had you assuming the worst.

And if it wasn’t something keeping you up then it was your brain. The way Tammys zipper was down after lunch, the one pencil missing in a case. One thing out of place and you were in for a long night.

But with Eddie you could just breathe. There was a comfort in knowing you could spend time with someone who didn’t care if everything was out of place. Where you got the urge to right everything you had somehow learned to coast in the way he lived.

So time at his trailer became natural. Though it never helped you catch up on your sleep. Which he was beginning to notice, had even rubbed eyeliner under his own eyes to imitate your eyebags one day, laughing his butt off until you hit him with a pillow.

Until it all changed.

You had at least 50 assignments due, and 20 million cases to solve. Which in regular math meant you had 7 assignments and 2 cases. But all that on top of lack of sleep in the past 7 days was beginning to drag you down, words were hard to read and you couldn’t concentrate. So you packed your backpack ans headed to Eddie’s.

It took 2 knocks until he was there, swinging the door so hard that he swishes on his own feet, the hair he had been growing out now swishing a bit with him at his ears before his smile lands on you. Immediately you are basked in what you could only describe as sunlight.

Because that’s how it felt. When Eddie had his attention on you it felt like sunlight. Warm, welcoming, chasing all your shadows away and making you nearly melt under his gaze. The newest change had been when your heart began speeding up everytime he smiled at you, the way the back of your neck warmed with the flush that spread through you and you hoped to god he didn’t see the blush traveling your cheeks.

Oh right, the biggest change of all, you were painfully in love with Eddie Munson.

How utterly screwed you were.

“Let me guess. You need my help with the math homework?”

“Oh how smart you are.” You smile, pushing your feet to move forwards when he moves to the side to let you in, pulling a bit of your hair as you pass to make you laugh while Wayne stands from his chair to give you a hug.

“Don’t be letting my boy distract you now, one of you has to keep up the good grades.” Wayne teases, moving to sit back down. You knew that here in 30 minutes he would be heading to work.

“Oh real funny.” Eddie huffs, leading you to his room. When he opens his door he has to shove a little harder to move the pile of clothes that had built up from his closet, giving you a guilty look but not before showing off the shirt he was wearing. “Couldn’t find this badboy.”

“Your plain baseball tee?”

“Yah! I was thinking of making it into a band tee or somethin’.” He explains, kicking a pillow up into the air so he could catch it before smashing it onto the bed and falling into it like a wrestler would, kickign his feet to banish his backpack from the top so that you could take up your normal place to study. “Milady…”

“How generous.” You smile, falling into the bed and moving to grab your textbook out before opening it to the page you had left off on as Eddie snatches his guitar from the wall and begins messing with the chords.

It had been a christmas gift from Wayne, you had gotten him the books to go along with learning and you had made a bet that he wouldn’t practice everyday for a year. You knew he would, Eddie lived for music, you also knew he had better chances of doing so if he was gonna win 50 bucks at the end of it. You had the 50 stored in your jewelry box, ready for when the time came.

“What ya workin’ on?” He asks, not looking up from the guitar but pushing his foot out to tap the book with a socked toe. You push his foot away and mumble out a simple “Science homework.”

He scoffs, mimicking your voice before using his toe to poke you. “You’d be more comfortable against the pillows. You’d concentrate more.”

“What happened to not leaking all my brain juice onto your pillows?”

“That was when you were sick and had the ear infection. How was I supposed to know you weren’t going to drain onto the pil-”

“Drainage happens within the canal-”

“Just come sit. I want you to sit by me.” He sighs, scooching over a bit so you would have room, and you didn’t bother arguing more, already moving until you were sitting side by side so you could keep reading. Only he was right, it was really comfortable, and he smelled great and it was so warm.

Before you could really stop it you sunk down further and further.

No. You told yourself. You will not fall asleep. You have so much homework to do. And you still need to go out and check Harrisons garage door…..

You wouldn’t fall asleep. You would not fall asleep.

…

You wake to the sound of music from Eddie’s radio playing softly, normally it was filled with rock music but today it’s a tune you immediately recognize. Fur Elise, Beethoven. It takes you a moment to blink, waking up from a sleep so deep you struggled to get any of your limbs to move. Or maybe that was because you were attached so closely to Eddie. Your legs woven with his as you hugged him close, one of his arms wrapped around you and the other holding the pillow up so you both remained comfortable as he snored.

It takes a moment to fully register everything. You had fallen asleep, last time you checked it was still sunny outside and yet now it was pitch black. And you were wrapped up in Eddie's arms. Your science book sat neatly on the nightstand.

Eddie must feel you stir, because in a moment he is inhaling and his eyes shoot open as he looks around the room for a problem, narrowing his eyes at you. “Why youf wake upn?”

You shrug, the only answer you think you can get out with how heavy your tongue is and dry your mouth is, blinking slowly as you struggle to sit up.

“No.” Eddie whines out, shoving his face into the pillow while you reach for his alarm clock.

“2 am. Eddie!” You accuse, standing quickly.

“What? Where are you going?”

“I had so much to do! Homework and case work and we were supposed to go look at Harrisons garage.”

“Screw the harrisons.” Eddie huffs, slapping the pillow before sitting up. “Listen. You have bags under your bags. You need sleep. I called and let your dad know you were here and we have all weekend to do the homework. The cases can wait. If Harrison is mad because someone broke into his garage and wrecked his car then he can go to the police.”

“But-”

“No. Come on. You are still tired and I did not waste 3 dollars on this Bach cassette-”

“Beethoven.” You correct, already shuffling back to the bed, stopping just short of climbing in which makes him glare and reach out an arm like he was preparing to catch you if you tried to leave once more. But you weren’t looking to escape, you were thinking of how uncomfortable your jeans were. “Do you have a shirt I can wear?”

“Does it have to be clean?”

“Eddie.”

“I know I know.” He huffs, jumping up to open a drawer and throw a tee at you, before slamming his body back down with enough force that he bounces a bit on the mattress. You struggle to take your jeans off, even hitting your head on the door enough to make Eddie flinch before you find yourself on the bed. Locking pinkies, hitting foreheads and laying side by side before you both pass out.

He was right, you had all weekend to catch up. For now you were fine with Eddie snoring in your ear.

The Case Of The Lovesick Fool.

“Welp.” Eddie smiles from ear to ear, watching the police haul off one of the perps you had just caught. A string of home burglaries that had led to a stalker situation. It had taken you all but 2 weeks to figure it out. “That’s a wrap on the burglar case.”

His hand comes up to flick your nose, but once he’s done with that me makes sure to take a moment to brush the hair out of your face. His smile is tense but he’s doing his best to seem calm and at ease, even after being shoved off the second story balcony of the Tarney home.

“What do we do now?” You ask, stepping closer to him as someone pushes past you on the sidewalk. His hands shoot out to catch you, keeping you in place, while sending a glare to the guy passing. And while his hand rubs your arms up and down you can’t help but stare at him intently. “Maybe burgers.”

“Woah….” He gasps, reaching out a ringed hand to check your forehead for a fever in a way that makes you scoff and pull back, fixing your hair at the motion as he shakes his head. “I never thought we’d see the day that you suggest something other than finding another mystery.”

“I’m hungry.”

“Did you hit your head? Catch the plague while you were crawling through tunnels? No! Don’t tell me! A serial killer cut your skin off and has been wearing it around pretending to be you!”

“Are you done? My stomach is rumbling.” You groan, moving to walk in front of him. He whirls, catching up with you in a moment, keeping your pace as he continues to list off reasons you’d want to go get food.

“You think Benny is killing people and hoarding their bodies in the basement?” He asks while opening your door to his van, extending a hand to help you in and making sure you are comfortable before slamming it shut and rushing to his side. It takes two turns to start, and once it does he hits the wheel in excitement before kissing the wheel and muttering a thank you under his breath.

It was junior year now, and things with Eddie had changed quite a bit.

His hair was longer now, much much longer. His fingers adorned with rings, nearly every outfit was worn with a leather jacket and a jean vest, even when it was far too hot out. Under Wayne’s care he had managed to pick up his life a bit. His smiles were all for the most part real and you never saw him with bruises anymore….. Okay unless he got a little too real in the mystery world which you always felt guilty over.

Another thing that had changed? Eddie managed to make friends.

You had taken up journalism at school for some extra credit points, and while you had that after school he decided DnD would be how he spent time. And there he was introduced to Gareth, Jeff and Doug. They grew close pretty quickly, which you would have thought to be great, only they didn’t seem too crazy about you.

You tried, you swear it. You attempted to go to their game nights, you tried to watch them play in the bad they had been forming and when Eddie insisted you sit with them at lunch you tried to bring out some of your best jokes. But everything you said fell flat, every joke met with pity chuckles that made it all the worse and every question was answered with a bored expression or attitude at you not knowing.

But the worst thing was the way they made fun of the mysteries.

But Eddie loved them, and you loved Eddie.

So it was no surprise that when you both entered Benny’s burger house the DnD group was there calling for him to come sit in the back booth.

Eddie casts an excited glance your way before grabbing your arm and leading you to where they all sat, talking in your ear about how exciting it was that they were here. And you tried to place a smile on, even though you had wanted it to be just the two of you.

“Eds! We thought she’d be dragging you around on that mystery all day!” Gareth laughs, pulling an extra chair over with his leg for Eddie to sit in while you get the final spot in the booth by Jeff. You attempt a smile, which is sadly returned with a terse nod in return.

“Well Nancy Drew here managed to solve it in record time…. Only after I was pushed out a window.” Eddie teases, bumping his shoulder into yours before snatching a menu to look at.

“Nancy Drew.” Doug scoffs, chuckling a bit. “Are you like best friends with the cops?”

“Dude, I bet Nancy Drew has Hopper on speed dial.” Gareth cackles, clapping hands with Jeff when he starts laughing too, and you attempt to laugh like it’s so funny but really you just feel like some sort of cheap joke. The wound digs even deeper when you turn to find Eddie laughing with them, covering his face and keeling over from how funny he thought it was.

“I have a name you know.” Even your voice comes out tense, though you wanted it to sound like you were having fun.

“There you guys are!” A female voice calls out, pulling all their attention to where the prettiest girl you’d ever seen is currently walking up, smiling from ear to ear. Her hair is teased, perfectly so, in the way that you could never actually figure out and she is wearing one of those hellfire tees that Eddie and you had made during a sleepover, only hers is tied into a shorter version that ends at her ribcage. “Ugh the traffic was terrible.”

“You say that every time you run late, Trish. Just admit you took too long with your makeup.” Gareth teases, a large smile forming on his face.

A wave of excitement passes through you when you realize she was coming to hang out, and you might get a chance to have another female around in this ragtag group. You can feel a smile break out as you stand and extend a hand out, introducing yourself.

She blinks at the hand before her lipstick covered lips tilt up in a smirk that has your hackles rising. Before she gets the next words out you know how this will play out, you had dealt with plenty of girls who hated you enough to know.

“I didn’t realize this was a business meeting.” She giggles, walking past you to get into the booth where you had just been sitting, leaning forward to grab Eddie’s jaw like she had been doing it forever. “What happened to you? Oh you look miserable, baby.”

Baby.

“Nancy Drew dragged him on another mystery,” Doug grumbles, gesturing his thumb to you with a sneer and a roll of his eyes.

“I have to go.” You blurt, body completely frozen with your heart beating through your chest as you take in the scene before you, at just how comfortable they all seemed together. You were the odd man out here, and you had places to be. “Bye.”

You turn on your heels, rushing for the door as a wave of exhaustion hits you all at once, blinking back tears from that encounter as you hear Eddie rush out an apology before the sound of his feet chase after you on the diner tile.

“Hey Nancy Drew!” Benny calls out, and it feels like a punch to the gut when the rest of the booth starts laughing out while you make work to push the front door open and escape.

“Wait. Hang on.” Eddie huffs, grabbing your arm in the parking lot before you can make your escape. “What’s going on? I thought you were hungry?”

“I just have to go.” You rush out. “I remembered I have a paper due for class and I promised my dad I’d be home soon-”

“Why don’t you worry about that after you eat? Come on, our friends are here-”

“Your friends.” You correct with a shake of your head while he stops short. You can see in the moment that you shouldn’t have, because his shoulder drop and his eyes close, reaching a hand up to rub at them in annoyance. “They aren-”

“I know! I know!” He snaps, eyes opening to glare at you now. “They aren’t your friends. You’ve made that clear. But it’s not shocking because you could probably list all of your friends on one fucking hand.”

“Well I-” You attempt to argue, shocked by this outburst, but he beats you to the punch.

“Me. That’s it. That’s your only friend.” He growls out. “I am working in overtime trying to get you to hang out with more people. I am wasting so much energy trying to help you get along with everyone.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that.” You snap back, voice tight.

“No you didn’t because you seem to think I’m the only friend you need. Always around me. Always attached. So co dependent.”

“You haven’t said anything about it before.” He hadn’t, and you were trying really hard not to let your eyes water in this moment.

“Because I felt bad! You’re so odd, I didn’t want to hurt your feelings about it. I love hanging out with you but just maybe not…. So much.”

“That Trish girl, you hadn’t even mentioned her before. How long has she been in DnD?” You ask, hating the way he seems to blush at the mention of her name.

“She’s not technically. She hangs out with us when we practice for gigs an-”

“But you said that only the people in Hellfire got the shirts!” What a lame argument, you think to yourself.

“That’s cause the boys- they just-”

“It’s fine.” You snap out, turning to walk away, tears running down your face causing a hot sticky feeling to follow under the dense heat. “I get it.”

“This didn’t have to be such a problem.” He calls after you, following a few steps behind. “Come on, don’t make this a fight. We can work-”

“It’s fine. I have another case I can work o-”

“Of course you do.” He laughs, and you turn back to see him whirl around with his hands up in a dramatic motion before slamming them to his hips. “Of course you have another case. That’s all you ever have.”

“It was fine for me.” You seethe, embarrassed at the fact that he was seeing you cry in a burger joint parking lot. “I like the cases, and I like not having a ton of friends. If you told me that you felt like I was too attached I would have pulled back.”

He gapes at you, his neck going a little red as he openly stares before taking a step forward in attempt to wipe some of the tears off your face only you pull back and slap his hand away. “I didn’t mean it…. It’s just been a long day and I’m sor-”

“I have to go.” You don’t risk another look back, even when he calls out your name.

And once you get home, sobbing now, you make quick work of throwing away all the Nancy Drew books you had collected over the years.

Want a part 2 with an epic nancy drew mystery?

Find it HERE

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monstersflashlight · 9 hours ago

Note

Hey, I love you content. Really totally love it. Is it weird to say that it makes me relax ?

Anyhow I read a tumblr post today about some really nice gentle giant movers and packers and I wanted to ask you if you could write a human×minotaur drabble/post about the human hiring a company of movers and packers with incredible reviews and these massive human guys show up who are all so nice and sweet and then this more massive minotaur shows up and you think that he would be lifting heavy furniture but he begins to carefully wrap all the delicate items and then he helps in lifting the heavy furniture which makes all the humans huff and gruff but he's making a specific grunt sound once in a while which travels straight down to your core.

You were too stressed that day to focus on him but that doesn't mean that you didn't touch yourself to the thought of him late at night once they all left. Without your knowledge he tucked away a few of your things and he kept coming back to return them to you. You were still unpacking so you didn't actually know how much was missing and were very grateful and always offered him something in return i.e. drinks or snacks or just hanging out for a bit which turns into him helping you out to sort stuff.

One day he shows up just as you have gotten out of the shower and were in the middle of a mastμrbating session and he can smell it on you. It makes him go feral and then after everything's done he gets all cuddly and purrs a little bit (I read somewhere that cows and some bulls purr when they're happy just like cats do)

I'm sorry if this was too long. I love your writing because it tickles very niche and specific interests and I wanted to throw the whole idea out there. Thank you so much if you choose to write this and thank you so much regardless.

A/N: Hi there! It makes me happy that you like my content, thank you so much for being here and reading my stuff. <3 Hope you like this!

Moving company

Minotaur x fem!reader || sex toys, oral sex

When you decided to move, someone at work recommended you a monster moving company, claiming they would do the job in half the time. Which they did. But still was a surprise when a team of four minotaurs showed at your door and started moving boxes as if they weighted nothing. You had never enjoyed watching someone as much as you did that day. Their rippling muscles flexing and bulging, sweat running down their torsos and foreheads as they moved your stuff around. By the time they left, you were wet and ready to get beyond fucked.

But wasn’t until a couple days later that one of the movers, the one with the long hair and pretty hazel eyes, appeared on your doorstep with a box of books, excusing himself and his crew because they forgot to bring that one in. You thanked him, offering him some of the tea you were preparing. He agreed, and you started talking, enjoying his company a bit more than necessary. He left that evening with a smile and your phone number.

And he appeared again and again, always with the excuse of something he forgot to bring you, until you brought it up and he shyly admitted he liked you and wanted to know you better. You (obviously) kissed him that day, and you made out like teenagers. It was fantastic and you craved more and more.

But he was a perfect gentleman, always appearing with a flower or some sweets, glad to be spending time with you without sexual expectations. Or at least that’s what you thought. But you weren’t like that, you were a horny human with a monster kink who was dating a minotaur… and you wanted to get destroyed.

But since he’s not doing anything to make that happen, you get out the big guns, aka: your biggest dildo. You are bouncing on it, on the edge of what feels like a great orgasm when the doorbell rings. You let out a short cry, startled, and consider not answering, but you know who it is. There’s no other who would show up at your house uninvited.

So you put up some pants, and a shirt and walk to the door. As expected, your minotaur boyfriend is there, with a cupcake in one hand and a rose in the other and looking incredibly handsome. You almost moan at the sight, your pussy still tingling.

You see the exact second his nostrils flare and he smells the juices still sticking to your pussy, still wet from your activities. You watch his eyes darken and his body tensing. He drops the flower and the muffin and lets out a tiny groan.

Then he launches.

You let out a screech when his big body collides with your middle and he pulls you up over his shoulder, grunting about mattresses and flat surfaces. You half-heatedly point to your right, to your bedroom, and he kicks the door open with his hoof.

You let out an amused huff, slapping his ass and getting a slap in return, which only makes you groan. That snaps him out of his trance, throwing you to the mattress and kneeling on the floor, pulling your legs to him until your covered pussy is in in front of his face and he’s looking at you for permission.

“Yes,” you moan.

He rips your yoga pants in the middle, his big rough tongue over your pussy in a second as he devours you and groans at the taste. “Were you playing with this pretty cunt?” You nod, rolling your hips against his exploring fingers, trying to get him to push them inside. “So naughty, fucking what’s mine…” His possessive tone makes your legs tremble at the same time he pushes two fingers inside of you and sucks on your clit while you cry out. “Give me the toy, darling. I want to see how pretty your pussy looks around it,” he grunts. You do as told.

He takes no time pushing the toy inside of you, cooing as you groan. He fucks it into your already welcoming heat, your pussy stretching to the brim as he grunts with each thrust as if it’s his own dick being feed into your hungry cunt. You can’t get enough of it, begging for more over and over.

And when his tongue joins, licking your clit at the same time he twists his wrist to get the toy to the perfect angle… You come messily, screaming his name as loud as possible as you lose control of your movements and roll your hips down against the toy and his warm tongue.

You open your eyes a few seconds later to find him lowering his pants and keeling between your open legs. “Now you take me,” he says with a growl, his dick in his hand, way bigger than the dildo…

Fuck yeah.

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worksby-d · 2 days ago

Text

𝐓𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲

Pairing: pornstar!Johnny Storm x pornstar!Reader

Summary: You and Johnny sit down to film on the same set you first filmed together on one year ago. You think back to why you only film with each other now. Read part one here 🫶

Warnings: AU, feeling jealousss, talking about p*rn, 18+

Word count: ~1,000

a/n: Nothing like a sequel three years later, am I right!!

. * ✦ . ◍ ∘ . * ✦ ‧ ∘ ⊹

“Only friends?”

“Yes.” You shot a playful glare toward the camera. “Just friends.”

You and Johnny both look up from the tablet the crew gave you to watch and react to your pre-scene interviews from one year ago.

You’re on the same exact set, but this time you’re not answering questions separately. Johnny’s sat right beside you on the neatly-made bed, a hand resting subconsciously on your back. He knows this is your least favorite part of all of this.

Holding back laughter, you look at each other before looking back toward the camera and the same producer asking questions in front of you.

“I wasn’t lying!” You quickly defend yourself. “We really weren’t together then.”

“Okay, okay,” she laughs, looking down at her own screen for the next question. “We believe you. But you’re together now…” The way both of your smiles grow gives her your answer. “And you pretty much exclusively work with each other now, is that right?”

“Yeah, for the past four months or so,” Johnny answers.

“It seems like a lot of people in this industry don’t let relationships stop them from continuing their work as normal,” she says. “So how did you guys come to that decision for yourselves?”

Johnny’s quick to take this question too.

“Are you kidding? I couldn’t risk having her fall for someone else,” he jokes.

You roll your eyes at him. That’s not at all the reason. It had a lot more to do with some of your insecurities than anything else, but no one needs to know that, so you’re thankful he came up with that.

And luckily no one on a porn set cares to get any deeper, so they take the laugh and move on...

Faster than you do.

. * ✦ . ◍ ∘ . * ✦ ‧ ∘ ⊹

You walked into the studio hand-in-hand with Johnny that day. It was your day off, you just tagged along as the supportive girlfriend.

He had done the same for you a few times before.

You always thought that if someone asked if you were the jealous type you would have laughed in their face. You couldn't be when this was both of your jobs. Hooking up with other people was just part of your normal.

But being there, watching Johnny with his scene partner that day, made you question that.

A queasy feeling settled in your stomach as the day went on. You watched him laugh with the girl between scenes, give her reassuring touches, and put on one of the best acts you've seen from him.

When you looked around, you could tell the crew was happy with what they were getting too.

You stood by yourself, watching through a monitor, nervously biting your nails without even noticing you were doing it.

The feeling inside you got worse when they were directed into the next position. Johnny’s hands gripped the girl’s hips, pulling her to the edge of the bed while he kneeled between her legs.

You were in her position just the night before.

You told yourself you didn't have to watch, it was enough that you were there. But you couldn't get yourself to look away.

When you finally did, you slipped out of the room to get some air.

You found an empty hallway. Your back slid against the wall until you were sitting on the floor, knees up to your chest, letting out a deep breath.

Footsteps eventually interrupted your pity party. You looked up quickly, and they weren't just any steps, they were Johnny’s.

“Hey,” he said softly. He was still shirtless like he was more concerned about finding you than getting his clothes back on. “There you are. I was looking for you.”

“Just needed a moment.” You hoped your smile looked convincing. “Long day in there.”

“Tell me about it,” he chuckled, taking a seat next to you. When you didn't laugh with him, he grew more concerned. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you answered quickly, too quickly. “You were so great, by the way. Everyone loved you. I'm just tired.”

He waited a second to respond in case you wanted to tell him what was actually up. But nothing came.

“You seem to forget we were friends before you became my girlfriend,” he teased. “I can tell that's not all…”

Still nothing. You opened your mouth like you were going to divulge something, but nothing came out and you just looked away from him.

“You can tell me.” He grew more worried. “Was someone weird to you in there?”

“No,” you shot that down fast. “I promise it's not that.”

That didn't cure his frown, but he did feel a little relief. “Then what?”

“I don't want to be that girl.” Your voice was so quiet as you finally let yourself say it out loud.

“What girl?” He asked genuinely.

“The jealous one… The insecure one,” you scoffed, more so at yourself. “This is our job. I can't believe I'm letting it bother me. I know it’s all an act in there, but… I hated it.”

Without looking at him, you missed the sympathetic look he gave you before putting an arm around you to pull you closer.

You half expected him to try to lift the mood by making a quip about you being jealous – Something like, “Damn, didn't think I was that convincing today,” said with a wink – but that was furthest from his reaction.

“I felt that way too, you know…” He admitted it so quietly. “The last few times I watched you.”

That shocked you. “What?”

“But I didn't want to… I don't know, seem controlling, I guess,” he shrugged. “Or hold you back.”

You let out a sad-sounding laugh. You didn't know if he was being serious or just trying to make you feel better, but you didn't really care in that moment. “Then why are we doing this?”

“Maybe we shouldn't anymore,” he whispered.

. * ✦ . ◍ ∘ . * ✦ ‧ ∘ ⊹

“All right—” A director’s voice brings you back to the present. “Are we ready to get started then?”

You glance beside you at your sweetheart of a boyfriend, catching the soft, loving look in his eyes that will soon turn much darker, but not until you say so.

“So ready,” you smile.

. * ✦ . ◍ ∘ . * ✦ ‧ ∘ ⊹

Tag list: @patzammit @thummbelina @pppsssyyyccchhhiiiccc @astheskycries @chris-evans-indian-fanfic @turtoix @harrysthiccthighss @mrspeacem1nusone @geminievans1 @doozywoozy @americasass91 @dwights-new-plague @wwwmarissa92 @redhairedfeistynerd @whxre4cevans @aubreeskailynn @xoxabs88xox @before-we-get-started @chrissquares @christowhore @ice-dtae @mariestark @justile @rogersbarber @dilfbarber @payperhearts @vintagestarlight @miss-ariella @bemysugarbean @t-stark35 @seitmai @reginaphalange2403 @raelorns21 @mrsgweasley @pandaxnienke @brandycranby

#johnny storm #johnny storm x reader #johnny storm fanfic #chris evans x reader #chris evans fanfic #johnny storm smut #johnny storm x you #chris evans smut

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lovelynim · 3 days ago

Text

Not a fight

Wind Breaker - Sakura & Umemiya

A/N: First out of three comms for @wertzunge! Thanks again for your support and patience, Max! And, of course, for the change of working with such a sweet prompt ~

Summary: Umemiya helps Sakura figure out what might not really be an actual problem, after all.

Word count: 1907 words

[Also on Ao3]

Sakura clenched his hands into tight, trembling fists. Stomping his feet on the ground, he walked up the stairs to the school’s rooftop. He gritted his teeth, biting down to stop something from escaping past his lips - something that he didn’t know exactly what it was. A curse? A complaint? A… cry?

He groaned, these feelings stirring up inside his stomach, making him feel like his heart had forgotten its pace. Sakura, after what felt like an endless climb, pushed the rooftop’s door open, letting it slam shut behind him once he walked past it.

Sigh.

Trying to bring some ease to his troubled mind, Sakura looked around and breathed in deeply, letting the fresh air feel his lungs before he exhaled, tiredly. Finally, he managed to recover some of his sense of self, thoughts beginning to form inside his once clouded, but not yet clear, mind.

What had he done?

Sakura filled his lungs with air, just as if he was about to scream them out of his chest, but stopped midway. His lips trembled, hesitating. Just like they hesitated minutes ago.

It wasn’t supposed to end like that, but it happened before he could take note of it. In a blink of an eye, what was a moment of playfulness and fun between classmates turned into tension, awkwardness. His own words were being replayed inside his head, the confusion in Suo and Nirei’s faces seemingly imprinted inside his eyes.

If only he could go back, apologize or, maybe, just laugh back at those dumb comments like a normal person, Sakura thought.

He dragged his body towards one of the benches, dropping himself on top of it as he let out another frustrated sigh. Just when he was learning to get comfortable around people, to get to call them his friends… Why did he have to mess it up? To stir trouble again?

Looking up to the sky, Sakura was about to allow himself to sink deep into these thoughts. Part of him hoped that if he waited for long enough, things would be back to normal when he walked down those stairs and faced his friends again. But… that was not how people acted after an argument, right?

However, just as Sakura was about to close his eyes, a loud - extremely loud - voice called out to him, working like an anchor pulling him back down to the “ground”. “Sakura? What’re you doing over here?”

“U-Umemi- ahem,” he coughed, almost choking with his own surprise. Shit. Sakura wiped the corner of his lips before looking back at the other guy. He came to the rooftop to be alone, to isolate himself and because he knew (or, hoped) that no one would be around there by that time of the day.

Well, he was wrong. Awfully so, because, of all the people that could be hanging by the rooftop by the time he was at the verge of having a breakdown, it had to be…

“W-what are you doing here?” He hissed, almost too defensively.

Umemiya chuckled, flashing Sakura with his signature, friendly bright smile. “I forgot to water the crops yesterday and it doesn’t seem like it will rain today… I was worried they would get thirsty.”

“...Tsk,” Sakura held back his words, knowing he would be able to argue against that. He looked down, his head between his hands. Well, maybe having someone else there wouldn’t make that much of a difference, after all. He could just ignore and-

“You didn’t answer me,” Umemiya continued, his back now turned to Sakura as he was crouching down before some of the crops, putting up his best efforts into watering them evenly. “You look like you have a lot on your mind. Would you like to share it?”

“It’s- it’s nothing,” Sakura sighed, staring at Umemiya’s figure while trying to figure that guy once.

“It doesn’t look like it’s nothing,” Umemiya replied softly, pushing himself back up on his feet before he turned around to Sakura, tilting his head, “it looks like big trouble, if you ask me.”

Damn it.

Sakura clenched his hands and felt his words die at the back of his throat when his eyes met Umemiya’s. If he wanted to make out of it unnoticed, he would need to come up with a descent, convincing lie - but how could he do it when his senior was seeing right through him?

He averted his gaze, his lips pressing into a thin line while Umemiya slowly walked towards him, closing the distance between them. Before Sakura could say something else, Umemiya was already sitting by his side, trying to get a look at his face again.

“Maybe I can help you. That’s what we are here for, right?”

“I… I think I messed up, just that,” Sakura mumbled, sheepishly.

“Messed up as in a fight?” Sakura didn’t say a word back, just slightly shook his head, hesitating as he didn’t know how much information would be a proper amount to share.

“As in… a different fight?” Sakura nodded. “A fight… with your friends? Like, in an argument?” He nodded again and Umemiya let out a quiet ‘oh’, setting his eyes back forward as now they both stared blankly at the rooftop’s floor.

The only thing keeping the two of them to be surrounded by silence was the sound of the crops’ leaves ruffling and the gentle wind blowing past them. Still, it took at least a couple moments before Umemiya hummed something, as if figuring out a puzzle.

“You know, we can perceive things differently when we look at it a second time,” Umemiya started, fiddling with his fingers as he tried to turn his track of thought into a proper explanation, “sometimes it’s not as bad as we think it is.”

“...how?” Sakura arched his eyebrow, confused.

“Well, it’s- hm,” he stopped again, letting out a soft chuckle, “alright, I think I know how to make you understand.”

Sakura tilted his head and was about to talk back at that when he felt Umemiya’s hand latching onto his side. Before he could do anything about it, those fingers dug it in once, twice and, just like that, giggles rushed past his words, making it out of his mouth first.

“W-whahat are you- wahait, that’s- that tihihickles, damn it!” Sakura growled between his restrained laughter, grabbing Umemiya’s hand and trying to pry it off his side. “U-Umehemiya, stohohp!”

“Come on, you’re barely trying,” Umemiya teased back, pushing Sakura’s hands out of his way and making way for his own, now tickling both of Sakura’s sides. The other guy laughed, curling his body forward in a vain attempt to escape the older one’s grip.

Still, Sakura couldn’t quite figure out why he was being tickled now, of all times. Truth to be told, he never really understood why this kind of thing would happen, but this certainly didn’t feel like the time to be tickled or to think of tickling someone.

Then why was Umemiya doing it?!

Sakura noticed how he was cornered against the fence that circled the rooftop’s edge, but didn’t figure out what he could do about it. He was now holding both Umemiya’s arms, trying to stop his hands from climbing up his torso as he laughed and kicked his feet like a dork.

“T-thahat’s not- ahAhah, stohohop it!” He growled, trying to sound at least a bit irritated at his senior, but not even a child would believe him at that moment.

Sakura felt his cheeks warming up more and more whenever he caught a glimpse of Umemiya’s playful, bright smile shining at him. Was he having fun? It sure did look like it - and that made Sakura even more annoyed.

He brought up one of his knees, trying to get some more space between him and Umemiya, but it was another fruitless try. “W-why ahahare you- ahaAha, tihihickling me?! I thohought you’d hehehelp!!”

“Oh?” Umemiya hummed, grabbing one of Sakura’s arms and pulling it up a bit just to tickle the newly exposed spot, “helping you? I thought we were having a fight!” Umemiya cooed, almost as if he was mocking the younger teen.

And if Sakura wasn’t too busy laughing his head off and worrying about calling someone else's attention, he would’ve cursed or snapped back at Umemiya right there and then. Still, when the other’s fingers spidered and prodded at his ribs, oh-so-dangerously close to his armpit, a loud and high pitched shriek escaped his lips. Umemiya laughed fondly, focusing his efforts on that sweet spot that seemed to keep Sakura on the edge.

“U-UmeHEhemiya!!” Sakura squirmed violently, his voice cracking as he laughed between his lines, “nahAHahat thehere!”

“You know you can’t talk like that in a fight, right, Sakura?”

“FihiHIhight my ahAHahass!” Sakura hissed, wishing he could pull his arm just a bit, just so he could smack the other in his face. “T-thihihis isn’t a fihihight!”

Umemiya smiled at those words. Then, just like it started, the tickling stopped. Once tensed up and pressed against the fence, Sakura’s body slumped down as he was released from Umemiya’s grip and spared from a continuation of the ticklish assault.

“You’re right, it was no fight,” Umemiya nodded, giving Sakura some space before sitting down by his side. He chuckled seeing how the other jumped in his seat, fearing that he would be tickled out of the sudden again. “I was just messing with you.”

“A-and what does it have to do with anything?!” Sakura hissed, waiting a few seconds to lower his guard again. He eyed Umemiya up and down, double checking if it was actually safe to rest. He sighed, “I don’t understand.”

“You do”, Umemiya corrected, a proud expression taking place in his face as he looked at the younger teen. “You said you had a fight with the boys in your class, right? Maybe it wasn’t really a fight.”

Sakura frowned a bit, cocking his head as he stared at Umemiya. He was confused, but curious at the same time.

“Well, just because something didn’t end like we wanted or we said something we shouldn’t, it doesn’t mean it’s over or that there is no way back. Sometimes, it’s not even as bad as we think it is to the other people,” he explained calmly, smiling as some memories came to his mind.

Umemiya placed a hand on Sakura’s shoulder, shaking it tenderly as he looked at the other. “I’m not really sure what happened, but I know that there is no way those guys would turn their back to you.”

Sakura widened his eyes slightly, realization striking him as he slowly nodded. He looked down again, taking in a moment to reflect upon those words.

“Now, I need to finish watering the plants,” Umemiya said, springing back up and stretching his arms above his head before walking up. “If you need, you can still hang around for a bit more.”

“No,” Sakura muttered, smiling softly, “I think I see it now. I should go now.”

“Mhm!” Umemiya nodded, content with the answer. “See you later then, Sakura.”

“Yes, see you later.”

Umemiya turned his back to Sakura, just hearing as the boy walked away. As the sound of the rooftop’s door closing reached him, Umemiya let out a soft chuckle. He looked up, thinking of Sakura and the other guys in the 1st year. “Good thing they are all getting along, after all.”

#wind breaker #wind breaker tickling #sakura haruka #umemiya hajime #sakura & umemiya #lee!sakura #ticklish!sakura #ler!umemiya #commission #nim's coffee shop #to: wertzunge

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paucubarsisimp · 2 hours ago

Note

Can you pls make Hector fort imagine

Like him and reader fight and he goes to his mom to complain but reader is already there and his mom is on the readers side (a silly funny fic)

❤️

héctor's mamá

pairing: héctor fort x reader

summary: in which after an argument, you go to héctor's mamá for comfort

warnings: a bit of angst, use of y/n

it started like any other evening. you had planned a quiet night with héctor—maybe dinner, a movie, or just spending some quality time together. you’d been looking forward to it all week.

but somewhere along the way, things went wrong.

he had promised you he’d be home early, excited for your plans. you had picked out a cute outfit, set the table, and ordered your favorite food. but when the time passed and there was no sign of him, your excitement slowly turned to confusion.

you texted him—no reply. then called. still nothing.

hours passed.

when he finally called, it was clear something had gone wrong. “hey, preciosa, sorry i’m running late. we got caught up with practice, and i lost track of time,” he said, his voice a little distracted.

“you lost track of time?” you asked, trying to keep the hurt out of your voice. “we had plans, héctor. you promised me you’d be home for dinner.”

“i know, i know, i’m sorry,” he said quickly, clearly flustered. “i’ll make it up to you, i promise.”

but it was the way he said it—so casually—that made your heart sink. it wasn’t the first time he had done this. and while you knew his schedule could be unpredictable, this wasn’t the first time he had broken promises.

you felt the frustration building up, but you held it in as best as you could. “okay… just—come home when you can,” you said, trying not to sound upset.

but you were upset. you waited for him, but by the time he walked through the door hours later, you were no longer in the mood for dinner or movies. you were just tired of always being patient, always waiting.

he walked in, looking apologetic, but you could tell he was more concerned about how long the day had been than about your feelings. “hey, amor, i’m sorry i’m late. practice went longer than i thought. i didn’t mean to—”

“you didn’t mean to? héctor, you do this all the time,” you cut him off, the words coming out before you could stop them. “i don’t know how many times i’ve had to make excuses for you with people, or just… deal with being alone when you say you’re going to be here. i get it, your schedule is crazy, but i’m getting tired of being at the bottom of the list.”

his face dropped, and the confusion and hurt you saw on his expression made you feel a little guilty. “you’re not at the bottom of the list,” he said softly, taking a step closer. “i just… sometimes things get overwhelming.”

“but that’s just it, héctor,” you replied, voice shaking. “it feels like i’m just a thing you squeeze in when you have time. we don’t even get to have proper dates anymore, and it’s been so long since we’ve done anything just the two of us.”

you stood up, walking away from him. “i don’t know what you want me to say. i don’t feel like i’m a priority for you, and it sucks. i’m tired of always being patient, always understanding. i need someone who shows up for me.”

there was a long, painful silence, and you could see how badly you had hurt him in his eyes. but you didn’t know how to fix it, not when you felt so unseen.

finally, he spoke up, his voice quiet. “i’m sorry, y/n. i didn’t mean to hurt you. i’ll try to do better.”

you nodded, but the knot in your chest didn’t go away. “i just… need some space right now.”

he hesitated for a moment, then nodded, clearly understanding. “okay. i’ll give you some space.”

he turned to leave, and you tried not to feel like a weight had just dropped in your stomach. this wasn’t what you wanted, but you needed to feel heard.

with that, you found yourself walking to his mom’s house, not really thinking about it. you didn’t even knock, just let yourself in and walked right into the living room.

his mom looked up from the couch, a concerned smile immediately crossing her face. “y/n, querida! what’s wrong?”

you didn’t say anything at first, just sank onto the couch beside her, your face in your hands. “i don’t know what to do, mamá. héctor missed our date again… and i’m just so tired of it.”

she sighed, wrapping her arms around you in a warm, comforting hug. “oh, mi amor. i’m so sorry. it’s tough when you feel like you’re not a priority.”

you nodded, letting her comfort you. “it’s just… i don’t know what to say anymore. i’ve tried talking to him about it, but he always promises it’ll be different, and then this happens again.”

“sometimes héctor gets caught up in his own world,” she said gently, “but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care about you. he just doesn’t always know how to show it. but he’s a good man, and i know he loves you. this is a bump in the road. but he’ll come to his senses, darling. he’ll realize that you deserve more.”

you looked up at her, trying to hold back the tears. “i just want him to show up, you know? like he says he will.”

“he will,” she said softly. “but in the meantime, let’s distract you. you deserve some fun and relaxation right now.”

you smiled weakly, appreciating her words more than you could express. “i think i’d like that.”

meanwhile, héctor was pacing outside, guilt gnawing at him. he knew he had messed up. again. he had promised you that he would show up, but practice and everything else had gotten in the way. he could feel the weight of your words, and it was tearing him up inside.

finally, after a few minutes of deep breathing, he walked over to his mom’s house. when he opened the door, the first thing he saw was you, sitting on the couch, chatting with his mom, looking so much more relaxed than when he left.

“y/n…” he began, but stopped when his mom winked at him, clearly enjoying your company.

“well, well, look who decided to show up,” she teased, raising an eyebrow. “i was just telling y/n how you owe her a big apology.”

he froze, blinking. “mamá, seriously?”

“you owe her an apology, héctor,” his mom said, crossing her arms. “you’ve been neglecting her, and i don’t appreciate that one bit.”

héctor looked at you, then back at his mom. “i… i didn’t mean to. i really didn’t.”

you turned to him with a soft sigh. “i know you didn’t, but i need more than just promises. i need actions, héctor.”

his mom patted the seat next to her. “now, apologize to her. sincerely. and don’t make excuses.”

héctor sat down next to you, the guilt and love in his eyes clear. “y/n, i’m sorry. i messed up. i’ve been so caught up in everything that i forgot to be there for you. i’m going to try harder, i promise.”

you smiled softly, your heart lightening. “thank you, héctor. i know you didn’t mean it. i just want to feel important too, you know?”

he nodded, squeezing your hand. “you are important. more than anything.”

his mom smiled as she watched the two of you. “see? i knew you’d get there.”

you leaned against héctor, feeling lighter than you had all night. “thank you… for understanding.”

he grinned, pulling you closer. “you don’t need to thank me. i’m lucky to have you.”

taglist: @barcapix, @universefcb, @nngkay, @joaosnovia, @ilovebarcaaaa, @levidazai, @hollyf1,@mxryxmfooty, @halfwayhearted lmk if you want to be added!

#fc barcelona #footballer x reader #football imagine #football #hector fort #hector fort x reader #hector fort fanfic #hector fort fluff #hector fort imagine #hector fort x y/n #hector fort x you

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anemoiadawn · 1 day ago

Text

< used to this >

pairing:: mostly just bang chan. but felix is there too genre:: pure fluff, nothing weird! slight angst. word count:: 3.7k summary:: "... for the first time in his life, Chan was starved of a compliment." warnings:: none! minors can interact, but please don't follow me or look at my other posts, thank you! notes:: i wrote this for class. had to edit it a bit to be able to post here, and the version for class only had five of them (chan, felix, jisung, changbin, and jeongin)- so that's why you may not see a lot of the others. if my professor sees this no you didn't.

“How would you describe yourself in one word?”

Chan read the last card in his hands aloud, then looked up into the camera lens. He felt his heart sink in his chest, his muscles tensing under his sleek button-down shirt. He brought his knees up to his chest as he racked his brain for an answer. There wasn’t any single word that would describe him well. The other kids had already done their interviews and finished quickly– they seemed to have had little to no trouble with the questions, so surely they had breezed over this one. He’d had those hours to think of his own answer, since he’d already heard the question four times.

The interviews had been split into two parts: one member on his own, answering each question about himself– and how he thought the others would answer on his behalf. Then, on the couches in the other room: the remaining members gave their own answers.

It had taken Chan less than five seconds to answer for everyone besides himself. Now, Chan had been sitting in front of the camera for five full minutes, yet still hadn’t uttered a word. The staff behind the camera were getting impatient– they had things to do, footage to edit, places to be. Chan hated being a burden like this. He liked being on stage, all those eyes on him– but this? This was too much.

"Channie is..." he started, trailing off as he stared past the camera lens. He had to say something. Anything.

"Lost." No, that's not enough. Sure, it was true, but it wasn’t… satisfactory. More.

"Channie is… complicated." That wasn’t it. Anyone could say that about themselves. More.

"Channie has got a long way to go." Getting there. It was fine to give up on just one word, Chan thought. One word wouldn’t work. Think deeper. More.

"Channie needs to work harder." Almost. More.

"Channie doesn't even take care of himself. He only takes care of the members."

There it was.

The last interview, his own, concluded with that line. Chan headed out to the lobby with his heart heavy, walking to where the others were all sitting together. To no surprise, they were all joking amongst themselves, playfully poking fun at one another. Chan leaned against the doorframe with a chuckle and let them mess around, his heart lifting in his chest. He knew to set aside his perfectionist tendencies with them, to privately bask in that discomfort as long as they had their fun. It would sour the mood, to tell them to keep it down so the staff could work and pack up for the day. So he stayed quiet.

It was worth the anxiety to see them happy. It was worth the uneasiness to be loved by them. It was worth the stress to be a family. That was all he wanted: “I want to be loved by all the members,” he had said earlier in the interview, the first line out of his mouth as soon as he’d sat down. Everything was for them. Everything.

“You mind if I sit in?” Chan pulled a chair up behind the editor’s desk. He was met with a hum– she didn’t talk much. She never did. Chan liked it, a lot, actually. He didn’t feel pressured to fill the silence with her.

He settled in behind her, watching the muted clips as she worked. On the screen: his members, his brothers, his family. They looked so happy, so carefree. Warm smiles spread across each of their faces– laughing, pushing one another, curled up on the couch. They looked like home. Chan’s home.

“They all love you a lot,” the editor slipped her headset off one ear. Chan had been watching for over twenty minutes, letting her work in silence. “Even when they didn’t say particularly sweet things, their love for you is so obvious.”

Chan felt his ears burning. “Oh,” he whispered, chewing his bottom lip as he looked over her shoulder. She’d paused the video on a frame where two of the members were cuddling. They had never properly learned what personal space was. “Do you mind if I listen?”

“Here,” she took off her headset and placed it on the desk. “Go crazy. I’m basically done.”

Chan took her place at the desk as she went to take her break. He smiled at how they were all over each other, the way Felix was sprawled out across Jeongin’s legs. He was always happy to see Felix happy. Any of them happy, obviously– but Felix, particularly. Felix brought Chan out of that dark, dark place. Felix deserved to be happy the most.

“Chan used to be so scary,” Jisung shivered. Chan figured this was in response to the question asked about first impressions– he didn’t want to rewind and potentially mess up the editor’s progress.

“I could rarely ever approach him,” Jisung continued. “He had this kind of shadow around him– everyone was scared of him.”

Chan hated thinking about that period of his life. Training was brutal, and the members had only seen the end of it. Seven years. Seven years he’d trained, and Jisung had been the first to join him– but that wasn’t until five years in. He hadn’t seen the worst of it.

“We couldn’t even use his name,” Changbin added. “Even though I’m so close in age to him, he only responded to honorifics.”

Chan had never been one to make people use honorifics for him. But since moving to Korea, and learning how important age dynamics were, and how he was seen as lesser than anyone who was even a day older– it had gotten to him. He had made sure everyone younger than him treated him with respect. The respect he was owed for having trained so long.

“He let me call him ‘Chris’ from day one,” Felix whispered, tugging at his earlobe. “He was always so sweet to me, ever since we met.”

“That’s because you’re from the same hometown,” Jeongin added. “I think you reminded him of home.”

“Maybe,” Felix picked at his fingernails. “He kinda was my new home, in a way. I hope I did. Remind him of home, that is.”

Chan’s heart ached. Did Felix really not know how much he meant to Chan? He tugged at the neckline of his shirt, suddenly unable to breathe in enough air.

“You definitely did,” Jisung smiled, assuring Felix. “He was so ready to debut with just us. Then you came along, and he pulled so many strings to get you in the final lineup for the show. You have no idea how long he fought the managers to let you join.”

Suddenly, Felix poked his head into the room. Chan lifted his head and smiled his way– Felix’s face lit up. “Recording tomorrow, right?” Felix shouted loud enough to be heard over the headphones; Chan took them off swiftly and smiled back.

“Yeah. Just one song. Shouldn’t be too much of a hassle.”

It was, indeed, a hassle– At least for Chan.

The recording took three full hours, despite there only being the one song to record. Usually, the others would leave after they’d finished their parts. It was a blessing for Chan most recording sessions, because that meant he could get right to polishing the track. He loved being around them more than anything, but it was nearly impossible to get any work done with seven young men bickering while he was focusing on the fine details of a song.

For some reason unbeknownst to Chan, they all stayed behind this time. Maybe out of spite– but Chan couldn’t think of a reason why they would want to upset him. Maybe he’d done something wrong, and this was his punishment. Maybe they knew how long he’d held up production the day before and were upset. Maybe the staff had said something, told them to make the recording session a living nightmare, told them to torture Chan to the best of their abilites.

Jisung claimed to have missed Chan’s company, since he was always cooped up in the studio without them– but Chan saw them every single day. Jisung’s excuse for all of them hanging around didn’t feel genuine. To cope, Chan blasted the track at a bleedingly high volume through his overpriced headphones, trying his best to drown out the chatter from the couches behind him.

To his despair, his headset had reached the max volume, and the guys behind him would not let up. They likely weren’t talking too loud, but Chan was used to absolute silence. Even a whisper outside the door would throw him off. Taking a sharp breath through his teeth, he decided to get some fresh air. He yanked off his headset and set it down on the table– just slightly harder than he intended. Chan froze, his breath catching in his chest as the room fell silent, the sound of the headphones against the table instantly dying against the soundproofed walls. He looked back to the couches and was met with four pairs of wide eyes, staring back in silence.

“Ah–” Chan panicked, lifting the headset and waving it like a white flag, surrendering. “Sorry, I… there was a part I... didn’t like. I’m okay, sorry, you guys are fine, it’s–” he rambled on, stammering out excuse after excuse, but they knew him too well. They knew they had upset him, and one after one they left the studio with hushed apologies.

“Good work today,” each of them whispered before leaving. Chan’s heart sank into his stomach. He couldn’t take a compliment to save his life, so the only way they could compliment him was to commend him for his work. Telling him that he sang well, that he performed well, that he looked good? Too far. All he could handle was a quick “good work.” Nothing more. And that’s exactly what they did.

But for the first time in his life, Chan was starved of a compliment. He had put up with so much the last three hours, and every single one of them had just taken him for granted. When Jeongin had complained about each of his lines, Chan had swiftly assigned him one of Changbin’s parts. When Jisung had felt unsatisfied with the fifty takes he’d done, Chan had stepped into the studio and physically supported him through it. When it had been two and half hours and was Changbin’s turn to record in the booth, Changbin had kept cracking jokes and messing up his lines on purpose. Usually, Chan would have just laughed along, but he hadn’t left the room in four hours and exhaustion had already set in. He had just wanted to go home by that point.

Was it too much to ask for praise every now and then? Chan squeezed his eyes shut, leaning as far back in his chair as he could. Sure, he melted every time someone gave him a compliment or praise. Sure, he’d instantly brush it off with some sort of self-deprecating joke, or flip it to the person saying it and praise them instead. He knew it was frustrating for anyone around him to try to show him love, but… alone, in his studio, after the members had all left, Chan started to feel like nobody was trying.

If Chan put in so much effort to make the others feel comfortable, to build up their confidence, to make them feel loved, was it really so much to ask for them to do the same for him? He may be the leader, the oldest, but he was still human. He still needed that support from those closest to him. But Chan would rather die than admit that himself. It would kill him to admit weakness.

Was he not worth the energy? They had all given up a long time ago when it came to praising Chan, but even so– a lot of the other members were like him, too, and that didn’t hinder Chan’s affection. If anything, he was more affectionate with the ones who shied away from it. Jeongin especially, who he lived with now, had always hated any sort of affection– but after being under the same roof as Chan for just a couple months, he’d warmed up to it. ‘Exposure therapy,’ Chan would giggle out as he had hugged Jeongin from behind at any possible chance.

It had taken so long for him to be this comfortable with them. With anyone. He’d lost so many people, lost so many friends, so many people he considered family– he hadn’t been able to trust anyone for years. Hadn’t let anyone in for years. He couldn’t get hurt again, wouldn’t let himself get hurt again.

The track glared through cheap speakers overhead and Chan held his breath. It wasn’t his best work– but Somi had slammed his door open at 2am in hysterics. Chan had just started getting into bed and hadn’t slept in 40 hours before that, but he stayed up all night making the perfect track for Somi for the monthly evaluation. It hurt his own performance the next day, running on two hours of sleep, sure– but she was more important. He couldn’t lose anyone else. Especially not someone who had also taken the same leap: moving to Korea at such a young age, following their dreams. He’d do anything to help someone the way he hadn’t been helped when he first arrived. He needed her to make it. He needed her to stay.

His heart sank when he looked over to the staff as soon as Somi brought the microphone to her lips. Their faces soured listening to her performance, and Chan prayed to gods he didn’t believe in that Somi didn’t see their expressions. She was too sensitive. She couldn’t handle that like he could. She hadn’t been training for as long. She didn’t have his tough skin yet.

Somi finished her song perfectly. Just like she always did. Chan smiled up at her as soon as she sang the last note, her eyes meeting his. He gave her a thumbs-up, nodding– ‘you did well,’ he mouthed, hoping she’d be able to read his lips. Somi smiled in response, sending back a half-heart with her hand.

Microphone feedback buzzed over the speakers and they both winced. Looking back to the front of the practice room, the head trainer started speaking. “Sit down.” His voice pained Chan’s ears. “Next.”

They let her go the next day. No explanation. She was kicked out of the program in the blink of an eye.

He couldn’t say a word to her as she was packing her bags. Somi asked for him to help, but his hands were shaking too badly to carry any of the boxes. He tried, though– but immediately dropped one. Chan almost cried as soon as the package hit the floor, but Somi assured him: it was only plushies, she promised. It was okay, she promised.

Chan let her hug him, but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t wrap his arms around her. He couldn’t comfort her. His muscles had turned to concrete. His bones couldn’t handle the weight on his shoulders as Somi turned to leave.

It was his song that got her eliminated. It was him.

It was his fault.

He walked back to his dorm alone, collapsed onto the bottom bunk, stared up at the railing holding the top bunk in place. It was his fault.

Chan rotted for hours in his bed. He didn’t get up when his roommate, Jisung at the time, called him down for lunch. He didn’t get up when one of the managers knocked on his door to get him down for practice. He didn’t get up when Jisung threatened to sit on his chest if he didn’t get out of bed for dinner. He didn’t get up until the next day, a little after breakfast was served.

Jisung knocked on the wood of the bed frame, Chan’s eyes shooting open after he’d dozed off for a bit. Jisung frowned, wiped a stray tear from Chan’s cheek with his thumb, and spoke: “There’s a new trainee. I don’t think his Korean is too great. Can you come down to help?”

Jisung knew Chan loved to feel needed. He loved to be of use. Chan got up within seconds.

Though Chan’s head was spinning from sitting up too quickly, he made his way down to the lobby.

The head trainer was talking to someone right outside the elevators– a boy, slightly taller than Chan. Freckles adorned his cheeks, his shoulder-length hair a golden blonde. He looked like an angel. He looked as if when he spoke, a choir would sing.

Chan approached the two and smiled up at the trainer. The trainer patted Chan on the back, pushing him towards the boy– probably around 16, at the oldest. Years older than Chan was when he joined the company. He was 20, now. Seven years of training.

‘Hello,’ Chan choked out in English. His voice was shot after nearly a day of not speaking. ‘I’m Chris.’

‘Hi,’ the boy spoke, his voice octaves lower than Chan was expecting. He was Australian, just like Chan. Chan was hearing home for the first time in years. ‘I’m Felix.’

By the time the studio door opened again, Chan had moved to the couch. Sitting where the members had sat, he curled up as small as he could, keeping his head buried between his knees. He didn’t need to open his eyes or lift his head to know who had entered the room, anyway.

“Chan.” His throat closed up and it suddenly felt twenty degrees hotter in the studio. Why did it have to be him? “You usually come out by now,” Felix continued. “Are you okay?”

Chan couldn’t choke out a single word. He tried, but nothing would come out. Every inch of his skin ached the more he heard Felix speak. The more he felt at home from Felix’s voice– smelling the Sydney beaches, hearing his dog Berry, tasting the shawarma from his favorite restaurant, seeing his brother and sister every time he closed his eyes, feeling his parents hug him after years of being abroad.

He wasn’t allowed to be mad at Felix. He wasn’t allowed to be mad at any of them. They’d saved him. He wouldn’t even be around if they hadn’t come along. If Felix hadn’t come along, especially. This was silly. It was silly to be upset at them. He wasn’t allowed to–

“You’re allowed to be upset,” Felix whispered. “You know that, right?” Chan felt the couch sink next to him. He curled up tighter, trying to get smaller, if possible. His skin burned red hot. “You don’t always have to be perfect.”

Chan took a shallow breath, the air burning his lungs. The muscles under his skin tensed, tightened, strained. He gripped his left arm tightly, as if the pain would stop if he squeezed hard enough. As if he could stop the ringing in his ears, the ache in his chest.

“Chris?” Felix checked in again and Chan felt a hand on his thigh. Suddenly– one part of his skin wasn’t burning. Felix’s hand was cold, not uncomfortably so, but colder than the lava running through Chan’s veins.

Chan hugged his legs to his chest. “I do, though,” he started. “To be perfect. I need to be perfect, I can’t make mistakes, I need to do everything right.” He felt his heart race fast enough to be heard over his stuttering. “If I mess up, you all won’t rely on me anymore, or I’ll ruin everything for all of us. I need to be perfect, or I’ll lose you, I’ll lose everyone, I’ll lose everything.”

Felix sighed, leaning his head on Chan’s shoulder. Chan froze, his heart dropping into his stomach. Felix’s hair on Chan’s bare shoulder worked as a cooling agent on his burning skin. “You don’t know us at all if you really think we’d stop looking up to you if you made a mistake,” Felix softly caressed Chan’s arm, unknowingly healing his aching skin. “We gave you space after what happened earlier because you clearly couldn’t focus. We should’ve known to give you peace and quiet, like we usually do. We’re the ones who messed up, not you.”

Chan huffed, wiping a tear that had barely escaped. “No, I’m too sensitive, I shouldn’t have–”

“You’re not too sensitive,” Felix interrupted, squeezing Chan’s shoulder. “And we know you. We should have known we would get on your nerves by staying in the studio with you. That’s on us, not you. I’m sorry, Chan. We all are.” Chan sniffled, his head still between his knees, staring down at the couch beneath him.

“I just…” he started, trying to explain. “I’m so scared. I can’t…” Chan steadied his breathing, lifting his head to look Felix in the eye. “If I mess up, I’ll stop being useful. I can’t bear the thought of any of you not needing me anymore.” Felix chuckled in response.

“That’s never going to happen,” Felix turned to face Chan fully and pinched his cheek. “I’ll always need a duo for League,” Felix whispered, wrapping his arms around Chan’s neck to hold him close. “Changbin will always need a gym buddy or someone to cook for him. Jeongin will always need someone to baby the shit out of him. Jisung will always need someone to tell him his lyrics are way too crass. Don’t even get me started on everyone else. You’re always going to be our oldest brother, our leader. You’re always going to be needed. Even if you’re the one needing help sometimes.”

Chan laughed, burying his face in Felix’s shoulder. The aching of Chan’s skin had morphed into a comfortable coolness, spreading from every spot Felix touched. Chan was usually the one initiating any physical contact, so it felt… intense. Now that Felix had initiated it this time. Now that Felix had come to him first, to hold Chan in his arms, to assure him. Now that, for the first time in his life, he was the one being taken care of. It was an unfamiliar feeling: being held instead of holding, being comforted instead of comforting.

He could get used to this.

#stray kids #bang chan #bang chan fluff #bang chan angst #stray kids fluff #stray kids angst #chan #felix #lee felix

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