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madamechrissy · 2 months ago

Text

Pour it Up

Pairings: Stripclub Owner Sukuna x Stripper F!reader

Summary:- You are a single mother, your baby daddy is not just worthless, he also is actively trying to sabotage you, so you go out on your own and raise your kid by yourself. Struggling your ass off, a friend of a friend named Toji decides to offer you a hell of a deal, a few hours a night at a strip club to make BANK. While there, you meet the other owner, Sukuna, and the moment he sees you? You annoy him how beautiful you are, how much he wants you, pushing him to insanity. He knows he must have you- no matter whose ass he needs to beat.

Warnings:- reader is a mom, lowkey Yandere Sukuna behavior (He's obsessed- down bad) rec drug use, drug dealing Sukuna (the club a front lol) Mafia ties, EXPLICIT sexual content, fluff/smut AND light angst- violence, some former trauma of reader. This part- Stand up 69.... yep I said it, a HELL of a breed kink, mating press, cumplay, oral sex (m and f receiving) size kink like a MF- Sukuna is huge mmkayyy- rough sex, he's hard in the bed but soft outside of it hehe, angsty in places, and emotional. Get to know Toji more hehe- a little bit of everything <3 WC- 7k

Will be eight parts- ties into my Mob Gojo story- you'll see him and the reader fromt here in here- this chap takes place after chap two of that one- but you can read it alone. Art in the banner is by Sketch B on X

Reblogs/comments so appreciated if you enjoyy!

<<<Part Five Playlist Masterlist Part seven>>>

Part Six

“The new leader of the Kamo family, hmm?” Sukuna murmurs, sitting across from the dark haired man named Choso, who looked so out of place he wanted to laugh, looking away from the strippers and shaking his head.

“He’s cute.” You murmur, earning Sukuna’s scowl, pinching your hip so hard you gasp. “Not like that!”

“I’ll make you pay for that and last night later.” He murmurs, jaw tense as you sit right on his lap so pretty, you’re not dressed to dance because you’re just here for the meeting with him, but your skirt rides up enough he can get a good grip of that nice ass of yours. “Getting excited?”

“Shush!” He smirks as he feels your heat on his thigh, just like the first time he asked you to come sit, the time he fell for you harder and harder.

But the truth is Sukuna fell the moment he met you, though he’s not quite sure you know that yet. He slips down the thin black strap of your top and takes some of the white powder now, tapping it along your bare shoulder, while the men talk, mentioning the man he hates more than anyone, your ex, making him stiffen just a bit.

“The Zenin won’t be any friends of mine.” Choso says calmly, smiling sweetly at one of the bartenders that brings him a drink. “Thank you, pretty.”

You watch Satoru scowl as he yanks the bartender Sukuna has just hired on his lap then, glaring at Choso, while you smile softly at your friend. She’s been through it with her own trouble from what Satoru has just shared, worse than you or Sukuna even knew, and you’re glad to see Satoru look up at her with those big blue eyes of his, clearly obsessed.

“My bartender.” He declares, making Suguru and Toji chuckle, but Sukuna is too busy scowling at you.

“Attention, brat. Give me it now.” You giggle, breathless, brushing his pastel locks back as he rolls a hundred, licking it while the music is reverberating in the huge VIP room, two girls are dancing on Toji, one on Suguru, and more trying to capture Choso’s attention. All while Satoru and your friend clearly need a room.

“It’s a lot going on is all, Kuna, I’m sorry.” He shuts his eyes, his pretty pink lashes fluttering when you press a kiss on his cheek. “You have all my attention.”

“I fucking better.” You’re giggling again until he snorts that powder off your neck, lapping it up with the tip of his tongue and pulling you tight.

“Are you ever gonna let her dance again?” Suguru asks Sukuna then, earning the look of death and everyone's laugh but Sukuna’s.

“The fuck?”

“She’s a hell of a dancer.” Toji winks over at you, making you roll your eyes, feeling your huge boyfriend tense under you.

“Sure the fuck won’t. She’s retired.”

“Kuna I’m like twenty five!?”

“Retired. Now back to business.” He presses a kiss on your neck, a hand on your thigh casually, pulling you further on his lap. “We deal with Mei, she’s likely collecting debt for the Zenin.”

“I want to deal with her, personally.” Satoru says then, his jaw locked as he grips his girl tightly, and you catch her flushed cheeks and glittery eyes.

“Satoru, you can’t go running around provoking everyone without backup.” Suguru, ever the voice of reason murmurs, lighting up a blunt, the smoke fogging up the room, while a pretty girl inhales the smoke he blows into her mouth. He pulls back then, no cough in sight, a professional. “I’ll go with you.”

“We have history.” Satoru mumbles, and Sukuna laughs then, shaking his head.

“Well who hasn’t fucked Mei?” Sukuna says amusedly.

“What now?” You demand, and Sukuna rolls his red eyes.

“I did too, I think I was eighteen.” Suguru admits, as Satoru stares at them all with an open mouth.

“What?” Satoru’s turn to demand, and Toji shrugs.

“I fucked her with Shiu Kong, threesome.” The boys are snickering, as you continue to stare in confusion.

“Okay so everyone fucked this Mei lady, so can we make her stop being a bitch to my friend?” You say now, and the room sobers up.

“We sure will, pookie, don’t worry.” Satoru says to you, before looking back at Suguru. “But I wanna go alone.”

“Fine, Satoru, but if she gets with the Zenin…” Suguru trails off then, frowning. “Wait, Choso hasn’t fucked her, there is someone here who hasn’t.”

“Well I sure don’t want to, whoever she is.” Choso takes a blunt from Suguru’s hand, surprising you all. “Think I don’t smoke?”

“You seem like a goody goody.” Sukuna muses, earning your pinch.

“You seem sweet.”

“Well thank you.” He says, smiling as he leans over handing you the blunt, and Sukuna yanks it from his hands.

“She doesn’t smoke.” You can’t stop the affection you feel, while Sukuna inhales the blunt, making sure to blow it away from you. “Naoya is a problem, a big one, as he won’t back the fuck off.”

“I’m fine with the Kamo family meeting with the Zenin, to warn them, if you think that’s a good first step?” Choso says, and now Toji scoffs.

“He’s a little fuck face, he’ll still try shit. I say take him out.” Toji says it so carelessly, shrugging a broad shoulder.

“Toji…” You start, he shakes his head.

“Sorry doll, my opinion.”

“Let’s take Mei out too.” Satoru says with a batshit crazy grin.

“Satoru!” His girl says admonishingly, as he pouts up at her, and she brushes a hand through his snowy locks. “No killing.”

“Do you know what a mafia is, baby girl?” He asks, and she sighs, as do you, shaking your heads.

“The solution can’t just be ‘taking people out’.” Choso agrees, while Satoru angrily hits the blunt, rolling his eyes.

“Boring.” Satoru grumbles.

“Boring.” Toji agrees.

“Boring.” That’s Sukuna, making you gasp, as Suguru grimaces, burying his head in his hands.

“You all exhaust me. I think I’ll like Choso here.” He puts a hand on the dark haired man’s shoulder, and he smiles a bit.

“Let’s try to threaten them.” Gojo says, and the room all reluctantly agree. “I’ll deal with Mei, Choso can deal with the Zenin before we get Sukuna involved.”

“The fuck, why?”

“Because you’ll kill him.” Toji mutters, snorting a line off the new bottle girl’s neck, sighing as he does. “I don’t blame ya, but don’t act like you won’t.”

“I may not… kill him. Maybe? Not definitely.”

“Kuna…”

“Don’t you Kuna me.”

“Kuna.” Toji mimics, earning a middle finger in his direction while Sukuna looks up at you.

“Yes, brat?” Sukuna says then, looking at you avidly, his eyes darkening, you know how furious he is with Naoya.

“No killing.”

“You’re such a goody goody.” He huffs, tossing down a drink now, while you shift in his lap. “Fine, that’s the plan for now. I’m heading out early, me and this brat need a couple hours alone.”

“Bet you do.” Satoru grins, wiggling his white brows, and Sukuna walks out with you now, through the humming and bustling darkness of the club, holding you close, you can feel his tension.

“Text Miwa, I wanna know if she can keep Touma out for a couple hours.” He says once you’re in the back of the limo, and then he watches the flush creep across your cheeks. “I’ll pay her more, and you don't have to work today.”

“You probably won’t let me work again!”

“Nope.”

“Oh goodness. Where’s my feminism?” He’s grinning big as he yanks you on his lap, straddling him this time.

“Left the moment I snorted coke off you. Or maybe when you sucked me off so good that night?” His voice gets husky, as his thumb brushes on your lower lip, and you shift just so, making him ache.

“Got you off fast.”

“You brat… text her now.”

******

Soon you and Sukuna are all alone in his penthouse, he sets a timer then, for the time Miwa is bringing Touma back. “You’re thorough, hmm?”

“I am not getting cockblocked tonight.” Your laughter is soon turning into cries when Sukuna has his huge hands all over you, kissing you desperately, just holding you up in the air, letting your legs dangle.

“Kuna, please…”

“Stop teasing, brat… strip for me, now.” Sukuna’s order rushes through you, as you step back just a bit, unbuttoning your top until it falls down your body, then your skirt falls, until you’re in panties and a bra, his ruby eyes washing over you hungrily. “Don’t stop there, let me see all of you.”

You’re trembling without his touch, with just his gaze that holds so much power over you, reaching back and unsnapping the lacy strap, letting it fall, as Sukuna studies your pretty breasts that sway just so as they bounce out of it, little marks left where it’s pressed into your skin. He steps forward then, big hands with those tattooed wrists brushing under them, where the line of your strap was.

“Mnh!” He chuckles a bit, continuing his caresses, as if he’s trying to rub away all the strain the bra put you through that day, before stepping back, eyes dipping to your thighs.

“Panties off too.” You turn now, slipping them down your ass, peering back at him with a little smile as the pool to your ankles.

“Like the view, Mr. Sukuna?”

“Tch, you’re so bratty. Turn.” You turn back to him, bare feet padding gently across the plush rug beneath you, he’s already shirtless but now your hands are fiddling with the belt around his thick waist, dying for him to be as naked as you. When you get his thick, heavy cock free you whimper just a bit, touching that barbell coated with his milky precum.

You bend down and slip his pants and boxers, then eagerly get to your knees, only for him to pull at your hair, earning your attention to his face, a devious fucking smirk on his features. “Didn’t I owe you, for not cumming yesterday?”

“Oh, you owe me alright, passing out on me.” You giggle, but he’s pulling you up even as your tongue darts on that reddened tip.

“Let me pay it back then, hmm? Ah! Kuna…”

He’s yanked you up, pulling you by the hands until his strong back is nearly against the wall. “I see you on that pole, you know, gliding around it, hanging upside down…”

His murmur is met with his rough hands on your bare waist, squeezing against your ribcage, he makes you feel so small, as he lifts you then, like it’s nothing of course, how strong he is he just lets you dangle off the ground. “Kuna, let me suck you-”

“Oh, you’ll suck me right down that throat.” You scream out when he’s flipped you upside down then, until your calves are hanging on his shoulders, and you’re hanging upside down, hands reaching to his hips as you wriggle.

“Kuna, what!?” He chuckles right against your soppy little cunt, making you jerk, fearing you’ll lose balance, you cling, as blood rushes to your head.

“See how long you can suck me like this, huh little stripper of mine? I got you, I won’t drop your ass, stop wiggling.” You exhale, then your clit twitches as he flicks a tongue on it, arms wrapped around your hips in some insane standing 69 position that you’ve only ever read about.

“K-Kuna…” You feel the blood rushing to your head, as he laps his long tongue right against your pussy, groaning.

“Suck it deep, lemme feel your throat tighten when you cum f’me.” You’re done for then, opening your mouth as your hair falls, as your body heats up, clinging to his thighs now as you suck his cock eagerly into your mouth, and he moans against you, making the sensations higher. “Deeper, brat, you can do it…”

You suck him deeper, head bobbing while upside down, making you dizzy, as he devours your pussy now, leaning back on the wall to pull you more against him, shoving his cock so deep down your throat you gag on it, which only makes it better. He’s licking that sweetness while your moans make his cock twitch, while you’re sucking him all you can, deeper and deeper.

“God, so slutty just f’me, hmm?” You can’t answer, not with nine inches down your throat, not as you’re clinging to him, pussy pulsing around the wet muscle of his tongue, shoving in so deep then that you’re about to cum all over his face, feeling yourself floating as you dangle there, as he holds you. “Mmm, p-perfect, fuck…”

He’s losing himself in you, holding you up as you work so hard, thinking how the fuck he’s this, lucky, that he has you, all to himself. As he flicks his tongue and has you gushing across his face, thighs squeezing him, hanging on like he is your pole, sucking him like your life depends on it.

“Mngh– mpf!” You’re no longer making coherent noises, as blood rushes in your ears, and you hear your own pulse race, bucking and grinding on his face as you take so much of him your throat is burning, eyes crying.

“Good girl. Look at you.” He’s got you flipped once more now, clinging to him as he slams you against the wall, cool textured patterns pressing into overheated skin, while you’re spinning, clinging to him so dizzy.

“You’re insane, Ryomen Sukuna.” You’re clinging to him tighter, as he presses you on that wall, brushing a thumb across where drool has spilled from the corner of your mouth.

“You did so good for me, baby, shit.” His praise makes anything else fade, as color hits your cheeks, you’re grinding those hips as your thighs press around his strong torso, pussy dripping along his belly button and lower.

If Sukuna had a tongue there, he’d lap it right up too.

What an odd thought, he muses, slamming his lips back on yours, his huge hands pressing into the plush of your ass while he lets you grind right on his abdomen, making every muscle slick with your cum. “Kuna…”

“Wanna put a baby in you, shit.” You’re already weak, now he’s ending you, when he carries you to the bed, laying you down and shoving your thighs up. “Imagine, those titties dripping milk, so big…”

“Oh my god…” You’re clinging to his pastel locks, as he’s sucking on your nipples now, and you can picture it all so vividly, making you pulse around nothing, dying for him to do just that. “Do you have… a breed kink?”

He chuckles and shakes his head, Sukuna is absolutely a kinky mother fucker, he’s had submissives, he’s had girls in handcuffs, he’s even learned shibari and hung them from the ceiling. For whatever reason, he has far too much fun doing even the most basic things with you, he knows your past was…

Shit.

And your experiences, shit, so he’s eased it up on you - yes that was Sukuna being gentle - but he has never experienced whatever feral shit it is in him that makes him so badly want a baby in you. Another baby for you to take care of, to stay home with and watch their dumbass shows, to watch as your belly grows, and you’re marked more by his baby inside you.

What is it exactly that's happening to him?

With you he loses all sense of control.

“Breed kink, is that what it’s called?” He’s smirking down as you giggle, breathless, brushing your fingers against the jut of his cheekbone.

“Is it just a kink?” Your words wreck his brain, when he lines up his huge, lengthy cock against your slutty little hole, so ready for him.

“It could be more.” He shoves his cock deep in you then, folding you into a mating press, you’re screaming out, head falling back, thanking god that your son isn’t in the house, there’s no way sound proofing works for that scream. “God, so desperate, ya gonna cum already?”

“F-fuck… yes…” He’d chuckle again but you’re gripping him too tightly, he’s too deep folding your much smaller frame in half, the size difference alone in the huge man’s hands is ending him, watching his cock stretch your tight little hole, stuffing you so full. “Too much!”

“Nah, you can take it brat, huh?” You’re senseless when he pulls nearly completely out, moaning at your arousal dripping down his cock so filthy, stuffing it back inside your cunt all the way, as much as he can at least, there’s too many inches for Sukuna to bottom out in your little cunt. “Too much for you huh?”

“I c-can do it…” He’s smiling wickedly, a big white grin spread across half his face, while those ruby eyes light up and he slams into your pussy again, making you grip his biceps with those nails of yours, sinking in and leaving marks. “Kuna!”

“Feel too good, I can’t take it easy anymore.” You blink in shock when he’s pressing on those thighs, fucking into you faster, harder, smacks of his skin heard along with the sound of your greedy cunt taking all she can.

“Gonna cum, mnh!” He slows now, smirking at your cute little scowl. “N-no keep going!”

“Mmm, not yet brat.” You’re gasping as he rolls his hips so deep, his stubble along the top of his cock grinding against your little twitchy clit, making you closer in a whole other way, while his piercing hits your g spot again, rolling there, inch by inch. “Close, hmm?”

“P-please!” He sighs, you just are too pretty desperate and begging, he leans back and rolls his thumb on your clit now, as your thighs shaky, and you’re gushing down on him.

“So messy, look at you. Tch.” He’s using that slippery mess to roll on your clit as he puts the soles of your pretty feet on his chest, yes even your feet are pretty to him, every bit of you is, while he nips your ankle and presses your engorged clit deeper, making you close to shattering. “Beg for it.”

“You’re… such a jerk… I swear!” He pulls off his finger then, and you yank his wrist, still pinned, as he smirks down at you. “Put it back, please…” You’re pouting, taking his thumb and sucking your juices off it then, leaving him speechless for just a moment. “Kuna!”

“Beg me.”

“I said please?”

“Nah.” He’s pulling his entire cock out of you now, and your glare makes you look way too pretty, when he’s got you on your knees now, pressing your head down into the mattress, smacking his heavy thick cock on your ass. “God, she’s so perfect, but she needs new handprints.”

“Mnhph!” You’re whining into the pillow as he smacks one ass cheek, then the other, over and over, making you tremble in need. You’re arching up for more, earning his chuckle, as he looks at just how tiny that pussy is, the difference again wrecking his addled brain, while his cock disappears in ways it shouldn’t.

“Fuck you’re perfect, brat, shit…” He’s murmuring now, his piercing hitting some new damn spot, as he eases in you halfway, smacking your ass again, they’re covered in his prints now, the skin whelping up in places, all while you’re struggling to cum, rocking back your hips.

He holds them still, earning you up on shaky arms, scowling back at him. “Kuna, let me cum, didn’t I do good when you h-had me f-flipped!?”

“So needy, tsk.” Your eyes narrow before he shoves deeper, hand pulling your hair now, your eyes roll back as you see stars when he slams your cervix like this. “Being bratty?”

“Wanna cum, please… with you, with you.” He’s pausing now, before he yanks your head to him, leaning over your body to kiss you so sloppy, his tongue and your dripping down so messy, as you’re struggling to take him this way.

“Want me to cum inside? Fill you up?” You nod eagerly, when he pulls you to your knees, pumping deep inside you, a strong arm wrapping your body and a hand splaying your tummy.

“Please, please, K-Kuna I… want it!” You’re breathless when he shoves his cock so deep you’re squirming, the orgasm so close, but he stops again, to your frustration, to the point you’re in tears as he looks at you again.

“Want a baby in you, hmm brat?” You’re struck by the feral look in his ruby eyes. “Wanna be so full of me, here?”

He’s pressing your tummy as you nod then, swallowing, throat dry. “I want it in me, Kuna.”

“Say it - beg for it.” His husky voice and thrust send you, you lean back to cup his face, your palm feeling far too good, while your cunt is pulsating around him.

“Please put your b-baby inside me, please. Want it, need it, please… ah!” Sukuna has you on your back again, throwing you this way and that like you’re nothing, now he’s got you folded so in half your knees nearly touch the bed, folding you in ways you didn’t think were possible anymore.

“Gonna put that baby in you, fuck so many babies, huh slutty little brat?” He whispers, you gulp and nod, seeing him go so insane, and he’s ended then, rolling his hips just so, watching you go off that edge. “You’re just here for me to breed then, huh? My little fucking breed toy?”

“Shit…” You’ve known Sukuna is freaky, but he’s lost it, leaning back to watch his cock disappear again and again, groaning as he feels you tightening.

“Is that what you are? For me to breed you?”

“Kuna…”

“Answer brat, I’ll let you cum.” You take several breaths, struggling to form words as the man fucks into you.

“Breed me.” Those words send him further, as he fucks you so hard it hurts, hands bruising your thighs, but you’re dying for it, for the pain, for the way he looks at you, how he’s pulsing inside you now. “P-please!”

“Cum then, just f’me, lemme put so many inside you.”

You’re screaming his name as he finally lets you cum, his own orgasm following, his cock swelling and pulsing, filling you up so much you feel your cunt dripping his cum, while you’re gripping the blankets, panting. Your orgasm is so intense you can’t even fucking see, gasping as he lets your thighs down, cupping your face and slamming his lips on yours.

He’s still cumming from that reddened tip snug on your cervix, leaving him breathless with the intensity, and there is so much of it. Your body starts to convulse around him, a second orgasm ripping through you as he’s still not done, filling you up with his hot cum, making you feel so full, so owned when he’s pulling back finally, exhaling and looking down at you.

“Sukuna… your breed kink is intense.” You whisper, he chuckles then, the sound echoing in the room, shaking his head. “Is this normal for you?”

“God no, I’ve never…” He clears his throat then, as he brushes a finger across your brow, coated in a thin sheen of sweat. “I’ve never felt like that, or… wanted to. Shit you fuck me up, bratty stripper.”

“Bratty stripper, really?” You raise a brow, lips pursed, and he’s sighing, rolling ruby eyes as he rests his chin on his forearm, studying you carefully.

“You bring it out in me, alright?”

“Kuna… I’m your first breed kink huh?”

“Oh shut up. You love it.” He pulls out now, and your little smile turns into a gasp, as you watch just how much cum pours out, yours and his. “Messy, slutty pussy, she wants all my cum.”

“That’s your mess, Mr. Sukuna. Should clean it.” He raises a brow at your giggle, before he’s standing, laying you on your back, your head dangling then.

“Your mess, you clean it.”

“Oh is it now?” You eagerly lap at him as your hair dangles off the edge of the bed, and you tease a lick on his balls, earning his moan. “Both our messes.”

“More you.” He huffs, leaning over you to finger the sticky cum of his pouring out of your hole, making his cock twitch again.

“Mmm!” He’s shoved his cock deep in your throat, while you suck the juices off him, still mostly hard somehow, earning his soft cry that makes your sore cunt ache, while he leans over you and laps that tongue on your clit, while his cock shoves so deep in your throat you choke on it.

Sukuna groans as he fucks into your throat for the second time that day, licking his own cum off your clit, before pulling back, and watching the bulge in your throat move, sparking more inside him. “Not gonna be able to talk huh?”

The alarm goes off then, and Sukuna exhales, pressing a kiss on your clit as he pulls back, easing you up, your eyes are so fucked out you look dizzy. You touch your throat, clearing it, sitting with wobbly legs. “Almost time for him to come home?”

“Mmhmm, your little cockblock kid.”

“You love him, shut up.” You shove at him playfully, as he picks you up again, taking you to his bathroom.

“Tch, I deal with both of you.” You giggle and shake your head, seeing his plump lips twitch as he sits you down on the counter. “We have time to clean up.”

*****

When Miwa brings Touma home, you have a towel around your damp hair, as Miwa looks at you and covers her hand to giggle. Sukuna hands her hundreds. “This is too-”

“No, I really needed this. Thank you.” He mumbles, she can’t stop her giggle and neither can you as Touma runs up and hugs you over the fluffy robe.

“I love him.” Miwa murmurs in your ear, you blush as she eyes you.

“I do too.” She smiles at that, patting Touma’s head then.

“Love you Miwa!” He declares, and she gives him a little kiss.

“Love you too, be good and get some sleep for mommy hmm?” He nods as she waves at you all and leaves, when Touma turns to Sukuna.

“Will you watch a show with me?” Sukuna glares at his watch.

“It’s ten, kid.”

“It’s the weekend!”

“Melatonin-”

“Sukuna.” You glare and he sighs again. “I have to blow dry my hair, can you two watch just one episode maybe?”

“Of what!?”

“Bluey.” You and Touma say at the same time, making Sukuna grimace as you and… mini you… stare at him with those damn eyes.

Fuck he loves you, and now he’s loving your annoying kid, who wants to watch a stupid dog show.

How’d he fall so bad for you?

“I’m getting soft.” He mutters, when you kiss his cheek after he agrees.

“What’s wrong with soft? Hmm?”

“You’ll make up for this, woman.” You’re grinning as you run off, leaving him and the kid to watch this ‘stupid’ Bluey character on the couch. The kid is snuggling on Sukuna’s lap, clinging to him with his arms around his neck, the kid is as clingy as you, it seems, even as he shoves at him, he comes back. “Kid…”

“You’re comfy, Mr. Kuna!”

“Am not, I bench three fifty easy and-”

“Comfy!”

“Jesus. Let’s start this stupid show.” He wonders how long it takes to dry your hair as he scowls at the shut bathroom, you’re just torturing him. But slowly he gets absorbed in the damn show, and starts asking a yawning Touma questions. “Who’s that one?”

“Uncle Stripe! Hmm, you could be Uncle Kuna!” He presses a kiss on Sukuna’s cheek, he grimaces, wiping it off and shoving at the kid, who just comes back and clings again, laughing. “Papa Kuna then!”

“Papa Kuna the hell, kid.” Touma snuggles back in his lap as the show goes on, but his next words clutch at Sukuna’s heart.

“I don’t really know my Papa, except he made Mama sad sometimes.” Sukuna gulps, wondering just how much you don’t share, while Touma yawns again. “That’s why I’ll protect Mama.”

“Do you hate your Papa for being… well, a dick?” Touma blinks curiously, and Sukuna remembers he’s a little… kid or whatever, and doesn’t know his bio dad is a psycho dick.

“A what?”

“Shit… I mean, do you hate him for being bad to Mama?”

Touma frowns a bit for a moment. “No. I don’t… hate him. I don’t know him though. Just Mama. And she’s the best Mama in the world.” He grins brightly then, and Sukuna smiles at the clear love in his eyes for you.

“She seems like a pretty cool mom, huh?”

“The best! No one is a better mama.” Sukuna contemplates it then, what was fun and something to think of, you are a mother first, he knows that’s the most important part of you. “What should I call you, Mr. Kuna?”

“You can call me whatever kid, I guess.” He grumbles, earning Touma giggling, he sounds a bit like you when he does.

“Mama loves you.” His words again hit mushy things inside Sukuna, a mobster, a strip club owner, a man who had no attachments, now has a girl he’s in love with and a kid that he wants to take care of, so soon.

Like some whirlwind you’ve overtaken everything, since the moment his eyes met yours, and he saw it, something different, the type of love he has for you is difficult to explain or express. But he’d burn the goddamn world down for you, and your kid, if that’s what either of you needed, and any kids he had with you.

“I love your Mama too, even when she’s a little annoying.”

“Hey now!” You come out, skin all smooth and dewy, your hair glimmering from whatever fancy products he bought you, smelling far too good. “I love you both, but I am not annoying.”

“Tch. Sure, brat, this dog is annoying.”

“No, you like it, Papa Kuna.” He snorts, rolling his eyes as you falter, seeing Touma cling even tighter to Sukuna’s neck, as he pats a spot next to him on the couch, but you’re stuck there, like the gravity is pulling you down.

“Papa Kuna?” You murmur, and Sukuna shrugs a shoulder.

“He can call me whatever annoying thing he wants. Both of you and your dumb nicknames.” You sit then, tears filling your eyes, while you brush back Touma’s hair, seeing he’s dozed off right on Sukuna’s chest, feeling such affection you can hardly stand it. “Brat…”

“Don’t you tell me not to cry.” You’re already sniffling as you cover them up with a blanket, eyes watering as Sukuna sighs, reaching across Touma to cup your cheek, brushing aside a tear.

“You’re just a cry baby, hmm?” You just nod, and kiss him gently, salty tears flowing down his lips as he pulls back then, looking at Touma and brushing his hair back, your exact hair, so much of him is just like you. “Why are you crying this time?”

“Look at him. He l-loves you.” You’re sobbing quietly, and Sukuna feels his own emotions hit him, swallowing. If you make him cry he’s going to beat your backside. “He never had this from anyone but me. Never. I…”

“Shh. Let me put him to bed.” You nod then, as he kisses your head, carrying Touma to his room, coming back to hold you tightly, letting you sob all over his soft black shirt, shutting off the show with a click of the remote. “It’s okay, you’re safe here.”

“I love you so much. So much it hurts.” Sukuna gulps again, clutching your body tightly to him. “It’s crazy, how soon it happened, l-like when I m-met you…”

“Shh.”

“No, it was when I danced for you.” You pull back, cheeks a sticky mess, lip trembling so hard he brushes a thumb over it, letting you continue to melt him until he’s a mush. “You touched my tummy… my stretch mark, you said it was sexy.”

His hand comes to your waist then, thumb brushing the same area. “They are sexy. All of you is.”

“No one made me feel that way, until you, something about how you looked at me, how you touched me…” You are pulled against him tightly, as his breath tickles your lips, and he looks down at you. “I fell bad then.”

“I fell when I saw you, I knew I had to have you. And I do, and guess what?” You’re sniffling, heart pounding while he speaks those words, your hands grip his shoulder, while he holds you close.

“What?” You whisper, when he leans down further, taking over your every sense.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you or come near you, both of you.”

“Kuna…” You’re kissing, as he holds you so tightly, letting you cry against his chest, letting you whisper all the words of love Sukuna never knew he’d hear, or feel, as he rubs his hands up and down your back. “Thank you, for all of this. Everything.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. It’s everything.” He takes a breath then, smiling down at you and raising a brow. “What is that look?”

“Can we… go on a date?” You giggle, now he’s glaring daggers at you. “It’s not a joke, brat.”

“We don’t need to though, we live together and-”

“You deserve a damn date. Okay? I’ve never… been on one?” You blink in shock, one, two, three times. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Sukuna, you had a sex swing and own a strip club?”

“That doesn’t mean I went on dates.”

“Aw, so I’d be your first?” He stands as you hop up pulling him down now, giggling when he continues to scowl, looking so serious, his jaw is even clenched when you brush your fingers along it. “I’d love to.”

“Shit, yeah?” You nod eagerly, letting him pick you up and carry you to bed then, and you look so peaceful he thinks, snuggled and smiling, when your phone rings.

It’s way too late, and a private number, making his heart pound in his chest.

Sukuna picks up the phone, saying nothing, hearing Naoya’s voice then - “Where do you live now, just up and left with my son, huh? Do you really think you’ll get away with it, bitch- I have the DA in my pocket. I-”

Sukuna cuts him off quickly, his words making you stir awake. “Count your fucking days, Naoya. Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?”

He stutters as you realize in horror Sukuna is on your phone with him, god why can’t he let you be happy? He wanted nothing to do with you or Touma until you were happy, with Sukuna, who’s fuming, standing up right out of bed and squeezing your phone so tightly you think it’ll break.

“You think hiding behind the Gojo name will keep you safe, don’t you Sukuna - so scared you have to get the Kamo family to send me threats?” Sukuna’s laugh is dangerous then, frightening as you watch in horror.

“I’m not scared of you in any fucking way, I was trying to handle the situation with more concern than you have for anything, but if it’s a war you want, it’s a war you’ll fucking get.” Your mouth opens but Sukuna shushes you with just a look. “Or you wanna meet one on one, how’s that nose?”

“Fuck you, all this for what, to get at the Zenin?”

“All this because I love the girl you threw away, thank god you did too, you didn’t even deserve to look at her.”

“Then meet me tomorrow, I’ll send the details, and we’ll fucking end it all. She’s mine, and so is that goddamn kid, I’ll not just hand them over.”

“I’ll meet you alright.” He hangs up, and you watch in horror as your phone is crushed in Sukuna’s huge hand, crumbling and cracking, when he starts going to his drawers and digging out clothes.

“Sukuna, what did he say?” You whisper, he turns to look at you, insane, scary grin on his features.

“He said he wants to fucking die baby. That’s what. I’ll buy you a better phone, by the way.” He glances at his hand, covered in little cuts, you stand then, holding his palm as your worst fears are coming true.

“I can’t have you hurt because of me!”

“I’ll do anything for you, didn’t I say that?”

“But I-”

“I’m not meeting him tonight, I need to meet the boys. Okay?” You take a shaky breath, shaking your head.

“I want you to be in bed. I want him to leave us alone.”

“He will.”

“You can’t actually…”

“Kill him?” You bite your lip, nodding. “I love you, I’ll do whatever I have to in order to keep you safe, if it comes to it I’ll end him without blinking.”

“But you could get hurt!”

“He can’t touch me.” His bloody hand cups your cheek now, as he kisses you deeply, and your tummy turns and spins. “I need to end this for good. I have a date to take you on.”

He tilts your chin up, kissing away your tears, seeing the little bits of his own blood across your face. “Please come back home to us.”

“I will, brat, you worry too much.” Your frown makes him soften. “I will come back home, to both of you.”

“You better.” He kisses you again, getting dressed and leaving quietly, as you cry for the third time today, all for different reasons, seeing yourself in the mirror, touching your reddened cheek in the night glow, with the moon softly glowing in through the windows.

You peer down and see him hopping into a limo then, on the phone, touching your own chest as he looks up and sees your silhouette in the limo, dialing Toji’s number. “What is it? I’m getting sucked off, shit.”

“I didn’t need to know that.” Sukuna takes a shot that’s sitting in the cooler inside the limo, downing it in one go, sighing. “Finish it, I’m on my way.”

“Finish it, doll no teeth.” Toji tuts at the pretty girl sucking at him, while he’s sipping on his beer, biting back a moan and scowling at the phone. “You’re on one tonight, what happened?”

“He called her, threatening her, and I answered.”

Toji pauses then, pulling the girl off him reluctantly. “Just a minute, hmm?” She nods a bit, and Toji pulls up his pants, as he stares out the window of his apartment into the night. “What’d he say?”

“Too much. He was at her old place. The shit he… I can’t let him hurt her, or her fucking kid, Toji. I need a favor from you.”

Toji downs his beer then, grimacing and running a hand through his dark locks as he throws the bottle out with a clink. “Don’t need to beg me to help her, I will come with you.”

“Fuck you’re not that shit sometimes huh?”

“Oh fuck off Sukuna. I’m finishing this bj before I come out.”

Sukuna snorts then, rolling his eyes. “Whatever, you never lasted long from what I heard-”

“Fuck I didn’t, you don’t know shit- soundproofing your room.”

“So you wouldn’t jerk off to me.”

“Oh fuck you, I’m just doing this for her, not even you.” Sukuna sobers up a bit, as your face hits his mind, and he nods a bit.

“I’ll just wait then. Thank you Toji.”

“And a thank you? Damn she’s got you soft.” Sukuna thinks of crushing another phone, but hangs up instead, downing another shot with a shaky hand, while Toji calls back over the pretty bottle girl from the club.

“Sorry doll, go ahead now.” She’s back to sucking him deep in her throat, but for some reason Sukuna’s words and you being in danger has his mind all over, the Zenin have long been a problem. It’s why he long changed his name to the girl he loved so long ago, the one he lost.

Sukuna clearly loves you like Toji did, and now it makes him sick to think of Naoya, he knew when he saw you he was no good, but he didn’t know it extended so far. The pretty girl pulls back with a pop, frowning, and Toji grimaces, pulling her up on his lap now.

“I’ve got too much on my mind, your mouth is perfect, mmkay doll?” She nods shyly, gasping when Toji shoves two thick fingers in her pussy.

“Mr. Toji!” He’s curling them as her head falls back, and he’s kissing down her chest. “S-so good mnh!”

“Might as well have one of us cum.” He’s sucking her off him before he sends her home, finally joining Sukuna in the Limo, and seeing his addled state. “Shit, at least you interrupted me for a good reason. When’s he gonna meet?”

“Tomorrow, but I have a question for you, Toji.”

“What’s that?”

“Have you ever thought about leading them?”

Toji sputters then, as Sukuna smokes on a blunt, filling the limo up with smoke, handing Toji the blunt. “Leading them?”

“You’re the one who should be, hmm?”

“Fuck that, Sukuna, I can’t. I’ll help you take him out, but not that.” Sukuna sighs, nodding then, he knows how deep his hatred goes. “So… we’re taking him out?”

Sukuna grins. “I’d love to take him the fuck out, but one thing we are absolutely making sure of, he will never come near her again.”

A/N- Am I hinting at a Toji spinoff? MAYBE hehe- also expect Mob Gojo Chapter three next - I'll have a preview of him tonight actually. TY for all the love on the Mafia boys - I am so flattered by the love for our obsessed men. Hope you enjoyed this!

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prodbymaui · 4 months ago

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Aftermath — 이민형.

under the moonlight, you're all I need tonight

PAIRING: mark lee x gn reader

GENRE: lover duties

WORD COUNT: 1.1K+ words

WARNINGS: idol!mark, oral (mark receiving)

SYNOPSIS: your boyfriend comes home exhausted, and your lover signal goes blaring. now you don't want anything other than to provide comfort and relief like he does to you.

A/N: just a little mark blurb, I wish someone is sucking him good every night especially when it's exceptionally tiring because he deserves it!

Everything had been hectic today. Mark’s schedule started at the ungodly hour of two in the morning, barely giving him time to wake up properly before rushing off to get his makeup done. From there, he was whisked straight to the KBS building for Music Bank’s pre-recording, which concluded around 5 AM. Instead of taking a breather, they moved immediately into filming content for a YouTube feature. No sooner had that wrapped than Mark found himself in a whirlwind jacket photoshoot for his new album. As if his day wasn’t packed enough, he went straight into the recording studio to touch up vocals for one of his tracks, only to head back to Music Bank again for the live broadcast. When that was finally over, his schedule dragged him back to the SM building, where he practiced with the Dreamies for a grueling two hours. And just when you thought his day might wind down, he ended it with a long meeting finalizing the details of his solo album.

By the time the door finally clicked open at midnight, your heart ached at the sight of Mark Lee shuffling in, his steps heavy and sluggish. His usually bright eyes were now nearly shut with sheer exhaustion as he wordlessly made his way to the bathroom. You watched him, your worry growing with each step he took. You didn’t even get the chance to remind him it wasn’t good to shower so soon after coming in. The words died on your lips as you were too caught up in observing the way his shoulders sagged under the weight of his day. It wasn’t news to you that your boyfriend had one of the busiest and most grueling schedules imaginable for an idol. Still, no matter how much you told yourself to expect it, you never quite got used to seeing him in this state—completely drained of the energy that usually lit up his every move.

Minutes later, when Mark finally emerged from the bathroom, he looked even wearier, if that was possible. His damp hair clung to his forehead, and his clothes were sloppily thrown on, signaling just how little energy he had left for anything. He didn’t say a word as he trudged toward the bed, collapsing onto it without a second thought. It was hard to tell whether he hadn’t noticed you sitting nearby or if he was simply too tired to acknowledge your presence. Either way, you didn’t take it to heart.

Softly, you crawled into bed beside him, leaning over to place a gentle kiss on his forehead. The gesture was simple but filled with all the love and comfort you wished you could give to soothe the ache of his day. You felt a quiet satisfaction when the corners of his lips curved upward in a small, unconscious smile.

“Tired?” You whisper against Mark’s ear, pressing yet another kiss.

Mark leans in to your touch, almost purring like a kitten getting pampered by his mom. But the tranquil comfort gets interrupted when your free hand slowly snakes its way down to the front of his sweatpants, resting on top of it just enough for Mark to feel your warmth through the fabric.

“Baby,” He mumbles, shuffling closer. “I can’t today, ‘m sorry.. So tired.”

The sigh coming out of his lips falls to deaf ear as your palm begins moving lightly along his hardening length. Mark hisses, hand threatening to grip the hem of your shirt. He relaxes a little eventually at your soft caresses on his scalp. Still, you could tell he’s in his thoughts again— by the way he’s unmoving in your hold and perform no reactions to your palm’s movements even in the slightest.

Therefore, you pull away from him. The fingers previously on his hair now sits gently on his cheeks.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to do anything.”

With one last kiss on his lips, you slide downwards and meets the evident print of his cock. You trace it using your nose, grazing the pads of your lips if it catches, before tugging the bands to release his length. Using your spit as a makeshift lube, you watch how Mark’s body responds to your pumps of his cock, stimulating it all the while you move to lick along his balls. You nip lightly at his skin, just how he likes it. As expected, Mark exhales loudly, visibly more relaxed than earlier.

His whines pushes you to suck on one of his balls, fondling the other. Mark’s chest heaves up and down, your name slipping past his lips once or twice. The rim of your lips travels to his tip, sinking down to the base of his cock as you finally take him down your throat, providing Mark a pleasure he didn’t knew he needed at this moment.

“Fuck..” Mark sighs.

You bob your head, setting a steady pace that is not too much for you but is fast enough to bring Mark closer to euphoria. There’s no need of rushing things right now because none of this is about you. Tonight is all about Mark. Your ever hard-working boyfriend who shows nothing but competence, passion, and eagerness in everything he does. Your lovely boyfriend whose happiness is your happiness. It’s time to give back all the love he gave you in times you were in his position.

Mark’s arm covers his eyes as he pants, hips jerking involuntarily to thrust deeper in to your mouth. The tip of his cock hits the back of your throat, causing a choke from your end. It’s not a hinder to you as you recover immediately but Mark— God, Mark loves the feeling of you throat getting tighter as though it’s your pussy he’s fucking. He gasps, chasing the way it closes around him.

The more his high-pitched moans and desperate whines of your names escape his lips, the more your urge fuels inside you. You let your mouth moves on his length, letting him hit deeper and faster whereas your hand busies themselves traces the faint line of his abs and the other on his balls. You observe the way Mark’s face contorts at every movement from you until his fatigue finally melts as he releases down your throat, muttering sweet ‘thank you’s.

Licking the remaining drops of cum, you stretch a hand to the bedside and wipes down any saliva or cum left before returning the sweatpants back to where it is. After throwing the wet wipes to the trash can, you take a glance at Mark who’s already sound asleep before heading to brush your teeth and lays down beside him.

“You did so great today,” You peck his forehead, nose, and when your lips meet his, Mark wraps and arm around your waist— deepening the kiss before burying his face on your neck.

“Thank you, baby.” His hold gets a bit tighter. “Love you so much.”

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astrolook · 6 days ago

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✨📲From Desires to DMs: The 11th Lord’s Role in Today’s Life 💸🤝

Note: These are just my personal observations and recurring patterns I've noticed over the years. This post is based on principles from Vedic astrology. Take what resonates with you and feel free to leave what doesn’t. I’d love to hear your thoughts, so feel free to share in the comments if any of this resonates or reflects your own experience.

11th lord in 1H

You come across as witty, charming, and naturally optimistic. You have a poetic way of expressing yourself and a gift for speaking that draws others in. Generosity comes easily to you, and luck often shows up when you need it most. Life may throw you into strange and silly accidents, sometimes even sending you to the hospital unexpectedly. Still, you’re someone who can manifest your desires through personal effort. If you have an elder brother, they might face health challenges. In many cases, you are the firstborn or the only child in your family. Marriage tends to bring more comfort and material happiness into your life. You attract good friends and can rise to success through self-employment. Fame, wealth, and even awards are within reach, especially if you pursue singing. However, if this placement is afflicted, it can bring setbacks, including the rare but serious loss of an elder sibling.

Self-branding, influencer vibes, personal blog, lifestyle reels.

11th lord in 2H

You give off serious PR manager energy. You know how to charm, persuade, and make things happen with your words. Your friend circle is more than just social, it’s profitable. Joint ventures and investments often work in your favor. You might be low-key famous in your circle, whether as the quiet observer, the quirky one, or the center of attention. Careers in sales or banking suit you well and can bring solid financial rewards. Wealth can also come through your spouse, or even through donations if you're involved in activism or run an NGO. You're someone who knows how to turn social capital into actual capital.

Invests in crypto, runs a budgeting YouTube channel, side hustles for savings.

11th lord in 3H

Your elder sibling (if u have one) might become successful or headed that way. They tend to support you, and your bond with siblings in general is strong. There's a chance your sibling is the same gender as you. You're wired for self-employment and can build wealth by standing your ground and outsmarting your rivals. Moving far from home could boost your career and raise your status. Creative fields like writing, poetry, singing, or music are lucky for you. Not only do they bring joy, but they can also lead to real profits.

Content creator, viral tweets, runs a newsletter, digital marketer.

11th lord in 4H

You find joy through your maternal side unless the chart throws a curveball. You might actually feel closer to your father if he’s around. You're a smart worker, not a hard one. If money allows, you'd gladly outsource chores to a maid or even a robot. Investing in vehicles could bring profits, and real estate or agriculture might be other solid income streams. You tend to be practical, maybe even money-minded. Scholarships, higher studies, and awards are well within reach. Your mother is likely kind-hearted, and your spouse could be both fortunate and charming. Parental property might come your way, too, if it exists.

Home decor vlogs, real estate flipping, cozy aesthetic Instagram.

11th lord in 5H

You're or would be the kind of parent other kids wish they had like cool, wise, and totally in control of the future. You may share a strong bond with your father, and your own children will likely be just as attached to you. Gains can come through your spouse and even your kids. You value education and have a natural flair for being classy. The stock market, investments, and even a little gambling might bring in good profits, especially if you play your cards right. You're someone who blends brains with bold moves.

Stock tips on TikTok, sells art/NFTs, runs a fan page, livestreams games.

11th lord in 6H

You may have dealt with health issues or felt betrayed by friends or co-workers at some point. If you have an elder sibling, legal disputes or tensions with them might surface. You're logical, sharp, and a quiet fighter that's more strategic than aggressive. If you dream of running your own business, moving away from home could open doors to success. Loans can work in your favor but always read the fine print. If this placement is afflicted, relationships with elder siblings may suffer, and older people at work might try to undermine you or dump their issues on you.

Posts productivity hacks, LinkedIn power moves, wellness and fitness reels.

11th lord in 7H

You gain a lot through your spouse and their family, often enjoying a strong bond with them. You're naturally sensual, and at times, your spouse may have the upper hand in the relationship. This is a great placement for buying property or investing in a home. Before marriage, you might attract partners with hidden agendas, or you might be the one with them. Your elder sibling or grandparents could live far from you. Working with international clients or in internet-based fields brings success. You build a solid reputation, especially if you work abroad or run your own business. People tend to see you as a leader and may even follow your lead. If this placement is afflicted, it can bring serious challenges, including the loss of an elder sibling or spouse in extreme cases.

Couple vlogs, business with partner, relationship advice account.

11th lord in 8H

You’re built for the long run, but your spouse may not outlive you. You have a strong sensual side and might explore fleeting connections before finding "the one". There’s a magnetic pull toward taboo or hidden things, and you might even turn that into a career like adult content, sex work, or platforms like OnlyFans. You could also attract partners with similar paths, along with fame-obsessed partners, before settling down. Sudden, unexpected gains may come through the loss of close relatives. Fame might hit overnight, too, especially through viral moments or shock value.

OnlyFans, tarot TikTok, anonymous confessions, deep dive YouTube videos.

11th lord in 9H

You're fortunate, wise, and speak with clarity and truth. You're the kind of person who might one day be honored by the government or your workplace for something meaningful you’ve done for the greater good. Knowledge flows naturally to you, and there's potential to inherit property through grandparents or extended family. Your father may be supportive and well-off, or in some cases, you might have a stepfather instead. Recognition, awards, and even fame are likely especially in foreign lands. If your hometown doesn’t get you, the world just might. You’re made to shine beyond borders.

Travel vlogs, spiritual podcast, shares study abroad tips.

11th lord in 10H

You’re naturally wise and speak with honesty. You tend to overcome enemies in every sense, be it social, professional, or mental. You’re likely to care deeply for your mother, especially in her old age, though your relationship with your father may feel distant. Career success grows with age, and you’re likely to settle in a good, respectable neighborhood. Roles tied to the government or authority can bring you recognition, wealth, and a solid reputation. You’re someone who can profit easily from your profession, and multiple streams of income are definitely part of your path.

Career coach, TEDx speaker, shares hustle culture content.

11th lord in 11H

Your knowledge grows steadily as you’re a lifelong learner with an ever-curious mind. You’re likely to want a big family, whether that means many kids, adopted children, or even a house full of pets. Longevity, effortless success, and easy money tend to come with time. You may inherit ancestral property or receive support through an elder sibling if you have one. Your friend circle is a source of gains and opportunities. You carry a natural drive to always want more like more growth, more success, more connections.

Online community builder, event organizer, group chats for networking.

11th lord in 12H

You may unknowingly create obstacles for yourself. You might be surrounded by people yet still feel lonely or misunderstood. Earnings from foreign lands can be highly rewarding, and settling abroad could bring peace. If you have elder siblings, they may face health issues, or in rare cases, pass away early. You tend to connect deeply with outsiders, people from different cultures, or even strangers online, sometimes more than with those around you. You may carry heavy family responsibilities. Health-wise, there’s a possibility of insomnia, migraines, weak eyesight, and in very rare cases, even blindness. Donating to charity and engaging in selfless acts can help ease some of the more difficult effects of this placement.

Soft aesthetic Tumblr, anonymous blog, remote freelancing, ASMR YouTube.

Wanna dive deeper into your chart's layers? ✨🔍 DM me for a full astrology reading, a 5 or 8-year marriage report, detailed synastry, or a kundli matching breakdown 🌙💬 Check out my pinned post for pricing and more info 💫💸

Let’s decode your cosmic chaos together ⭐💖

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1800titz · 2 months ago

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The one where Y/N and Harry are neighbors in an apartment complex, he's got a bunny called Snuggles, he makes softcore porn spanking people (it's a REALLY LOUD HOBBY), and Y/N has definitely called the police for a domestic disturbance next door.

HI FRIENDS. The council has spoken, so here is the first part of the lovingly-dubbed spanko fic. This series will be early access, so— parts go up on patreon first, then they come to tumblr 3-ish weeks later (but if you wanna get ahead, the second part is already up on patreon). Reader insert, emotionally a slowburn, and basically a garbage fire I'm pouring my deepest, darkest desire into as a coping mechanism :p If you liked TDIAG, you'll probably rock with this one. As always, feedback/reblogs massively appreciated <3 WEEEEEEEE okay bye

ᴄʜᴇᴄᴋ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀᴛʀᴇᴏɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ : ᴍᴀɪɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

CONTENT/WARNINGS: miss girl misconstruing consensual kink for domestic violence (oops)

WC: 7.8K

Harry’s face is the reason average men have developed a phenomenon called personality.

Historically, it was faces like his, at the very least, that ignited adaptation— this wasn’t an overnight implementation, after all. Men don’t move that fast. There’s a long-lasting, brutally destructive record there, and a tale as old as time itself. Before charisma had to be manufactured in the absence of a devastating jawline, there was the high-cheekbone aristocracy, and its counterpart, what’s known today as the “he’s actually really nice” faction. The beauty privilege inventors; the bedroom-eye monarchy; the symmetrical syndicate of a resting smolder—

And the rest of everyone else.

Rumor has it that the first comedian was a man who watched another guy, who had eyes like wet chrysocolla and really broad shoulders, turn a casual glance into an entire bloodline’s origin story. Maybe the first poet sat next to a man wearing the skin of divine nepotism— and the only defense strategy was to pick up a hobby that spoke less in pretty, heart-shaped lips and more in words like love’s trembling hand doth trace its name upon thy skin. New seduction ritual: implemented.

Basically, the survival mechanism goes like this: if you’re competing with bone structure sculpted by an empyrean chisel, a mouth worthy of oil paintings and crumpled love letters, and the kinds of dimples that were engineered for the sole purpose of emotional damage (Cupid’s attempt; two, little exit wounds, the perfect pair of injustices parenthesizing his smile)…

And you’re lingering in the shadow of those attributes? Operating on a deficit? Well, then. There’s a little more work left to be put in.

If you’re lucky, you’re tall, or you’re well endowed in the basement, or both. If you’re none of those things, you’re banking on a gift with a musical instrument, or you’re coping with the weight of your wallet. You’re getting into niche, esoteric interests you will impress upon every woman that steps foot into your orbit to stand out, or you’re polishing up your comedic abilities. The thing is, society has evolved to the point where this compensation is the foundation to procreation. The foundation to function. And the kind of men with faces like Harry, who got in line not once, but twice when God was handing out genetic privilege (the overachieved extra credit projects), just get to sit back and let the world unravel at their feet.

Men like Harry don’t need personalities because they already look interesting enough. When you’re the kind of pretty that inspires love songs and ill-advised tattoos, you don’t need wit, or pockets lined with green. It opens doors (and legs) with such minimal effort that it may as well be as simple as breathing. The quiet space in a room bends around you when you become the focal point by existing, incidentally magnetic.

It’s pretty unfair, to say the very least.

Y/N only really registers it passing— in fleeting, peripheral moments when the space bends around him and her eyes glue, almost like an accident. A brief sighting here and there, like a rare animal caught between the trees—seen but not acknowledged, because staring starts to feel like stepping into something too raw, too deliberate.

He’s always moving. In motion, slipping past. Glimpses of wide shoulders cutting through the communal pool, water slicking over musculature in a smooth tide and then rivulets, droplets sticking against sun-warmed skin. A silhouette in the elevator at the end of the hall, head bowed. Sorting through crinkled envelopes between his massive hands with a ruckle between his brows.

He’s got the kind of face that suggests he should be gently perched on the edge of a marble fountain, carved in alabaster. A cherubic thing. Rosy-mouthed, haloed by damp curls that tuck around his ears in perfect, artistic disarray. The kind of beauty that feels vaguely mythological, like he should either be blessing crops or luring unbeknownst sailors to their deaths. A visage that belongs on domed Renaissance ceilings.

Y/N breathes. Her pulse feels like it’s rattling a little. It makes her head feel a little gooey when he’s stood in front of her.

And here he is, holding a package in one hand, water still beading at his collarbone from a morning shower, damp curls dripping onto the fabric of a lived-in, vintage T-shirt. The tragic failure of modern existence is that a man like this— who should, by all logic, be strumming a lyre on the edge of a celestial fountain— has instead been doomed to wander the mundanities of the human condition. To swipe through his mail. To stand in front of her door and say things like “Think they swapped our mail again” in that perfectly unassuming, relaxed tone, like his very existence isn’t actively offensive to the concept of mediocrity.

His singular flaw? That one, teeny thing?

He’s a horrific neighbor.

Abysmally inconsiderate, in fact. Maybe, one of the worst people Y/N has ever had the pleasure of sharing a paper-thin wall with.

The thing is, under all normal circumstances, eye candy is a desirable next door tenant, to catch those scarce glimpses of and swoon over. But Harry? He’s dangerous. An illusion gilded in beauty that sits in this achingly so, lazy way. It’s an excellent cover for someone who— based on volume alone— should be legally required to sublet a soundproof chamber instead of an apartment. Beauty privilege, remember?

Instead of spending his days spreading divine harmony and whispering sweet nothings into the ears of poets, her tragically beautiful neighbor has chosen a different calling. One that involves subjecting Y/N to an auditory experience that can only be described as an unholy, unprovoked act of sonic terrorism against anyone who possesses functioning ears.

While he may look like the patron saint of soft lighting and tasteful nudity, he lives like a man who has never once considered the presence of neighbors. Evidently, the universe operates on imbalance.

It’s not surprising that he fucks. Nor is the frequency, given— everything. It would be more surprising if he didn’t, which, statistically, seems impossible. It is the sheer volume at which he fucks and the blatant disregard for customary noise ordinances.

Y/N has had the great misfortune of gaining intimate knowledge of Harry’s extracurricular activities through nothing but flagrantly inconspicuous, unsolicited proximity. She is now, against her will, deeply familiar with the sound of his bed frame against the wall. With the low, gravel-thick groan that spills out of him before everything goes quiet, the sharp gasp from whoever is tangled up in the sheets beneath him. The pornographic chainlink of yes, yes, yes, as if to lyricize the tempo of a wrought iron headboard ramming against hollow drywall. She’s a victim to secondhand moaning; a hostage to the unchecked libido of a man she’s not even screwing.

The young woman isn’t sure who he’s sleeping with, but based on the sounds, they either really, really like whatever feat of Olympian-endurance he’s performing on the other side of the wall, or they’re being held at gunpoint and doing an exceptional job of faking it. It’s loud. A predictable regularity. Enough to make her consider downloading white noise apps and investing in a stronger liquor cabinet.

And every morning, after nights filled with thumping and gypsum-dulled dirty talk— horny monologue hour, hardly softened by an overworked, underpaid layer of rental-grade plaster— and the occasional bass-heavy indie rock soundtrack, he leaves his apartment looking criminally rested. Peaceful. Unbothered by the absolute railing he has just put someone (and the walls) through.

For all his divine aesthetics, Harry fucks like he’s trying to earn a standing ovation. With the kind of dedication to performance that suggests he thinks there’s an awards committee waiting outside in the hallway to hand him a trophy when he’s done.

Y/N doesn’t know what’s worse—the rhythmic, wall-shaking thump of his bed frame, the low, muzzled stream of just incomprehensible enough to stay offensive murmurs, or the fact that he has the audacity to look well-rested when she sees him the next morning, while she lurches past him like a woman who’s been spiritually waterboarded by the full-scale resonance of his sex life.

Y/N has tried— earnestly tried— to ignore it. To mentally downgrade him from disruptively attractive to something more manageable, like guy-next-door cute. But Harry is simply too loud to be ignored.

And not just in volume— though, yes, he operates at a decibel that insinuates he believes “inside voice” is an urban legend. It's everything. The way he takes up space. The way he stretches his arms over his head and his shirt rides up, exposing a sliver of toned stomach like some kind of aesthetic oversight. The way his lips pull into a smirk when he's amused, a single dimple pressing into the smooth skin of his cheek.

The worst part? He doesn’t weaponize it. Just… exists, as if he entirely lacks self-awareness for the unrelenting power he yields with pure aesthetics.

Perhaps the only thing more dangerous than his unregulated evolutionary favoritism is the lack of object permanence it causes. Inspires. Because at the end of the day, despite how polite, how deeply-gnarled in neighborly niceties, The Incident from last month still exists, but miraculously manages to melt into her every time she’s face to face with him. Like a static buzz settling into the way her composure thaws away.

His most notable sound pollution, to date, spilled in the form of audible rejection on a rain-drenched afternoon, dripping through the drywall in a dissent-rusted chain. Stop. No. Please. It was a voice she didn’t recognize. A voice trying to be firm but not entirely expecting to be listened to. It sounded so defeated, like a cry and then a high, sharp whine in response to whatever distinctly lower-pitched murmurs the insulation muzzled. All velvet-dipped tones swallowed by the structural integrity of a shoebox apartment.

Y/N is the last person to dig into others’ preferential depravities, nor does she have the mental bandwidth to file through the archives of a borderline stranger’s hedonisms, but her stomach had twisted up like one of those coiled, abstract sculptures that fits on a bookshelf, and she ended up on the couch with her cellphone tucked to her ear.

Because it wasn’t just the kind of sound that prickled at her nape, but curdled deep in the belly of her, heavy and rotting.

(“Um, hi, I think my neighbor is— hurting someone.”)

But the thing is, standing with her door cracked now, Y/N thinks there needs to be at least one, obnoxiously visible character flaw to remind her and offset the audacity of his aesthetics, because up close, it’s so much worse.

Anything— an overinflated ego, a questionable tattoo, a personality cultivated exclusively from Joe Rogan podcasts. But no. Harry is polite— painfully so, armed with the clean-shaven jawline of a man who has never known an awkward phase and the kind of infuriatingly natural charm that makes all rationale and reason puddle off into awed oblivion.

“Hey,” he says, cradling the package in one palm, curls wet, one rogue lock clinging to the crest of his cheekbone in a way that would look deeply artificial on anyone else. “Think they swapped our mail again.”

The level of allurement at which he functions should come with a warning label, so it’s a little tough to keep The Incident afloat when he just… waterlogs it with simple, blissfully unaware presence. In these types of situations, all that buoys is the vague, internal monologue reminding her that she’s been gawking wordlessly too long to be considered socially acceptable.

Her taller neighbor (significantly taller; really, Y/N thinks— it’s as if he collected hallmarks like they were on conveniently timed clearance) blinks. He’s still holding the package out. Y/N blinks back. Batting her lashes shakes something, as if warding off gnats off in a plume of smoke. Slowly, she accepts the misdelivered offering, and unease creeps into the soft spot between her rib bones and her organs.

Despite the way the man has embedded his existence so deeply into her thoughts— honestly, so much so that he may as well be paying rent (she should be getting compensated for the unpaid mental labor)— Y/N doesn’t actually know Harry.

She knows his name is Harry. H-A-R-R-y, always inscribed in all capitals, besides the cacographic tail end of the lowercase, curving Y. She’s given up on trying to understand why whoever the post office sends insists on treating their mailboxes like interchangeable suggestions rather than fixed addresses. She knows that their mail, through some act of bureaucratic sabotage, somehow manages to interchange between 9B and 9C with unsettling regularity.

She knows he fucks. A lot. So regularly that at this point, it’s practically a statistical impossibility that his celibacy record stands longer than a sparse handful of days. She knows that he wears the face of a misplaced effigy, with a halo’s worth of plausible deniability— the kind that should be mounted to an Italian plaza centerpiece, or live frescoed, immortalized on a high ceiling between Corinthian columns. She knows she called the police on him last month, so she needs to ball her resolve in her arms when it spills apart like unrolled toilet paper—

There is one truth Y/N must latch on and cling to in these tragically catastrophic stand-offs (probably… entirely one-sided, given that the opponent to her poor mettle and overactive nervous system is just… standing there, breathing, entirely oblivious of his innate talent to dilate pupils and cause momentary amnesia), and that truth is this: no superficially aesthetic veneer of deception can shell-up reality.

And the reality is that Y/N does not know this man, and so no cherubic façade, neighborly niceties, or feigned self-unawareness can suppress that he may as well be an entirely different person behind closed doors.

It’s months down the line that the irony will hit her— that yes, undeniably, Harry is almost a direct, walking contradiction behind the assumed sanctity of a closed door— that no pleasantries or seraphic, unassuming dimples can soften the obscenity of his pastimes. Hobbies include: vinyl collecting, long walks, and ensuring that an attitude adjustment sticks. But that’s months down the line, and right now?

Right now he’s just her obnoxiously loud neighbor that, according to probable cause (and the recording of the phone call she made to the emergency hotline, stored somewhere in the 911 archives), may or may not take no for an answer. Which is the biggest tragedy of all, in her opinion.

“Thanks.” There’s a little bite there to the word, there. Enough for him to clock it— for something to flicker along that lazily charming smile, like a gossamer-thin, bewildered film over the surface of his expression.

Harry pauses, almost like he wants to say something (probably to acknowledge the awkwardly apparent dissonance going on), but then he just… doesn’t.

“Okay,” as the man breathes, the breadth of his shoulders swells up, thick muscle rising up under the cotton fabric (not quite pulled taut— not anywhere besides the span of his shoulders— but enough for the shape of his pebbled nipples to poke through the material). Y/N chews into the gummy-smooth skin along the inside of her cheek. Honestly, it’s unfairly disarming; his low voice, his stupid face, his hard nipples prodding through the tee. With his dewy meadow eyes glued onto her, her resolve wobbles like a flimsy stilt house on the coast in a hurricane. “Have a good one.”

He ducks his chin (a subtle period on the uncomfortable pause, a formal seal on his exit) at the young woman, still holding the parchment-wrapped package she’s been awarded as if solidified into a stone-encasement of the position. Y/N blinks. Harry turns.

With a final glance toward his retreating back, the girl closes the door. As her fingers tighten around the package, her knuckles bleach from the strain. It’s either that or punch drywall, and quite frankly, she’s been paying too much in rent to consider remodeling and too many fees in the form of involuntary eavesdropping to afford a fracture in the (poorly constructed) noise barrier. She tucks the chainlink back onto its track as the door clicks shut and resigns herself to another unfortunate truth: Harry is so dangerously attractive that not only is she almost certainly going to think about this moment later, but she will be reminded, every time she’s shepherded into close proximity with him, that when God packages something up in 6 feet of limited-edition facial topography and artfully tousled curls, no amount of unsought aural pornography and creeping suspicion can stop a cosmic nepotism baby from dismantling her concentration.

The last thing Harry expects from a disgruntled herd of bleary-eyed, sock-shuffling renters— a crowd caught somewhere between sleep-deprived and half-dead— is small talk.

Half these people have a look that suggests they contemplated burning alive before choosing to evacuate, and the other half probably wish they decided to wear real pants to bed. Tonight, Harry falls into both categories. With the fire alarm still shrieking from the guts of the complex and the blinking glow of blue and red in the corner of a tar-black night, the briefs hitching high on his meaty thighs is almost… poetic. Cinematic, at the very least. Like a scene from an experimental indie film focused on the gradual dissolution of dignity.

The downy rabbit nestled in his arms, coiled more like a floccose ball than a living animal, is the sartorial maraschino cherry— it pulls the look together. Emergency Evacuation chic. He looks about as disheveled as the rest of the congregation; bedhead, sleep still dusting at his half-mast gaze, keyring slipped over his middle finger and his phone cradled in the same hand (though, Harry thinks wryly, no building-wide emergency couture quite tops the tighty-whitey socks-and-sandals combo that the guy up ahead of him is rocking). There’s sparse chatter going on all around him, a kind of background drone that fades into the wail, but he doesn’t have any intention to engage. Despite the unplanned slumber party and the potential opportunity to trauma-bond, he can’t really find it in him to start ice-breaking and sharing life stories. There’s a time and place to build community with your neighbors— half-dressed in a parking lot at three AM isn’t one of them.

Instead, he stands in the midst of the mass, dead-silent as if still calibrating. It takes him a while to notice the young woman a few feet ahead of him— long enough that the cool air has settled over him in a coat. Her bathrobe wraps tight around her, cinched pink terry-cloth. He doesn’t recognize that she’s a familiar face until she turns enough for him to see her side profile, her phone screen casting light and painting shadows in the crease of her furrowed brow as she sniffs. Thumbing over the device, Y/N turns back over her shoulder.

The longer he stands there, creaking into a more-awake rendition of himself as the faint chill cuts through the grogginess in his skull, the more the silence marinates into impatient restlessness. Stretching like old gum. She lingers in his periphery, shifting from foot to foot as if nursing the same restive itch. Once again, his neighbor twists to the side, rocking onto the balls of her feet and then back down onto her heels. A huff spills from her lips as she turns her phone off and tucks it up under her upper arm, crossing them. It’s not cold enough for the air to bloom with her breath, but the exasperation in it is audible. Maybe because he’s managed to seep closer.

“—Wonder if someone just pulled it.”

At first, Y/N doesn’t acknowledge the statement, as if she doesn’t recognize the remark is directed at her. And then, the presence behind her— not pressing uncomfortably close, just distant enough to notice— has Y/N turning her head over her shoulder. She double-takes.

Harry’s in a new light. Still abysmal to her train of thought, already weak on its tracks given that the drowsiness from being rudely awoken in the middle of the night still has her lingering in a dull, cotton-wrapped awareness. But now, he’s a fraying shape; sleepy and half-nakedly soft. Hair a masterpiece of sleep deprivation— the typically styled ringlets on his head sit mussed; whatever shape (she assumes the usual— somewhere between windswept and enticingly intentional) existed yesterday has gone rogue, erased by his pillow. What’s left is a tousled disarray. He’s in another tee, once again pulled snugly over his shoulders, and he’s cradling what could be a live, fuzzy animal, but more resembles a balled fur stole, its potential face tucked into the nook between his muscly upper arm and his chest. Despite the ridiculous assortment of this particular wardrobe showcase, that’s not what catches her eye most. Y/N sucks in a breath.

Considering a fair share of the evacuees around them teeter on the brink of public-indecency, it shouldn’t throw her guard off as much as it does, but all she can manage in such close proximity with Harry’s thighs is to blink wordlessly. It’s not necessarily his thighs so much as the way they’re denuded— not the way his trousers sit on them so much as their entire lack thereof. It’s the way his lower region is only covered up by a pair of jet-black briefs, clinging like a second skin, riding ridiculously high and ridiculously low. High enough that the only place her eyes can focus is the (chewy) musculature, slightly sun-bathed from all those hours spent in the residential pool, dusted with hair. Low enough that a sliver of skin peeks from between the waistband and hem of his shirt, hitched up just a touch on one side. Enough to hint at a sharp dip of a mostly concealed V, where muscle sinks in a hard line along bone. A tease of whatever workout routine he’s committed to. Beside the rigid line chiseled in there, an inked, leafy stem climbs (a set of mirrored layers that she’d observed on him, supine on a pool chaise).

Basically, it’s the type of thing that should legally classify him as a walking thirst trap.

With the crowd sporting bedtime fashion, some covered only in the most legally vague sense of the word, it leaves Y/N wondering: if most of the people decided to haphazardly vacate their apartments by only tossing on the most minimal attire— if opting to add to their garb in any way— what did Harry add? Did he wear the cream-toned tee to bed? Just the Calvins? Both? Or was he entirely bare, only sloppily throwing on whatever was left discarded by the side of the bed? Does he sleep naked?

With all these sordid thoughts clouding up the forefront of her mind like a thick plume of fog, she can’t find words through alphabet soup and the vague mental images of Harry’s bare skin tangled by sheets. To make it better, he’s just staring at her, like he’s expectantly waiting for her to respond. What was the question?

Y/N blinks again. “What?”

“The—“ Harry bobs his head towards the cluster of emergency vehicles, olive eyes oscillating to the apartment complex and back onto her, “fire alarm. I wonder if someone just pulled it.”

If ever the universe was to humble Harry from a breathing renaissance painting, half-clothed and half-asleep would be the time. He could be knocked down to whatever status a man up front is bearing, clad in a questionably classy fusion of tragic, high-cut cotton underwear, socks, and suede, open-toed sandals. Somehow, though, it’s worse that his bedhead, for the most part, still leaves the tendrils curling in lazy, untamed waves. That his nakedly-beguiling thighs, strong and sculpted with muscle, look like they’re meant to pry knees wide. It’s mortifying—

“Then, they’d be an asshole,” she murmurs, her own gaze raking out and lingering on the building. The words come out clipped with exhaustion, and then that pause lingers again.

Harry hums. She chances another glance at the furball curled to his chest.

“Snuggles,” Harry supplies, raising one arm a tad from where it’s caged to support the animal. The motion is enough to jostle the thing, and it tucks its face out, twitching its nose. With careful precision, the man moves one hand out from the cradle— the one not clutching his keys and his phone (by the way, casually dwarfed by the sheer size of his palm and cupped, lengthy fingers) to skim his pointer along the Holland lop’s dangling ear. “He’s a bit delicate and has some strong opinions on sudden, loud noises. Not a fan of fire alarms, as it turns out.”

The young woman hums noncommittally, eyes snaking back off to the polychrome strobe.

The last thing Harry expects from his neighbors during a mandatory, middle-of-the-night evacuation order are pleasantries. Between the slouched postures, the collective, dead-eyed aura of suffering, the general degree of resentment perfuming the air, and the visible internal debates over whether a hypothetical fire is worth enduring the cold, it’s safe to assume morale is at an all time low. Which brings him to his next point— there is, Harry suspects, something about him that fundamentally offends his neighbor.

Not inherently because she’s not talking to him. Naturally, the theory has no relevance to her lack of enthusiasm at the moment.

There’s a clause to life that he learned as a little kid, an absolute truth that the motto “water off your back” was created around, and this clause is that not everyone will like you. There’s really no gentle way to chew on that one, but it’s a fact Harry has long come to terms with. Jealousy, misery, even a simple case of personalities repelling like mismatched magnets— all things that can cause someone to decide you’re just not their cup of tea. Incompatibility could very easily leave your existence grating someone down to the molecular level. And you can never please everyone— that’s another piece of that truth he had to gnaw on before he decided that he was going to spend the rest of his life marching to the beat of his own drum.

Apparently, something about this tempo scrapes at some highly-sensitive nerve of hers like a dull knife on a chalkboard.

It’s an intuition thing, really. There hasn’t so much been a sharp, substantial instance so much as there’s been instances. Little, creeping things; the way her eyes ward when he’s close, despite the way they hover; the tone she seems to reserve for him, not outwardly rude, but suspiciously close to some awkward admixture between tolerating jury duty and being held at gunpoint. There’s more, among those, too— the suspiciously long pauses that sit like preludes to every response she gives him. The way her gaze flickers off avoidantly.

And those last two aren’t flustered mechanisms.

Harry knows he is, according to conventional, societal standards, attractive. He’s no stranger to reflective surfaces, nor is he unaware of the way actual strangers look at him. Ogle. Gawk.

It was a burgeoning metamorphosis he became acutely aware of between awkward kidhood and the place he’s at now. First, all lanky angles of uncertainty, only half-grown into his features, when his bones had made up their mind but the muscle and skin over them hadn’t quite decided what they wanted to be yet. Then, it was almost overnight. Everything began stretching into place and ubiquitously working in his favor. Eyes lingered, heads turned…

It’s safe to say he knows nervous girls. Boys. The lack of eye contact, or on the polar opposite hand, the blanking, empty stares and the silent beat as their response time glitches and their mouth tries (and fails) to keep up with a short-circuiting nervous system. Not everybody is able to stay the most suave version of themselves interacting with someone they find sexually attractive— his firsthand experience involves not only being on the receiving end, but on the giving end, as well. Granted, the aesthetics boost had given him a sense of confidence that buried his inhibitions down, so it’s been a long while since the last time he tripped over himself in front of someone that made his dick sit up and pay attention, but—

The thing is, Y/N doesn’t glance away like staring at him rapidly dissolves her thoughts in a static haze. She doesn’t take long pauses because she’s floundering over the next word. She doesn’t even look at him in a way that insinuates she’s worried he’ll nip her or something, she’s just so utterly…

Closed off. Disinterested. Like his presence is a jury duty evaluation and she’s wriggling in her seat, waiting to talk about her views on jury nullification.

In fairness, it could very well be a me-not-you thing— the awkward shuffle through their interactions, the severe deficit of enthusiasm. Those communication patterns could very well be sound across the board… in another universe. There are footprints that lead him to the massive elephant in the room, and those footprints spell the vague shape of it didn’t used to be this way.

Sure, Harry contemplates, if she was a miserably unpleasant person that holed up in her apartment with no interest in corresponding with another human being, he’d get it. If she’d given him the idea that something about him rattled her down to atoms the first time he ever said hello to her, he’d get it. But she used to smile. Coyly, almost, he’d go as far to say— one finger away from twirling a lock of hair around her pointer as she talked to him. The kind of simper that accompanies a giggle from a barista handing his drink over across the counter, eyes honed. She used to lean onto her door frame when he handed off a stack of envelopes that got misplaced into his mailbox, or hung back with her eyes wet and lively as she stood at his doorway and handed off a package.

What’s more is that his history is marked by drawing more people in after he opens his mouth, than turning them away. He’s arguably likeable— not in an arrogantly self-absorbed way, but strictly based on track record. He’s befriended too many older ladies (who sparked up chatter with him in grocery stores unprompted, mostly), and gotten slipped too many drinks (on the house) from bartenders to believe otherwise. Generally, his existence tends to fall into the category of charming rather than grating.

When he considers all of this, his analysis only leads him to one conclusion— there is something about him that suddenly, fundamentally offends his neighbor.

And it’s with this hypothesis that Harry clears his throat, hesitates, and prods, with just a moment of lull after she’s turned back away from him, “If I’m misreading this, feel free to tell me to piss off, but— did I do something?”

The young woman pivots back over her shoulder, blinking, almost as if she’d forgotten he was behind her at all.

“…What?”

Harry shrugs. The motion coaxes Snuggles to lift his head again. “I don't expect us to be friends, but I also don't want to be the person you actively avoid in the hallway. If I've done something to make things weird, l'd rather fix it than pretend I don't notice."

For a long second, Y/N doesn’t say anything. Just batting her lashes up at him, features lax, like she’s processing the earnest directness behind his words and letting them settle. And then her face twists.

Ooh— okay. Ruckling brow bone, lips tugging down, the nearly incredulous burst of air she expels as she turns her prickling face away—

She scoffs, muttering something strangely close to, “can’t be serious,” under her breath, and Harry’s eyes pensively narrow just a smidge. Enough to be entirely imperceptible as he drinks in her body language. That’s an indicator, if Harry’s ever seen one.

“You know what, Harry,” she says after a moment (now her arms are caging defensively, that’s an interesting touch), “…I just don’t really …appreciate how you treat women, to be honest.”

Of all the responses Harry had been anticipating, curiously honed on every word, that was— not the one. His dark canopy of lashes sweeps over his eyes as the admission lands and… knocks him off kilter, just a bit. His brows relax, then furrow up as he mulls the statement over, buffering.

He sounds a little bewildered when he says, voice much more soft-spoken, “…Sorry?”

“You should be,” his neighbor tells him pointedly, her arms still crossed like a defensive barrier across her chest, “Hitting women is wrong. Very illegal for a reason, actually.”

At the mention, his head bobbles back a bit like he’s dodging a smack between the brows with the context-lacking declaration. He’s not quite sure he’s heard her right, eyebrows climbing and eyes widening almost comically. Right, okay. This is… a gross misunderstanding, he decides. When the realization hits him, truly hits him, his knee-jerk response is an incredulous laugh, which he muscles down. Instead, his appalled amusement trickles out like a little huff, corners of his strawberry mouth tugging up. Unfortunately, the reaction only seems to irritate her further, and her forehead crinkles up as her own eyebrows ascend in stunned disbelief.

“You think there’s something funny about hitting a woman?” Y/N presses, eyes steeling into slits, her priorly indoor-voice rising a decibel.

The volume of her statement (and the misleading content) has his otherwise mirthy expression falling into something far more serious. Full of comically flat, grievous denial, like a kid being scolded for spray-painting a concrete wall after being caught with the can in its hand.

“—No,” Harry shakes his head slowly, side to side, “Not at all.”

Cautiously, his gaze slips off to the corner, where a few tenants have turned over their shoulder to gauge the commotion. As the young woman’s head swivels to tail where his eye contact has meandered, Harry realizes that backpedaling is only going to become a feat of incredible verbal athleticism from here. Upon catching the other glimpses from the crowd, slowly turning back to their own conversations, Y/N makes a deadpan sound of amusement before she turns back to face him.

“Oh, what? You’re ashamed now that you’re being called out for it? Good,” she bites, shoulders teetering as she leans toward him and unfolds her arms, pointing her index finger into his direction scathingly, “You should be ashamed. It’s absolutely disgusting to put your hands on a woman.”

This is tragically weighed against Harry’s favor. Here he was, just a half-asleep evacuee, holding his rabbit, clad in only a pair of hardly decent briefs, contemplating whether he should Uber Eats tacos as soon as the emergency exit fiasco were to clear up (might as well, since he’s already awake). Somehow, he’s managed to morph from an unassuming extra to the perceived antagonist.

No, Harry thinks— this wouldn’t be a disaster film; it’s a full blown, poorly-contrived drama with a plot twist even the supposed villain is caught off guard by. The curly-headed brunette chances another glance to the other side now, where more people have not only glimpsed over in brief acknowledgement, but have fully twisted their shoulders to observe the apparent scandal. As much as Harry wholeheartedly marches to the beat of his own drum, at this moment in time, his reputation is shaking in its boots and he’s reached a mental checkpoint called time for damage control.

Weaving sincerity into his tone and shaking his head placatingly as he steps forward— a subconscious attempt to coax her into lowering her volume— Harry tells her, “I don’t put my hands on anybody that doesn’t consent to it first.”

Her face scrunches up.

“I think,” his pink tongue slinks out to wet his lips, “maybe, there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

“No, I really, really do,” Harry counters, ducking his chin into a nod.

Instead of hearing him out, however, his neighbor, as if fueled by the internal calling to manually dismantle misogyny, one assumed violent criminal at a time, only raises her volume a little more. Exceeding the normal range, definitely steeping in public-humiliation-ritual territory.

“I’m not misunderstanding,” Y/N bites, brows pinched like he’s personally offended her by even insinuating as much, “I have ears, just so you know, and I’ve heard a woman saying no, and please, and stop. So you can drop your good boy act, okay—“

Harry blinks. If not for the character defamation going on and the way Socks-and-Sandals raises his phone out of seemingly nowhere, pointing it into their direction as if there isn’t a potential fire to be filmed instead of all things, Harry would laugh. But there is, and the flash is on, weak along his peripheral edge—

“I know guys like you, I know your type,” Y/N declares, jabbing her finger against him again, this time so close to grazing the area along his chest, right between the tops of his pectorals, just over Snuggles, “and it’s gross that you think because you’re attractive you can walk all over everyone and do things like that to people, and you know what, next time maybe the cops won’t be so nice—”

Ah, nice. Another mystery resolved; one which involved a pair of men with guns in their holsters at his door performing a wellness check and an excruciatingly awkward clarification on impact play, consensual sadomasochism, and safewords. For weeks Harry wondered what had inspired a legal inquiry into his pastimes. Now, staring at the culprit— case dismissed— he can only blink before his brows wrinkle up.

“You’re the one who called the police?” Harry murmurs, a note of soft incredulity soaking the phrase.

“Any sane woman would call the police when she heard another woman being abused—“

“Abused?”

“Yes! Abused! And— and— honestly—“

Before Y/N can launch into another ruthlessly-curated, virtue-plated diatribe, Harry resituates the animal in his grip, unlocking his phone to the homescreen. Then, Safari. He thumbs over it with a careful determination seeding along his downturned, sculpted expression.

“I don’t know what form of assault would be worse,” Y/N chimes, hands climbing up in an exaggerated, universal symbol of exasperation before they fall back to her sides (as if she hadn’t even noticed his attention has been redirected to his phone), “but when someone says no, it means no.”

It only takes a second for her to register that his focus has been rerouted elsewhere, though. Her tone dips indignantly.

“Excuse me. I’m talking to you. And also, while we’re at it, you’re unbearably loud and an unmannerly neighbor—“

Harry turns his phone around. His expression is impressively flat, all things considered. Y/N pauses.

“Typically,” Harry states as her eyes rake over the glowing screen, “I like to be wined and dined before I give a crash course on my preferences, but.”

The image stretched across the illuminated LED sits over her tired gaze as she absorbs it, pupils jittering as she reads, but through the lens of his own profile mirrored back, he can see the moment her righteously fueled demeanor chips.

“I do, like, a… softcore porn type thing,” he admits.

Still, her brows are kinked. Only now, in stupefied doubt. “I— what?”

It’s with a rotting sense of dread curdling in the pit of her tummy that it suddenly dawns on Y/N— the mortified realization that she has succumbed to a horrible misunderstanding.

The website the tab is set on almost looks archaic, like a kitsch relic— repository archives of a porn blog from the early 2000s. Spankinggram. The page is set onto a profile, something called Rings&Paddles, and the squared image of an avatar slices through the garishly orange palette of the site’s logo. Her gaze sweeps over the vista; a man sitting down on an armless chair, thighs splayed, palm curled over a …hairbrush.

The profile picture sunders off at the neck. It’s a faceless silhouette, but the miscellany of sketches cascading across a forearm and the distinctly chunky medley of rings are… enough—

“Consensually,” Harry— Rings&Paddles, Y/N recognizes, molten heat dripping along the crests of her cheekbones— adds, “No one is being abused.”

In retrospect, the only feasible option to survive this, Y/N decides, is to change her name and move to another state.

Probably something short and vaguely melancholic, one of those names that would look intriguing in all lowercase. A quiet town. Somewhere coastal, maybe. West. No— north. As far north as geographically possible. Perhaps she could get a dog. An older, ratty boy from a shelter. Drive an old car that’s too big with a busted radio. She’ll pretend it’s a benefit, rather than an inconvenience, because she’ll be the fabricated kind of mystique that insufferably enjoys the quiet calm (and rainstorms). A rebranded, movie-clichè hipster, but not unbearable in real life—

“But I understand the concern,” her neighbor says, cutting through the haze as she contemplates what brand of cigarettes she’ll be taking up as a trait of her pseudo-identity. Against all odds, his tone is calm in an all-too-merciful kind of way, “You can look into… domestic discipline, if you’d like. If you wanted to understand a bit better. There’s loads of really good information on the internet.”

For a moment, Y/N deliberates burning alive. If there isn’t a fire licking up her department store drapes, she’s going to set one to avoid bearing the weight of this shame for the rest of her life. Granted, the heat sizzling at her face feels like a flame, enough, both at the way she’s just publicly kinkshamed an innocent man and at the mention of …domestic discipline.

She’s going to cry.

They would be Virginia Slims.

“You— …what?”

The garbled confusion drenching her tone is almost laughable. She sounds it, too; voice pinched and deceptively close to trembling off into a sob. Y/N stares straight ahead, body locked in a fugue state of humiliation as the realization calcifies in real-time. Her shoulders have gone stiff and her spine rigid, posture squeezed somewhere between standing and catatonic. The scale of her miscalculation worms into her skull like a parasite that’ll chew her awake in the middle of the night, years down the line.

For the last month, Y/N has spent every interaction with Harry evasively toeing over eggshells. Floundering over the way his face was sculpted, rather than compromising the integral structure of their acquaintanceship. Somehow, a sleep cycle cut short and the ambiguous suggestion that he had picked up on her avoidant habits was all it had taken to not only slander his (apparently not safe for work) extracurriculars, but probably assure her foreseeable Amazon packages suddenly start going missing.

Now, with a semi-public declaration of his profile pressed out to her face and his name no longer being audibly smeared with accusations, Harry can appreciate the quiet sense of revelation.

His neighbor, on the other hand, looks visibly wrecked. Her entire stance is pulled in tight, like she’s actively trying to make herself smaller, but it’s her face that really gives her away— the way it twists, fluctuating between wide-eyed horror and the dawning realization that she’s just detonated a social landmine at point-blank range. All heat-tinged and shame-doused, the young woman blinks up at him, doe-eyes rounded in apologetic appall and lips parted slightly like she’s still buffering. The combination of words that just left his mouth— softcore porn, domestic discipline, consensual— seem to be wrestling in her brain like tangled Christmas lights, none of them quite fitting together in a way that makes sense and glinters.

“I am sorry about the noise,” he tells her, shutting the phone off and nestling his arm back up under his pet, “I’ll make sure to keep it to a minimum from now on.”

Y/N wilts. With the phone no longer held out into her direction, the way she stays glued to the same spot on the cement— as if mortified into a motionless piece of stone— is ridiculous enough for him to gnaw into his cheek to chew back a bark of laughter. Despite all trials and tribulations, his coping mechanisms never fail.

“You— oh my God,” Y/N whispers. She makes a sound that could be a vaguely pained noise or the byproduct of her soul seeping out of her body. “Oh my God.”

Harry blinks.

“I called the police on you,” she tells him, utter dismay lacing the words together.

“You did, yeah.”

Harry still remembers the blank expression varnished along the officer’s face— the kind of emotionally vacant stare reserved for department store mannequins. The echo of the distant, metaphysical NOPE that definitely rode along his brainstem the moment the curly-haired brunette mentioned “it’s a kink thing,” and the way his partner, hands allocated to his holster belt, started very obviously examining his own shoes.

“I thought—“ Y/N stutters, her wobbling voice sounding squeezed from her trachea, “I thought—“

“You thought you were living next door to a criminal,” Harry supplies. When he tilts his head, a rogue curl flops over his forehead.

Finally, the young woman moves, burying her face in her hands. This will haunt her, she thinks. Forever.

From the corner of his eye, the man can tell that most of the tenants have gone back to their regularly scheduled repertoires of stalled misery. And despite the absolute PR mess her blunder has induced— his eyes wander over her, the way she’s cupping her face like she wants to melt into her own hands and seep off into the pavement— he feels oddly… bad. Not secondhand embarrassed (firsthand, definitely firsthand), but Y/N looks like she’s going to combust. It’s tragic, really. The kind of pitiful that makes him purse his mouth and stare down at her in contemplation.

“Honestly,” his voice cuts through the haze in her throbbing, hot skull, all even-toned sincerity (which is worse, so much worse), “if I was in your position, yeah? I’d do the same thing.”

The admission coaxes her into a horrified peer through the wedges between her fingers. The warmth pressed to her palms feels borderline pyrexic.

“And if that were the case, you’d be the neighborhood hero. So.” He raises a shoulder nonchalantly.

Y/N doesn’t immediately respond. Instead, she soaks in the crime scene, doused in the blinking blue and red.

“I’m not sure neighborhood hero is how I’ll be remembered,” the young woman finally answers, groaning through her hands, and then pressing her fingertips into her temples.

Harry hums. Then, he sighs. “No, you’re right. I’d say misguided vigilante. I reckon it’s a bit better than violent felon, though.”

Y/N makes another sound. This one sounds a little more wounded.

Next part here

#harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles one shot #harry styles smut #harry styles dirty one shot #harry styles dirty fanfiction #harry styles writing #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfiction #dom!harry x sub!reader #harry styles au #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #harry styles one shots #dom!harry

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atzupdates · 11 months ago

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[240607] Congratulations to ATEEZ and ATINY on taking home their 2nd win this era for WORK on today's episode of KBS Music Bank! This marks their 24th career win on music shows!

#ateez #m: all #type: video #content: kbs #content: music bank #era: golden hour : part 1

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kxsagi · 29 days ago

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May I request first time w bllk boys of your choice, but instead of it being steamy, it ends up being comic relief because for some reason the men can't put it in so the night just went on with gf!reader laughing her ass off and bf!bllk men having existential crisis😼 ignore this if you're uncomfortable! I love your works btw!:3 have a great day/night!

“𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐠𝐨 𝐢𝐧: 𝐚 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐝𝐲”

a/n: this was definitely the most suggestive thing i've written so far but it was too funny to not write LMAO

thank you so much and have a great day/night as well!

suggestive and mature content below! all aged-up characters! (MDNI, by choosing to interact, it is your choice despite the warning)

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, nagi seishiro, mikage reo, kaiser michael, shidou ryusei, karasu tabito, itoshi sae

isagi yoichi

bro was so determined to win at losing his virginity. he was mentally prepping like it was a soccer match.

“okay. breathe. visualize. go slow.”

but the moment he tries to slide it in, he misses. three times.

you’re trying not to laugh but he looks like a confused puppy with a furrowed brow and everything.

“wait, i swear i aimed right.”

“baby you’re not shooting a goal, this is not penalty kicks.”

he spirals. his entire ego deflates. his internal monologue is screaming: how did i miss the goal this bad, am i even the main character anymore???

you’re just curled up in bed laughing while he sits at the edge with a blanket over his lap, muttering, “i need to train more…”

itoshi rin

he was so serious about it. didn’t speak more than five words the whole time.

but then. the moment of truth. and it just…

boink (LMAO). he misaligned.

“rin, that’s my thigh.”

“shut up. i know.”

tries again. ends up poking your belly button.

“are you aiming by echolocation?”

cue you dissolving into laughter while rin’s soul leaves his body.

he gets all broody and dramatic like, “this is why i hate people. and romance. and life.”

you pat his hair and go, “better luck next time, sniper.”

nagi seishiro

he was so chill about it at first. like, “yeah. sex. sounds tiring, but okay.”

except it turns out getting it in requires more effort than he thought.

he’s just kind of poking around lazily like he’s half-asleep.

“is this… the right angle?”

“sei. that’s my hipbone.”

he lays down in defeat like he just died in a video game. “ugh. i give up. let’s just cuddle.”

and you’re crying laughing while he burritos himself in the blanket and says, “this is why i stick to games.”

mikage reo

oh he thought he had it in the bag. mr. smooth rich boy.

candles lit. music playing. rose petals on the bed.

then cue 5 straight minutes of struggling.

you: “babe, you okay?”

reo: sweating bullets, whispering “i can’t find the entrance.”

you: “it’s not a bank vault, reo.”

poor boy looks so offended. “i’ve studied diagrams! i watched tutorials!”

you’re cackling while he’s looking at the wall like it betrayed him.

“this is not how it was supposed to go… my legacy…”

kaiser michael

listen. this man walked in like he was god’s gift to earth. said some cheesy german line like “tonight, i make you scream.”

0 for 1 on that promise.

because for the life of him, he can’t get the angle right.

tries. fails. tries again. misses again.

“i swear this never happens.”

“you sound like a sitcom punchline.”

and then you wheeze-laugh so hard you fall off the bed.

kaiser just lies there dramatically like an oil painting, one arm draped over his forehead. “i’ve been humbled.”

will not stop bringing it up later. “remember that time my genius was too much for your mortal body to handle?”

you: “you poked my knee.”

him: “semantics.”

shidou ryusei

bro walked in already unhinged.

smirking like a menace. said “i’m gonna blow your back out” with way too much confidence.

cut to five minutes later: he’s on his knees, staring at your thighs like they’re a puzzle.

“where the hell is it? is this a trap?”

“shidou. shidou. that’s my armpit.”

“oh. well you were twisted weird!”

you’re crying from laughing. this man was so loud and proud only to fumble like a rookie.

suddenly goes quiet. shidou. quiet.

stares at the wall like he saw god.

“maybe this is the universe humbling me…”

you: “finally.”

him: “shut the hell up, you’re laughing like a hyena. i’m in mourning.”

karasu tabito

okay so karasu definitely talked a big game beforehand.

super smug like “you won’t be able to walk after this.”

tried to take the lead. acted confident.

then proceeded to line himself up completely wrong.

you’re like, “tabi. that’s not it.”

he freezes. “you sure? feels right.”

“no. no it doesn’t.”

looks down. stares in betrayal. “oh… oh.”

you start laughing and cannot stop.

he lays on his back dramatically like he just got shot.

“i used to have pride. i used to have a future.”

you’re snorting, tears in your eyes while he covers himself with a pillow and mutters “don’t talk to me. i’m in my flop era.”

itoshi sae

sae genuinely thought he was above this. like… this was supposed to be effortless.

gave you a look like “i got this.”

spoiler: he did not.

tries to guide himself in and hits… air.

tries again. pokes the mattress.

you: “… are you okay?”

him: “this is… frustrating.”

you start giggling. he’s deadpan.

“don’t laugh.”

you: “but you’re so SERIOUS. it’s like watching someone try to parallel park and give up.”

he sighs, rolls off you, and just stares at the ceiling like it offended him.

“sex is stupid. i’m going to sleep.”

you’re still laughing while he tucks himself in like a burrito, mumbling “this is why i focus on football.”

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zyoarchive · 2 months ago

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like a tangerine - myg

↠ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | yoongi x reader

↠ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 18.5k

↠ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 | roommate au, e2l if you squint, pwp

↠ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | explicit language and sexual content. mentions of alcohol (beer). dry humping, oral sex (m + f receiving), gagging, cum swallowing, throat fuck, fingering, spanking, dirty talk, hair-pulling, unprotected sex, (y/n has an iud, wrap it before u tap it!), rough sex, riding, doggy style, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, creampie. yoongi has blonde hair and a filthy mouth.

↠ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | y/n’s a law student drowning in debt. yoongi's a brooding music major needing a place to crash. forced together in a freezing seoul apartment, will they be able make moving in together work?

You’re elbow-deep in the faded cushions of your thrift-store couch, fingers clawing at the seams for any hint of spare change. Dust puffs into the air, catching the dim light of the single bulb flickering overhead, but there’s nothing—no coins, no crumpled bills, not even a stray candy wrapper. Just lint and disappointment. You groan, slumping back onto the floor, the chill of cracked linoleum seeping through your threadbare sweatpants. Your breath fogs in front of you, a cruel reminder that the heater’s been dead for days and your electricity bill is overdue. It’s the brink of winter in Seoul, and the cold is a living thing—sharp, biting, sinking into your bones like a punishment. Outside, the wind howls through the narrow streets around Seoul national University, rattling your single-pane windows, while frost creeps up the glass like spiderwebs. Inside, it’s barely better; you’re wrapped in a hoodie and two pairs of socks, but your fingers are still numb, your nose stinging with every inhale.

This isn’t how you pictured your senior year. You’re a law major with a 4.0 GPA—top of your class, president of the mock trial team, the girl who aced her constitutional law midterm while half the room floundered. You’ve got a stack of recommendation letters from professors who call you “driven” and “exceptional,” and last spring, you won a university debate competition so decisively the opposing team just stared at you, slack-jawed. But none of that pays the rent. You’re drowning in bills, scraping by on 7,000 won an hour from your cheapskate manager at the convenience store on the south end of campus. The job’s a soul suck: sticky floors, rude drunk students, and the constant beep of the scanner as you ring up instant ramen and soju bottles. You hate it—the stale air, the flickering fluorescent lights, the way your manager hovers over you like you’re about to pocket a candy bar. Between 8-hour shifts and 8 A.M. lectures, you’re a ghost of yourself, barely sleeping, barely eating, barely living.

You grew up in Busan, the youngest of three, with parents who scraped by running a small seafood stall at Jagalchi Market. They taught you grit—how to haggle, how to smile through exhaustion—but they couldn’t prepare you for this. You moved to Seoul four years ago, starry-eyed and determined to be the first in your family to graduate college, to become a lawyer who’d fight for people like them. Your apartment’s small—two cramped bedrooms, a tiny kitchenette, and a living room just big enough for that small couch—but it was supposed to be your haven. One room’s yours, cluttered with books and laundry, the other a guest room you’ve never had a guest for, its bare mattress gathering dust. You thought living alone would mean focus, independence. Now, you’re not so sure. The weight of it all—school, work, this freezing place—presses down until you can’t breathe. You’ve always been the stubborn one, the kid who’d rather starve than admit defeat, but tonight, with rent due in three days and your bank account at a pathetic, single-digit balance, defeat feels inevitable.

You sit there, face in your hands, fighting the sting of tears. This wasn’t the college life you dreamed of. Back in high school, you imagined coasting through SNU—late nights at karaoke bars, laughing with a big group of friends, maybe even a cute boyfriend to steal hoodies from. You saw yourself at rooftop parties, sipping cheap bear under string lights, free and invincible. Instead, you’re broke, shivering, and clinging to one solitary lifeline: Namjoon. Your best friend, your rock, the only person who’s stuck by you through this mess. Everyone else faded away—too busy, too far, too caught up in their own lives. But Namjoon? He’s your constant.

You glance at your phone—11:47 P.M. He’s due any minute to study for your upcoming criminal procedure exam, a brutal 50-question beast that’ll test every ounce of your caffeine-fueled willpower. With a sigh, you haul yourself up, brushing dust off your knees. The apartment’s tight—barely 25 square meters. You shuffle around, tidying what you can: stacking textbooks on the wobbly coffee table that accompanies your depressed, sagging couch, kicking a stray sock towards the hall leading to your bedroom, wiping crumbs off the counter from the half-eaten rice cake you rationed for dinner. The sink’s full of dishes, but you ignore it—too tired, too cold. You’re shoving a pile of case notes into a neater stack when a knock echoes through the room.

You shuffle to the door, tugging it open against the warped frame. It’s Namjoon. He’s there, towering over you in his puffy jacket, a knit beanie squashing his dark hair, a backpack slung over one shoulder. His dimples flash as he grins, but his eyes narrow when he sees you—pale, hunched, a human popsicle. “Hey,” he says, stepping inside, voice warm as always. “You look like death.”

“Feel like it too,” you mutter, shutting the door. You’ve known Namjoon since freshman year, when you met in Intro to Legal Studies. You’d been late, sprinting into the lecture hall with a half-drunken coffee and an open backpack, only to trip over his stupidly long legs stretched across the aisle. He’d caught your arm, steadying you, and deadpanned, “You’re a lawsuit waiting to happen.” You’d snapped back, “Sue me then,” and somehow, that was it—friendship sealed. He was a Busan kid too, raised on the coast, all easy smiles and quiet smarts. You bonded over late-night study sessions at the library, swapping stories about salty air and nosy aunties, laughing over burnt ramen when you couldn’t afford takeout. Four years later, he’s still your anchor, the one who drags you out of your spirals.

He drops his bag on the couch, glancing around. “You okay? You’re... off.” His brows knit, concern creeping in.

“It’s nothing,” you lie, waving him off. He doesn’t push—Namjoon never does, just watches you with that steady gaze that sees too much. You both settle on the couch, pulling out textbooks and highlighters. The criminal procedure exam is in two days, a gauntlet of search-and-seizure laws, Miranda rights, and case precedents like Terry v. Ohio. You flip to a page on warrantless arrests, reading aloud: “Exigent circumstances allow entry if—” You stop, brain fritzing. Namjoon picks up, voice smooth, explaining probable cause like it’s poetry. You scribble notes, trying to focus, but the cold’s gnawing at you, your fingers stiff around the pen.

He shivers mid-sentence, rubbing his arms. “Why’s it so damn cold in here?” he asks, breath puffing out in a faint cloud.

That's when it hits—you crack. The words spill out before you can stop them, voice breaking: “Because I can’t pay the electric bill, Joon. The heater’s busted, my manager’s a stingy ass who won’t give me more hours, and I’m so tired—of school, of work, of counting every damn coin I see just trying to make ends meet.” Tears burn your eyes, hot against the chill. “I’m failing at everything.”

Namjoon’s face falls, guilt flashing across it. “Shit, Y/N, I didn’t know it was this bad.” He pulls you into a hug, arms tight around your shaking shoulders. You sink into him, his jacket smelling faintly of coffee and pine. “I should’ve noticed,” he mutters, kicking himself. Then softer: “What if you got a roommate? Split the costs?”

You pull back, sniffling. “I wouldn’t even know where to find one. And honestly? I’m this close to dropping out, moving back with my parents. Just... starting over.”

He blinks, alarmed. Your parents are saints—kind, warm, always ready with a bow of kimchi jjigae and a spare bed in their Busan flat above the stall. Your mom’s a hugger, your dad’s a storyteller, and you miss them fiercely—their laughter, the sea breeze, and the simplicity. They’d take you back in a heartbeat, no questions, and part of you aches for that safety net.

“No,” Namjoon says, grabbing your hands in a desperate plea. “You can’t leave. Not now, not senior year. I need you here—we’re supposed to graduate together, pass the bar together. I can’t do this without you.”

You shake your head, voice small. “There’s no one, Joon. I’m out of options.”

He pauses, then his face lights up like he’s cracked the code. “Wait... Yoongi. My friend Yoongi. He’s been crashing on my couch for the past two weeks since his lease fell apart. He needs a place, you need a roommate. It’s perfect.”

You frown picturing Yoongi. You've seen him at Namjoon’s place a few times—quiet, almost cat-like with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue. He’s not unfriendly just... distant. You remember him from your junior year too, a psychology elective you both took. He’s slouch in the back, headphones on, scribbling beats in a notebook while you sat up front, acing every quiz. Your eyes met sometimes—brief, awkward, charges—but you never spoke. He’s a music major, that much you knew, always lugging around a laptop or a keyboard case, and Namjoon swears he’s a genius. Still, he’s a stranger, mostly.

“I don’t know,” you say, hesitant. “I’ve barely talked to him. He’s... weird. Quiet. And my parents—”

“Please,” Namjoon cuts in, clasping his hands like he’s praying. “Just meet him first. Come over tomorrow—we'll eat, hang out, see if it clicks. If it doesn’t, I won’t push. But don’t give up yet.”

You chew your lip, the idea sinking in. A roommate could save you—rent split, bills manageable, maybe even heat again. That guest room could finally see some use. But Yoongi? Your parents’ open arms tug at you, tempting. Namjoon’s pleading eyes tip the scale. “Fine,” you mutter, reluctant. “I’ll meet him.”

He beams, dimples deep. “You won’t regret it. Yoongi’s chill, I promise.” You nod, half convinced, as the cold creeps back in, a shiver reminding you how badly you need this to work.

You stand in your tiny bathroom, the air thick with damp chill, staring at the showerhead like it’s a loaded gun. The water’s been ice-cold for weeks—your landlord’s a miser who won’t fix the boiler, and you’re too broke to hire someone yourself. You twist the knob, bracing for impact, and the spray hits like a thousand frozen pins, ripping a gasp from your throat. Your teeth chatter as you lather up with a sliver of soap, the last bar you’ve been rationing for a month. The shampoo’s cheap, a floral scent, and you scrub it into your scalp fast, fingers trembling as the frigid stream pelts your back. You’re in and out in four minutes, a personal record, wrapping yourself in a towel so worn it’s more holes than fabric—a hand-me-down from your sister, like most of your life. Your skin prickles with goosebumps as you dart to your bedroom, the smaller of the two in your cramped apartment. The guest room sits placidly across from yours, a barren box with a bare mattress, a single flickering bulb, and a window that rattles in its frame—useless, empty, a silent taunt of your isolation.

Your closet’s a mess of thrift finds and sibling castoffs. You dig out a black turtleneck, the wool pilling at the elbows but soft enough, and dark jeans with a frayed hem that still hug your legs right. Your sneakers are scuffed, soles thin as paper, but they’ll do. The crown jewel is your sister’s puffer jacket—navy blue, patched with thread at the elbows, a size too big but thick enough to face Seoul’s brutal winter. You tug on two pairs of socks—one with a hole at the toe, the other mismatched—and lace up, the cold floor biting through anyway. Back in the bathroom, you swipe on makeup with shaky hands: tinted lip balm over cracked lips from the wind, a flick of mascara to coax life into your tired eyes, a dab of concealer under them to hide the shadows of sleepless nights. Your hair’s wet, curling into tendrils at your neck, but there’s no time—or heat—to dry it. You glance at your phone on the sink: 6:38 P.M. Namjoon said 6:30. You’re late.

You snatch your keys from the counter, sling your threadbare bag over your shoulder, and bolt. You weave past the kitchenette, its sink piled with chipped mugs and a single pot, and the living room, where your sad couch sags under a pile of law books. The door sticks as you yank it open, and the stairwell greets you with a gust of icy air whistling through cracked windows. You jog down three flights, sneakers clomping on warped steps, and burst outside. Seoul’s winter slams into you—bitter, unrelenting, a beast with teeth. The sky’s a slab of slate, heavy with unshed slow, and the wind howls down the narrow streets of the south end of campus, clawing at your face. Your breath fogs in sharp bursts, crystalizing in the air, and the cold seeps through your jeans, stinging your thighs. You hunch into your puffer, hands jammed in pockets, but it’s not enough—the chill find every seam, every gap, freezing your ears until they ache.

The trek to Namjoon’s is a mile east, and you’re penniless—no bus fare, no taxi dreams. The south end fades behind you—dingy noodle joints, neon-lit PC bangs, students huddled in scarves—giving way to broader streets lined with skeletal trees. Their branches clatter like dry bones, stripped bare by weeks of frost. Snowflakes start to fall, lazy at first, then thicker, dusting your shoulders, catching in your lashes. The sidewalk’s a minefield of ice patches, gloss under streetlights, and you shuffle to keep from slipping, your sneakers skidding once, twice. Your nose numbs, your fingertips tingle, and by the time Namjoon’s complex rises ahead—a sleek tower on the east side of SNU—you’re a shivering wreck. The glass doors part for you, the lobby a warm cocoon of polished marble, soft lighting, and a doorman who nods absently. Namjoon is a trust fund baby from Busan, his parents flush with shipping money, and this place screams it—nothing like your crumbling walk-up with its flickering hallway bulbs and mildew stench.

You step into the elevator, the hum of it thawing your bones as it climbs. A long minute ticks by—your reflection in the mirrored walls shows a flushed face, damp hair plastered to your neck—before it finally dings on the fifth floor. You step out, stretching your strides down the carpeted hall to 13E, dragging your feet. Your stomach churns, nerves sparking like live wires. Meeting Yoongi—actually talking to him—feels like walking into a storm blind. You’ve always been anxious, a knot of worry since you were a kid. In Busan, grade school was a nightmare—you'd linger by the classroom door, too shy to join the girls giggling as they played jump rope, too scared to ask the boys kicking a ball if you could join them. Your mom had to bribe you with sweets just to get you to a friend’s birthday party once, and even then, you hid under a table, clutching a juice box, until she dragged you out. Friends were rare, fleeting—your tongue tripped over itself until Namjoon stumbled into your orbit. You’re better now, but new people still twist you up inside. What if Yoongi’s a jerk? A slob? What if he thinks you’re some desperate loser? Your pulse races as you reach his door, raising a shaky hand to knock.

It swings open fast, and Namjoon’s there, all six feet of him, dimples flashing in a wide grin. He’s cozy—cream cable-knit sweater swallowing his broad frame, gray sweatpants loose and soft, socks with little cartoon dogs peeking out. “Took you long enough,” he teases, voice warm as he steps aside. You shuffle in, and the heat hits like a blanket, radiators purring, chasing the cold from your bones. The air’s thick with doenjang jjigae—earthy soybean paste, sharp garlic, a hint of beef simmering low, curling into your nose and waking your empty stomach. Your brows furrow; Namjoon’s a disaster in the kitchen, once nearly burning his apartment down with a botched ramen attempt. Who cooked?

His apartment’s a world apart from yours. Open-plan, sprawling, with floor-to-ceiling windows framing the snow-dusted campus and Seoul’s glittering skyline. The living room's plush—a gray sectional piled with fleece throws, a glass coffee table stacked with law books and a stray coffee mug, a flat-screen above a sleek fireplace spitting soft flames. The kitchen’s a showpiece—marble counters, stainless steel appliances, a fridge that hums quietly, not rattling like yours. A monstera plant thrives by the island, its leaves glossy and proud, while your own sad succulent back home rots in a cracked pot. “Yoongi’s in the bathroom,” Namjoon says, nodding toward a hall as he waves you to the kitchen island. “He’ll be out in a sec.” You slide onto a padded stool, the cushion a luxury after your hard furniture, and he leans across, chatting—tomorrow's lecture, the criminal procedure exam, easy stuff to steady your nerves.

The bathroom door creaks open, and Yoongi emerges. He’s tall—5'10, maybe—looming over your 5’1 frame, all lean angles and quiet menace. His hair’s blonde, a soft, bleached chaos brushing his forehead, framing sharp cheekbones and a jaw that could cut glass. He’s in a black hoodie, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, faded jeans hugging his legs, and plain socks. His eyes—dark, hooded, cat-like—lock on you, unblinking, and your throat dries up. He stares, assessing, and you stare back, words dissolving. Namjoon clears his throat. “Yoongi, this is Y/N. Y/N, Yoongi.” A nod, barely perceptible, then Yoongi slinks to the island, sitting opposite. The food’s spread out—doenjang jjigae steaming in a clay pot, fluffy rice, tangy kimchi, grilled mackerel glistening with oil. You scoop rice, hands jittery under his gaze, the spoon clinking too loud against the bowl.

Namjoon tries to spark something. “Yoongi, how’s that music project?” Yoongi shrugs, spooning stew, lips pursed. Silence stretches, thick and awkward. Namjoon kicks him under the table—you catch the flinch, the faint scowl. “It’s fine,” Yoongi mutters, voice low, gravelly. “Mixing’s a pain.” You nod, unsure, picking at your mackerel. The meal crawls—Namjoon rambles about law precedents, you murmur agreements, Yoongi grunts or tosses out clipped answers. He slurps his stew too loud, wipes his mouth with his sleeve, picks his fish apart with his fingers instead of chopsticks. Petty, maybe, but it irks you—he irks you. He’s not rude, just... distant, like he’s here but not really.

Dinner eventually ends, and Namjoon excuses himself for a moment, leaving you and Yoongi alone. The silence is deafening, the fireplace's crackle the only sound as you sit at the island, pushing rice around your bowl. He’s across from you, scrolling his phone, blonde hair catching the light. You clear your throat, desperate the fill the void. “So, uh... did you make this?” You nod at the empty jjigae pot, voice smaller than you meant it to be.

He looks up, eye flickering to yours, and there’s a beat—a heavy, charged pause—before he answers. “Yeah.” His voice is low, rough, brushing your skin like a touch. “Namjoon can’t cook for shit.” He leans forward slightly, elbows on the counter now, close enough that you catch a whiff of his cologne—something clean, like cedarwood and bergamot. His lips twitch, a smirk that’s gone fast but leaves heat in its wake.

You snort, caught off guard, and it’s too loud in the quiet. “No kidding. He set off the fire alarm with toast once—smoke everywhere.” Your laugh’s shaky, and his eyes linger, dark and unreadable, tracing your face like he’s mapping it. That smirk flickers again, slower this time, and your stomach flips.

“Sounds about right,” he says, voice dipping lower, almost lazy. He shifts, stretching one arm across the counter, fingers brushing the edge of yours—accidental, maybe, but it sends a jolt up your spine, nonetheless. “You’re not bad, though. At eating it, I mean.” His gaze drops to you lips for a slip second, then back up, and the air thickens, warm and tight.

You swallow, heat creeping up your neck. “Uh, thanks? It’s good—really good. Where’d you learn?” Your words stumble, and you hate how they sound—too eager, too soft.

“Mom,” he says, leaning closer, voice a rumble now. “Runs a store in Daegu. Cooks for the regulars. Watched her enough to pick it up.” His eyes don’t leave yours, and there’s something in them—something sharp, hungry—that makes your breath hitch, makes you feel small in comparison to him. His knee brushes against yours under the counter, a graze that feels deliberate, and you shift, suddenly aware of how small the space between you is.

“Busan for me,” you blurt, clutching at normalcy. “My parents have a seafood stall. I’m useless, though—burned rice once, got banned from the stove.” You laugh, but it’s tight, and he tilts his head, blonde strands falling into his eyes. He doesn’t laugh back, just watches, lips parting slightly, and the silence stretches taut, electric.

“Bet you’re not useless at everything,” he murmurs, so quiet you almost miss it, and his gaze drops again—lips, neck, back up—slow, deliberate. Your pulse hammers, and you’re not sure if you’re breathing. Then he pulls back, just an inch, breaking whatever spell he put on you, grabbing his phone again. “Namjoon should be back soon,” he says, casual, like nothing happened, but the air’s still buzzing.

You nod, dazed, as Namjoon’s footsteps echo down the hall. “Couch?” he calls, clapping his hands. You stumble off the stool, following him, Yoongi trailing behind. The sectional's plush, and you sink in, pulling a throw over your lap as Namjoon sits beside you. Yoongi drifts off—to Namjoon’s room, you assume—leaving you two by the fireplace. The crackle fills the silence. “So?” Namjoon asks, eyes bright, hopeful. “What do you think?”

You twist the blanket’s edge, grimacing, mind still reeling from Yoongi’s voice, his closeness. “He’s weird, Joon. Quiet—too quiet. That talk just now? Barely anything. I don’t know if I can live with that.” You don’t mention the sudden heat between your legs, or the way your skin’s still tingling.

He sighs, raking a hand through his hair. “I get it, he’s not chatty, but he’s solid. I’ve known him for a while now—met him at a music shop. My parents have money, yeah, but Yoongi’s regular. His dad's a fisherman, mom runs a corner store. He’s here on scholarships and hustle. Music’s his life, and he’s brilliant at it.” He pauses, voice softening. “You’re my rock, Y/N. Since freshman year, you’ve kept me grounded—pushed me when I slacked, laughed when I needed it. You’re my best friend, and I can’t finish this year without you.”

Your chest aches, warmth mixing with dread—and something else, something new. “You’re mine too. But Yoongi—it's so fast. Two days, and he’s in my space? I’m freaked out.”

He shifts closer, resting a hand on your knee. “I know it’s a lot. Look, he’s been on my couch too long. This place is nice, but it’s one bedroom. I’m tired of tripping over his shit every morning. He’ll pay his half, keep out of your way. You don’t have to be buddies, just... coexist.” His eyes plead. “Give it one more day to think. Please.”

You nod, slow, reluctant. “One day, just one day.” Yoongi’s in Namjoon’s room, hunched over a desk, headphones on, tapping at a laptop—either oblivious or ignoring you. You grab your bag, say your goodnights to Namjoon, and head out. The cold swallows you whole.

The walk back is a nightmare. Fresh snow is piled thick, blanketing the ground, crunching under your sneakers with every step. The wind’s a howling beast, slashing through your puffer, freezing your hair into brittle strands that whip your face. Streetlights flicker, half-dead in the storm, and the campus sprawls dark and desolate, east to south a slog through swirling white. Your breath stings, lungs burning with each icy gulp, and your fingers curl into fists in your pockets, nails digging into palms to feel something other than numb. You fumble your phone out with stuff hands, dialing your mom. It rings three times before her voice breaks through, soft and crackly, a lifeline.

“Y/N-ah? Are you okay?” Her warmth cuts through the static, the wind.

You choke on a sob, snow stinging your eyes. “Eomma, I’m falling apart. Rent’s due, I’ve got nothing—literally nothing. The heater’s busted, I’m freezing every night, and Namjoon’s pushing me to get a roommate. I don’t know if I can do it—I'm so tired. I just... I think I should come home.”

She’s quiet a long moment, the line humming, and you hear her shift. “Y/N,” she starts, voice thick with worry. "You sound exhausted. Tell me what’s going on—everything. How’d it get this bad?”

You sniff, trudging through a snowbank, the cold biting at your ankles. “It’s been building. Work’s a nightmare—7,000 won an hour at that shitty store, and my manager cuts my shifts whenever he feels like it. Schools killing me—exams, papers, I’m barely sleeping. And the apartment... it’s a freezer. I can’t afford the electric bill, let alone fix the heat.”

She sighs, long and heavy, and you can picture her rubbing her temple like she does when she’s stressed. “My girl, I hate hearing you like this. You’re working so hard—too hard, maybe. What’s the apartment like now?”

“Bad,” you mutter kicking snow off your sneakers. “My breath fogs inside. I’m in three layers just to sleep, and it’s still not enough. The windows rattle, the entire place is freezing. I can’t keep doing this.”

“That sounds miserable,” she says, voice cracking. “You shouldn’t be living like that, not in your last year. But a roommate... that might be good for you. I wouldn’t look past it so quickly, Y/N.”

You swallow, the wind howling louder. “Namjoon is desperate for me to stay, I think that’s why he’s so adamant about it, telling me it’s the only way, and I kind of agree. He’s got a friend in mind, and I’ve met him, but... I still don’t know. It’s such a leap, and I’m already hanging on by a thread.”

She’s quiet again, then softens. “You know we’d take you back in a heartbeat. Your dad’s already been plotting—he's got this idea to repaint your room, teal like you always wanted, says it’s cheer you up.”

“I miss you both,” you whisper, tears welling, hot against the cold. “It’d be so easy to come home.”

“We miss you too,” she says, voice thick now. “But listen—it’s your senior year. You’re so close. I never got past high school, married your dad at nineteen, worked the stall since. We made it work, raised you and your siblings, but I always wished I’d had a shot at more. That law degree, that life—you're building something I couldn’t. I know it’s hard, but you’re stronger than you think. Namjoon wouldn’t push this on you if he didn’t care, if he didn’t think it would work. Try it—give this roommate thing a shot. Split the bills, get heat back in that place, and if it crashes, you’ve got us—always. Okay?”

You nod, though she can’t see, the snow growing thicker. “Okay. I’ll try.”

“Good girl,” she says, pride warming her tone. “Call me tomorrow, yeah? Tell me how everything goes—I need to know you’re okay.”

“Okay. I love you, Eomma,” you say, voice breaking as you clutch the phone.

“I love you more. Hang in there.” The call ends, and you’re alone again, the wind howling louder, snow piling at your feet.

Your building looms ahead, a squat, peeling relic on the south end. A note’s taped to your door, red ink glaring: Rent due in 3 days or eviction proceedings begin. Panic spikes, sharp and sour. You unlock the door, stepping into a wall of cold—dark, silent, arctic. Strike one. You check your bank account on your phone: 8,000 won. Enough for a single ramyeon pack, maybe. Strike two. You trip over that loose floorboard you haven’t been able to fix, crashing to your knees, pain shooting up your leg. Strike three. Furious, you haul yourself up, whipping out your phone again, texting Namjoon.

[You, 9:17 P.M.] I’ve made up my mind. Get Yoongi over here ASAP.

You storm to your bedroom, peeling off your clothes, tugging on the same pajamas you’ve worn all week—hand-me-downs from your siblings, a faded long sleeve with a stretched neck and holes at the seams, sweatpants with cuff frayed to threads. You grab your blanket—a relic from your childhood, yet the only thing that seems to have managed to remain the same over time; thick, soft, warm enough to get you through the night. You wrap it tight around you, curling up on your bed. The mattress creaks, the cold seeping through every layer, relentless. You shiver, teeth chattering, staring at the ceiling where a water stain spreads like a bruise. Sleep feels impossible, and distant dream in this frozen purgatory. This night’s endless, and you’re already spent.

The apartment’s a fragile bubble of warmth, pierced by the hum of space heaters and the faint tang of instant coffee lingering in the air. Two weeks with Yoongi as your roommate have stretched the edges of your sanity, but they’ve also kept the landlord’s eviction threats at bay. Rent’s been paid—a hefty price split down the middle, wired just before the deadline—and that alone is a victory. Seoul’s winter rages outside, a gray beast of snow and wind clawing at the single-pane windows, frosting them until they creak. Inside, the cold is a stubborn guest, slinking through the cracks despite the landlord’s refusal to fix the damn boiler—his last excuse, barked over a staticky call, was “building maintenance costs.” You’d bitten back a curse, teeth chattering, and hung up. But the space heaters, bought with a grudging amount, split between you and Yoongi, glow defiantly in your bedroom and his, their coils a faint orange against the dark. Namjoon’s blankets—fleece throws he’d so graciously gifted to you during the move, dotted with adorable designs like Minions or cartoon dogs—drape your couch and bed, a soft excess you’d never admit your hoard, their weight a shield against the nights when the chill bites the deepest.

Yoongi’s arrival was a blur of panic and necessity. Namjoon had blinked at your sudden text and rallied him like a soldier to the front. He’d shown up a day early, just a day after your snow-soaked phone call to your mother, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. His blonde hair peeked out from a beanie, a large puffer jacket swallowing his lean frame, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a keyboard case gripped tight. “This is it?” he’d rasped, voice rough as gravel, scanning the cramped space—your sagging, depressed couch and bare walls. You’d nodded, nerves raw, and he’d sighed, a low sound of surrender, clearly used to Namjoon’s lavish apartment. He’d hauled his belongings in, carefully tucked away in boxes with muted thuds as they hit the floor of his new bedroom. He’s barely spoken—grunted at the spare key you’d handed him, muttered about the “shitty stairs”—and you’d fled to your room, shutting the door on his quiet unpacking, heart thudding with the weight of a stranger in your haven. By nightfall, the guest room was his, a bunker of blankets and music equipment, and you’d lain awak, staring at the ceiling’s water stain that you’d labeled as being shaped like an elephant, wondering if this was the right decision.

Two weeks later, it’s not a disaster. Yoongi’s a ghost, slipping in and out with barely a ripple, and you’re too buried in your own grind to mind. Law school is a beast tamed—your criminal procedure exam, the 50-question monster, hit the same day Yoongi moved in, and you’d conquered it. Nights bled into a frenzy of study, hunched over on the couch, highlighters streaking Terry v. Ohio and Miranda v. Arizona as your breath fogged in the unheated dark. The 96% grade, posted last week with your professor’s “outstanding” scrawled in red, felt like a godsend, a lifeline proving you could still climb this perpetual mountain of death. You’d collapsed on your bed that night, one of Namjoon’s many blankets cocooning you, relief so sharp it burned your throat.

Now, your days are a relentless churn—early morning lectures on constitutional law and judicial ethics, afternoons crafting mock trial arguments as team president, evenings at the convenience store where the floor is tacky with spilled soju and the scanner’s beep drills into your skull. Your manager, a pinch-faced ass, bumped you to 18,000 won an hour after you shoved a tally of your overtime in his face, voice steady despite the tremor in your hands. It’s not much—enough for ramen or a coffee when your eyes droop—but it keeps your account afloat. Sleep is a thief, snatched in five-hour bursts, the space heater’s hum a lullaby against the wind’s howl. Yoongi’s orbit is a mystery, misaligned with yours. He’s gone by dawn—music labs, you guess, or classes—and back late, his door creaking at midnight. You imagine him hunched over that keyboard, headphones clamped on, lost in beats—Namjoon's “genius” label a quiet echo. Sometimes you hear it, a muted thump through the wall, and picture him scribbling lyrics, blonde hair catching the heater’s glow.

You’ve seen fragments. Once, he sprawled on his mattress, notebook open, pen tapping his knee, eyes half-closed like he was dreaming in rhythm. Another night, he lingered in the kitchenette at 2 A.M., reheating kimchi jjigae, stirring slow, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to reveal forearms taut with quiet strength. He’d glanced at you—bleary from study binge, shuffling for water—and slid a bowl your way, the spicy steam curling between you, wordless. Last weekend, he was on the couch, laptop open, cords snaking across the cushions, muttering “fucking latency” at a glitching track. Music’s his war, fought in solitude, and you don’t ask. He doesn’t tell. It’s your silent code.

Living with him has been... fine, mostly. He’s clean—bowls rinsed, trash bagged, no mess beyond his room’s controlled chaos. The bathroom’s tidy, his towel hung crooked but dry, and he leaves your rice cakes alone, a respect you note silently. Chores split without fanfare—him on trash, you on dishes—a rhythm that holds. His room is a fortress now, Namjoon’s blankets swallowing the mattress whole, a guitar case propped up in the corner, vinyl records stacked haphazardly—from what you could see: Eminem, Epik High, Ryuichi Sakamoto, and... TWICE? You loved their songs, Fancy had you jamming in your apartment and Rewind had you holding back tears. Never in a million years had you imagined Yoongi being a Once. You often wondered who his bias was. You don’t snoop, and he doesn’t cross your line. It’s peaceful... sometimes. However, Yoongi’s got this infuriating habit—blasting tracks at ungodly hours, loud enough to shred your nerves. It’s not every night, but it’s brutal when it strikes. The third night, 2 A.M., a baseline punched through the wall, rattling your bed, yanking you from sleep. You’d lain there, heart pounding, as synths and warped vocals bled in, relentless. It stopped after twenty minutes, but sleep fled. Two nights ago, 1 A.M., it was slower—moody, heavy—but the volume gnawed at you. Last night, 3 A.M., an hour of jagged snares and distortion, the wall pulsing like a living thing. You’d hovered at your door, anger simmering, but retreated—too awkward to confront him. You’ve hinted—yawning loud, dragging your feet—but he doesn’t bite, and it festers, a quiet thorn.

Tonight, you’re in the kitchenette, 10 P.M., picking at a bowl of ramyeon, the broth warming your throat. Mock trial prep looms, notes stacked on the couch, but you’re in pajamas—a faded long sleeve and sweatpants. The bathroom door creaks open, and you glance up, chopsticks halfway to your lips. He’s shirtless, fresh from the shower, towel slung low on his hips. Water beads on his skin, dripping from his damp blonde hair down his neck, over collarbones sharp as knives. His chest is lean but cut—muscles taut, abs carved like he’s been lifting more than just dreams, arms flexing as he rubs the towel through his hair, veins threading under pale skin. His V-line dips below the towel’s edge, and your breath catches, utensil clattering against the bowl. He freezes, cat-like eyes locking on yours, and the air thickens—silent, heavy, awkward as hell. You stare, he stares, and neither of you move. His lips part, like he might say something, but he doesn’t. Water drips onto the floor, a soft plink, and you swallow, throat dry, eyes darting to your food. He shifts, grabbing a soda from the fridge, the can’s hiss slicing the quiet. His bare shoulder brushes the counter as he leans there, sipping slow, and you feel his gaze—steady, unreadable—prickling your skin. You scoop broth with your chirirenge, burning your tongue, and he retreats to his room without a word, leaving you flushed and out of sorts.

You sit, thinking, allowing your food to grow cold when his music starts—loud, inevitable. Bass thumps through the wall, and you groan, dropping your head to the counter. Not tonight. You drag yourself to your room, a blanket wrapped tight around you, and flop on your bed as the track swells—drums, distortion, and a chaotic roar. Sleep’s a distant hope, and you lie there, his shirtless frame flashing behind your eyes, the wall pulsing until it fades an hour later. You drift off, restless, dreaming of damp skin and dark stares.

The morning is grey and brutal, exhaustion clinging to you like wet clothes. Yoongi’s gone when you wake, his door shut, and you slog through your day—lectures, store shift, and hanging out with Namjoon at a nearby coffee shop—you're basically running on fumes. Back home, you’re on the couch, phone pressed to your ear on speaker. Your friend Hyejin’s voice crackles through, loud and brassy, filling the room as you pick at a rice cake. “... So, I told him, if you’re gonna ghost me, at least have the balls to say it, right? Men are trash, Y/N, I swear.”

You short, shifting in the blanket enveloping you. “Yeah, well, I’m not exactly swimming in options either. Work’s killing me.”

The front door creaks open, and Yoongi slips in, arms laden with two grocery bags—nothing heavy, just bulging with a carton of milk, chips, and some greens poking out. His sweatshirt is zipped halfway, hair mussed from the wind, and he glances at you, nodding faintly before heading to the kitchenette. Hyejin’s voice barrels on, oblivious. “You sound wiped, babe. What’s up? You’ve been off for days.”

You fumble to switch off speaker, thumb jabbing the screen, but it freezes—stupid cracked phone. “Uh, just tired,” you say, voice tight, eyeing Yoongi as he unpacks, silent and methodical. Milk in the fridge, a bag of tangerines on the side you know he’ll be hoarding.

“Tired?” Hyejin laughs, sharp and echoing. “Girl, you need to get laid. That’s your problem—no good dick in forever. When’s the last time you even hooked up?”

Your face flames, and you slap the phone harder, but it’s stuck, her voice blaring. Yoongi’s hands pause over a bag of green onion, head tilting slightly, and you want to die. “Hyejin—” you hiss, but she steamrolls.

“What about that roommate, the blonde one? You said he’s hot, right? Why not just fuck him? Get some stress relief, Y/N, you’re dying out there!”

Mortification crashes over you, hot and suffocating. Yoongi’s back stiffens, just for a second, then he turns to the fridge, slow, deliberate, a smirk tugging at his lips—small, private, but there. Your hand finally smacks the speaker off, and you choke out, “Gotta go,” ending the call mid-Hyejin's cackle. The silence is deafening, thick as snow, broke only by the rustle of bags as he slides the tangerines into a bowl. Your face burns, red creeping up your neck, and you mumble, “Sorry, she’s—uh—loud,” voice barely audible, cracking with same. He doesn’t look up, just hums—a low, amused sound—and keeps unpacking, smirk lingering like he’s savoring it. You bolt, blanket trailing, slamming the door behind you. You shove your face into your pillow, still blazing, the muffled groan swallowed by cotton as his quiet unpacking echoes through the apartment.

The apartment has turned into a silent battlefield, the air thick with the ghost of Hyejin’s voice echoing in your skull like a relentless taunt. It’s been a week since that call shattered the fragile peace, a week since Yoongi’s smirk burned into your memory as he unpacked groceries with that slow, knowing curl of his lips. You’ve turned avoiding him into a desperate science, a losing fight when you share this cramped, crumbling space—25 square meters of peeling paint and warped floors that creak under every step. You’re hyper-aware of him, attuned to every trace of his presence: the groan of his door hinges at odd hours, the faint thud of his footsteps on the linoleum, the low hum of his heater seeping through the wall like a pulse. It’s suffocating, a constant reminder of the line you’ve crossed in your head, and you don’t know what he thinks—whether he’s laughing at you behind that unreadable stare, pitying your flushed embarrassment, or—worst of all—disgusted by the mess Hyejin’s words dragged into the open. The uncertainty gnaws at you, a splinter lodged under your skin, sharp and persistent, and you’ve convinced yourself he hates you now, that her brash suggestion painted you as a walking humiliation in his eyes.

Your solution’s been retreat, a coward’s playbook executed with precision. Mornings, you’re up before the sky cracks open, the world still cloaked in pre-dawn purple, tugging on sneakers that scuff against the icy stairwell as you flee to SNU’s lecture halls—constitutional law at 8 A.M., your 4.0 GPA a lifeline you cling to. The cold bites your ankles, the wind whistling through the cracked windows of the south-end building, but it’s better than facing him over coffee. Evenings, you linger at the convenience store, the flickering fluorescents buzzing overhead as you scan soju bottles for bleary-eyed students, the air thick with stale beer and burnt microwave popcorn. You stay late, dragging out the lock-up routine—counting the till twice, wiping the counter until the manager snaps at you to “Go home already”—just to avoid the moment Yoongi’s door creaks open at home. When you finally slink back, you’re a shadow, slipping through the apartment like a thief—door shut tight, pretending the thin wall between your rooms is a canyon wide enough to swallow the tension whole.

Yoongi’s mirrored your silence—not that it’s anything new—but he’s been retreating deeper into his hermit shell, turning the guest room a fortress you don’t dare breach. He’s more ghost than man now, his presence reduced to traces you can’t ignore. His music’s quieter now, too, a muted pulse seeping through the wall, like he’s tiptoeing around your frayed nerves, testing how much you can take before you snap. You’ve caught glimpses—him peeling a tangerine at the counter, fingers deft as they split the rind, eyes darting away when you shuffle past in your threadbare socks. The citrus scent hangs in the air after, sharp and fleeting, and it twists something in your chest.

But there’s something new, something odd that’s crept into the routine: Yoongi’s been showering more. A lot more. The bathroom door creaks open at strange hours—midnight, when you’re half-asleep, mid-afternoon when you’re often gone—and you hear the water running for a shorter amount of time than normal, a steady that echoes through the thin walls. You’d want to be mad, to storm in and snap at him for hogging what little hot water your shitty boiler sputters out, but every time you shower, it’s warm, perfectly so, the steam curling around you in soft, teasing wisps. It hits you slow, a realization that sinks in like ice: he’s taking cold showers. Why? The question burrows into you, strange and nagging. You can’t shake it, and it feeds the restless churn in your gut.

The phone call flipped a switch, and you hate it—hate how it’s twisted your head, turned Yoongi from a quiet, tolerable roommate into something else, something you want. It’s humiliating, the way your mind drifts when you’re alone, a traitor to your pride. Nights, you lie underneath your pile of blankets, your heater humming a low drone, and imagine him—his lean frame pinning you to the mattress, wrists trapped under his hands, his tongue flicking against your clit, sharp and precise, unraveling you with every deliberate stroke. You wonder what he tastes like, how he kisses—rough and demanding, claiming you in a rush, or slow and soft, teasing until you’re begging? The fantasies coil tight, your breath hitching as you press your vibrator harder, chasing release under the blanket’s weight, quiet gasps swallowed by the dark. It’s never enough, the ache lingering, pooling low, and it leaves you frustrated—sexually, emotionally, a tangled mess of want and shame. You wonder if he feels it too, but he’s a wall, unreadable, and you’re too mortified to ask, too afraid of the answer.

From Yoongi’s side, it’s a different war, one he’s losing in silence. He’s lock himself in his room much more than he did before, the guest-now-his space a scattered mess of his belongings, because facing you feels like stepping on glass—one wrong move and it’ll shatter. That call—Hyejin's loud, brash suggestion—hit him harder than he’ll ever admit. He smirked, yeah, playing it cool as he unpacked those groceries, but inside, it was chaos, a wildfire he couldn’t stamp out. You think he’s attractive? No—hot? The idea sank into him, sharp and heated, a hook he can’t dislodge, and he can’t unhear it, can’t unfeel the way it’s shifted practically everything. He’s been avoiding you too, not out of hate—God, no—but because every time he sees you, his head’s a mess of lewd flashes: you under him, thighs trembling as he drives into you, your lips parted in a moan that’s his name; on your knees, mouth wrapped around him, wet and eager, eyes locked on his. It’s relentless, a reel he can't stop, and he hates how it’s turned him into a horny idiot, his hand wrapped around his cock, fisting himself in the shower more than he has since he was a gangly teenager with no self-control.

Cold showers, specifically—ice-cold, the water a brutal shock to his system, numbing the heat that flares every time he thinks of you, every time your small figure brushes past him. He stands under the spray, teeth gritted, hair plastered to his forehead, hand working fast, imagining your hands instead—smaller, softer, tracing his skin—your voice, low and breathless, your body pressed against him. It’s you every time—your flushed cheeks from that call, the way your clothes hug your frame, the quiet gasps he’s sure you’d make if he touched you right. He comes quick, shuddering under the icy blast, the cold biting his skin. It’s a fleeting relief, a cycle he’s trapped in, rinsing away the evidence but not the want. He doesn’t hate you—he wants you. Bad. It’s driving him up the wall, a tension he buries under layers of silence and locked doors.

A week later, four weeks into this strained cohabitation, the tension’s a live wire, sparking at the edges, ready to ignite. Last night, Yoongi had divvied up the laundry—two hampers, one for you, one for him, a silent chore split to keep the fragile peace. You always wash your clothes together, a money-saving trick drilled into you from years of scraping by, cramming everyone into the ancient machine in the basement laundry room with its chipped paint and flickering bulb. You're meticulous about it, cataloging every threadbare piece—two pairs of jeans, faded at the knees; three hoodies, one with a frayed drawstring; 5 pairs of t-shirts and long sleeves, two pairs of sweatpants, and a handful of socks, mismatched and thinning—because losing anything when you own so little stings deep. Hyejin’s words echo as you sort the pile—“You need to get laid!”—and on a reckless impulse, you toss in your one nice thing: a red lace thong, delicate and daring. Maybe Hyejin was right, getting tangled in your sheets might be a good idea, and who knows? It might actually loosen you up a little and get your mind off of you-know-who.

Yoongi had dropped your hamper off in your room last night, awkward as hell, his frame filling the doorway for a brief, tense moment. He’s barely met your eyes, blonde hair falling into his face, muttering a clipped, “Here,” before retreating like he couldn’t get away fast enough. You’d nodded, throat tight, a flush creeping up your neck, and started your wash routine today, hauling the load downstairs in the dim stairwell, the air damp with mildew. The machine’s groan was a familiar hum as you fed it coins, the clink echoing in the empty basement, and you trudged back up, the cold seeping through your socks.

Yoongi was assigned to retrieve both yours and his clothes, mindlessly tossing both loads into the same hampers used earlier. He could easily tell your items apart from his, so he didn’t have a single qualm when he dropped everything back off with you.

You’re folding the warm pile on your bed, the space heater’s glow warming your shins through your sweatpants, when panic hits like a punch. The thong’s not there. You dig through—jeans, hoodies, socks—fingers clawing at the fabric, unraveling the neat stacks, but it’s gone. Your stomach drops, cold and sour, a sick lurch as images flash: the red lace crumpled on the laundry room floor, some grimy tenant picking it up, snickering at your expense; or worse, caught in the machine’s drum, a scarlet flag flapping for the next person to find. Mortification burns, hot and prickly, spreading from your chest to your fingertips, and you rake your hands through your hair, tugging at the roots as your mind races. Did it fall out on the stairs? Land in someone else's laundry basket? The possibilities spiral, each more humiliating than the last, and you’re two seconds from bolting downstairs to check, retracting every step in a frantic hunt, when you freeze, breath catching. Yoongi’s room. What if it’s with him?

Yoongi’s hunched over his own hamper, elbow-deep in hoodies and sweats, and fabric warm from the dryer, when his fingers brush something soft, foreign, out of place. He pulls it out, slow, deliberate, and freezes—a red lace thong dangles from his hand, the fabric catching the heater’s orange glow like a flame. His breath catches, a sharp hitch, eyes flashing to you in his mind—your face, your body—and a groan rips from his throat, low and wrecked, echoing in the small room. Images flood him, unbidden and vivid. His grip tightens, the fabric bunching in his fist, cock hardening at the thought of you underneath him, the room tilting as desire slams into him, raw and unfiltered. He’s about to shove it back, bury it at the bottom of the hamper, pretend he never saw it, when a quiet knock jolts him upright, snapping him out of the haze.

“Uh—come in,” Yoongi says, clearing his throat, his voice rougher than he intends, gravelly with the edge of what’s churning inside him—desire, panic, a tangle of heat he can’t unravel. The door creaks open, slow and hesitant, a low groan of hinges that slices through the quiet of his room. There you are—timid, small, framed in the doorway like a deer caught in headlights, your faded pajamas hanging loose on you. The T-shirt's thin, slinging faintly to your chest, and your sweatpants hang low on your hips, cuffs brushing the floor. Your eyes are wide, searching, darting around his cluttered space—blankets in a heap, vinyls teetering by the wall—before they land on the red lace thong handing from his hand. Your face flames, a rush of red blooming across your cheeks, a soft but piercing gasp slipping past your lips, sharp enough to jolt him where he stands.

He stares, caught, the air thickening into something vicious, heavy with the weight of your locked gazes. His eyes rake over you, slow and deliberate, tracing the lines of your body—down the curve of your shoulder underneath the fabric, the dip of your waist, the way your legs shift nervously, bare skin peeking where the waistband of your sweatpants ends, and the hem of your shirt begins. His gaze lingers on your lips, parted slightly from that gasp, then snaps back to your eyes, wide and mortified but holding his stare. You don’t speak, don’t even breathe for a beat, the silence stretching taut between you, electric and unbearable. Then you step forward, hesitant, the floor cold under your socks, squeaking faintly under your weight as you close the gap. Yoongi’s breath hitches, chest tightening, his grip on the thong faltering as he watches you approach—small, trembling, but determined. Your fingers reach out, shaky and tentative, brushing his as you pluck the lace from his hand, the fleeting touch a spark that sears his skin. He exhales, sharp and unsteady, the air rushing out as you clutch the thong tight.

You turn to leave, quick and jerky, like you’re fleeing a crime scene, your socks scuffing the floor as you aim for the door. Your shoulders hunch, the T-shirt riding up slightly to reveal a sliver of your lower back, and Yoongi’s eyes snag there, his throat dry, pulse hammering. He opens his mouth—maybe to say something, anything—but before words form, the world plunges into black. The power cuts with a faint pop, the dim glow of his desk lamp snuffed in an instant. Darkness swallows the room, thick and disorienting, the only sound the storm’s distant howl beyond the walls and the ragged edge of your breathing. The cold creeps in fast, a chill the prickles your bare arms, and you freeze mid-step, your silhouette a faint blur against the void.

Yoongi stands rooted, the sudden black amplifying the thud of his heartbeat in his ears. The air shifts, heavy with the absence of light and heat, and for a moment, neither of you move, the silence a living thing pressing against your skin.

Then he speaks, voice low, cutting through the dark like a blade. “Stay.” It’s not a request, not quite a command, but there’s and urgency laced in it, rough and unpolished. You hesitate, your outline shifting as you turn slightly, and he can’t see your face, but he feels your uncertainty, the way you’re poised to bolt. “Just—stay there,” he adds, softer, stepping toward the desk where he keeps a flashlight and tealights he grabbed in preparation for exactly this. “I’ll get light.”

You don’t argue, don’t move, and he hears the faint creak of the mattress as you sink onto it, the sound small but seismic in the quiet. He fumbles in the dark, fingers brushing vinyl sleeves, a tangles cord, until they close around the flashlight’s cold metal grip. The mean flickers to life, weak and unsteady, casting jagged shadows as he sweeps it across the room—the heap of blankets a sleepless mound, you perched on the edge of his bed, knees drawn up to your chest, arms crossed tight over them. Your silhouette sharpens as his eyes adjust, and he can see the goosebumps rising on your arms, the way your breath fogs faintly in the chill. He grabs the tealights a lighter from the desk drawer and moves back, placing them on the window ledge behind his bed.

The lighter flicks, the tiny flame sparking against the wick of the first tealight. It catches, a fragile glow blooming, then another, until three small flames dance, casting gold over the scuffed ledge. He sits back, cross-legged, the mattress dipping under your weight across from him, the space between you shrinking in the flickering light. The candles throw shadows up Yoongi’s face—sharp cheekbones, blonde hair mussed and falling into his eyes, lips parted as he exhales—and you feel exposed, the thin T-shirt no shield against the cold or his gaze. Your arms tights, a shiver running down your spine, and he notices, eyes flicking to the way your shoulders hunch, the faint tremble in your fingers.

“You’re cold,” he says, matter-of-fact, and before you can respond, he’s twisting to grab a hoodie from the pile beside his bed—black, worn, the sleeves stretched from use. He holds it out, the fabric dangling between you, and the gesture hangs heavy, an offering laced with something unspoken. “Take it.”

“I’m fine,” you mutter., stubborn, your teeth chattering faintly as the chill deepens, the room’s temperature dropping fast without the heater’s hum. Your breath fogs more now, a soft cloud in the candlelight, and you hug yourself tighter, pride warring with the cold sinking into your bones.

“Take it,” he says again, sharper this time, his tone brooking no argument, eyes narrowing as they lock on yours. There’s a demand there, rough-edged, and it pricks at you, but the cold wins out, your resolve crumbling under the weight of his stare and the shiver racking your frame. You reach out, fingers brushing his as you take the hoodie, the contact brief but electric. You tug it on, the fabric swallowing you—smelling of cedarwood, the hem brushing your thighs—and he watches, a flicker of something dark crossing his face as you settle into it, sleeves flopping over your hands.

The silence stretches, awkward and thick, the small flames creating shadows that act like a fragile barrier. You shift on the bed, the mattress creaking under you, and he leans on his hands, the bedding soft underneath his palms. The storm’s a dull roar outside, snow pelting the windows, but inside, it’s just you and him, the air humming with tension you’ve both danced around for weeks. He clears his throat, the sound rough in the quiet, and you glance up, catching the way his eyes glint in the candlelight, sharp and assessing.

“It’s been quiet lately,” he says, voice soft, almost casual, but there’s an edge—a thread of intent snaking through it. His fingers flex against the mattress, inching closer, the tips grazing the blanket near your thigh. “You, I mean. Not just the room.”

You blink, caught off guard, heat creeping up your neck despite the chill. “What?” you say, too quick, your voice wobbling as you tuck the hoodie’s sleeves tighter into your fists, avoiding his gaze. He’s too close, his presence too heavy, pressing against you like a physical thing.

“I dunno,” he shrugs, but it’s calculated, his shoulders rolling slow, the bed shifting as he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees now, narrowing the space between you. “I just noticed. You’re usually... louder. Moving around, banging shit in the kitchen. Now it’s like you’re not even here.” His tone’s even, but there’s a tease buried in it, a glint in his eyes daring you to bite, to push back.

“I’m here,” you mutter, defensive, staring at the tealights, the tiny flames blurring as your heart kicks up, thudding against your ribs. “I’ve just been... busy, I guess. School, work, and I’m with Namjoon a lot—you know how it is.” It’s a flimsy excuse, the words brittle, and you can feel him see through it, his silence louder than any rebuttal.

He tilts his head, blonde strands shifting, and the smirk returns, faint but sharp. “Busy, huh?” He leans closer, his knee pressing firmer against yours now, intentional, the heat of it seeping through your sweatpants. “Is that why you can’t even look at me?”

You glance up, and he’s closer than you thought—his face a breath away, eyes locked on yours, dark and piercing in the candlelight. “I’m looking at you now,” you say, aiming for defiance, but it comes out shaky, a whisper swallowed by the tension thickening the air between you.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice a rumble. “Took you long enough.” His eyes flick to your lips, lingering, and the room shrinks, the cold forgotten.

“Okay, so what?” you snap, the word spilling out before you can stop them. “What’s your point?” Your face burns, defiance masking the nerves twisting inside you.

He doesn’t back off, just watches you, steady and unyielding. “My point,” he says, slow and deliberate, “is that you’ve been avoiding me.” It’s not a question, a statement dropped like a match onto dry grass, and it ignites something in you, a flare of frustration and shame you’ve been choking down for a week.

Heat surges up your neck, prickling under Yoongi’s hoodie. “No, I haven’t,” you bite back, voice sharp, your denial too quick. “That’s ridiculous.” You shift back slightly, the bed creaking under you, putting an inch of space between your knees.

“Ridiculous?” he echoes, voice soft but edged, leaning forward more, closing the gap you just made. “You’re out before I’m up, gone ‘til I’m asleep. You’ve barely said ten fucking words to me all week. You call that normal?”

“I’ve been busy!” you snap, louder now, the words bursting out as you glare at him. “School, work, like I just explained—shit you’d get if you weren’t holed up in here all the time. Don’t act like I’m the only one who’s quiet.” Your voice trembles, anger masking the guilt, and you shove the hoodie’s sleeves up, the fabric bunching at your elbows, too hot under his scrutiny.

He snorts, a harsh sound, leaning closer, his knee slamming back against yours, a deliberate push. “Don’t pull that. I’m here, yeah, but I don’t fucking vanish. You’re dodging me like I’m contagious—can't even look at me half the time.” His voice rises, rough with irritation. “What’s your deal? You think I’m pissed about something?”

“My deal?” you fire back, voice climbing, the argument spiraling out of your control. “Maybe I just don’t wanna deal with you staring at me like—like I’m some joke after that stupid phone call! You don’t get to turn this on me when you’ve been a hermit too!” Your chest heaves, and you hate how raw you feel, how exposed.

He freezes, just for a beat, then leans back slightly, but his voice drops, low and sharp. “A joke? That’s what you think?” His tone’s quieter, but it’s loaded, frustration simmering under the surface. “I’ve been giving you space, not laughing at you. You’re the one running.”

“Space?” you scoff, incredulous, your voice crackling as you lean forward. “You call locking yourself in here space? I didn’t ask for that—I didn’t ask for any of this!” Your hands shake, and you hate how close he is. “This is all Namjoon’s fault. If I had just move back in with my parents to begin with—”

“Then why—” he interrupts, voice rising again, his hand slamming down on the mattress, and you flinch. “Why are you acting like I’m the problem when you’re the one who’s been avoiding me?” His eyes bore into yours, dark and furious, and the tension snaps taut, a live wire humming between you.

“Okay, fine!” you yell, the words ripping out, raw and jagged. “I’ve been avoiding you! Happy now?” You look away, face burning with shame, jaw tight.

He doesn’t flinch, just holds your gaze when you dare to meet it again, the anger softening into something else—something heavier. “Why?” he asks, voice quieter now, almost gentle, but it’s a blade all the same, cutting straight to the core.

You swallow, throat dry, the truth clawing its way up, bitter and hot. “Because of the call,” you say, voice small. “What Hyejin said—it's been... weird. I didn’t know what you thought, if you were angry, disgusted, or—” You cut yourself off, biting your lip hard, the humiliation surging like fresh wound, a sour twist in your chest that makes you want to curl into yourself.

He tilts his head, blonde strands shifting, and his eyes soften, just a fraction, though they never leave yours. “Didn’t think anything bad,” he says, low, deliberate. “Didn’t mind it.” A pause, then softer, a confession slipped into the dark: “I kinda liked it.” It hangs there, raw and unguarded, and your stomach flips.

“You liked it?” you echo, incredulous, your voice rising slightly.

“Yeah,” he says, simple, unapologetic. “You think I’m attractive, right? That’s what she said... your friend, I mean.” His voice dips, teasing again, but there’s a hunger underneath, a question he’s daring you to answer, and it’s dizzying, the way he’s peeling you open, like a tangerine.

“I—” You falter, breath hitching, his proximity scrambling your thoughts, turning them into static. The hoodie’s too warm, his scent too close—a drug you can’t shake—and yet you can’t look away. “She said it, not me.”

“But you didn’t deny it,” he counters, voice a rumble now. “Still haven’t” His eyes flick to your lips, lingering, slow and deliberate, and the tension shifts, thickens, a palpable thing wrapped around you both. “You’ve been thinking about it, haven’t you?” he murmurs, voice rough. “What she said. Me.”

Your mouth opens, a denial on your tongue, but it dies there, strangled by the way his eyes darken. “I-I... I don’t—”

“Don’t what?” he presses, voice a tease, but his gaze is intense, stripping you bare. His knee nudges your legs apart slightly, moving towards where you need him most. “Tell me you don’t want this,” he says, voice dropping to a rough whisper. “Say it, and I’ll back off.” His eyes search yours, dark and intent, flickering with something that mirrors the heat twisting inside you—desire, need, a question he’s laid bare between you. His fingers curl slightly into your thigh, possessive, waiting, and the silence stretches, taut and trembling, your response teetering on the edge.

Instead of answering him, your lips slam into his with a force that rips the air from the room, a bruising collision born from the weight of all the suppressed desire, every moment you’ve bitten your tongue instead of speaking, every time you’ve turned away instead of reaching out. It’s not soft, not tentative—it can’t be, not after all this time simmering in the space between you. Your hands fist the worn cotton of his hoodie, knuckles whitening as you clutch the fabric like it’s the only think keeping your grounded, pulling him closer until there’s no gap left to close. The kiss is spark flung onto dry tinder, a wildfire roaring to life after too long smoldering in the dark corners of your mind. Your lips press hard against his, insistent and desperate, testing the faint salt of his skin, the bitter edge of the beer he sipped earlier still clinging to his breath—a sharp tang that mixes with something deeper, something raw and uniquely Yoongi that floods your senses and leaves you dizzy.

He freezes for a heartbeat, his body tensing before you, a sharp inhale hissing through his teeth as if you’ve jolted his from a trance. Then he surges back, a low growl rumbling deep in his throat—a primal sound that vibrates against your lips and sends a shiver racing down your spine, igniting every nerve in its path. His hands clamp onto your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath the oversized hoodie you’re wearing—his hoodie—yanking you against him with a force that makes the mattress groan beneath your combined weight. The bed creaks sharply, a protest that echoes in the small room as your bodies collide, chest to chest, the heat of him seeping through the thin layers of fabric separating you, warming the chill that’s lingered in your bones for days.

You move on instinct, driven by a need you can’t name, swinging one leg over his lap until you’re straddling him, your knees bracketing his lean thighs. The shift presses your core against the hard ridge of his cock through his clothes, a sudden jolt of friction that drags a soft, involuntary moan from your throat—a sound you barely recognize as yours, raw and needy, spilling out into the quiet. Your nails rake over his shoulders, catching on the fabric of his sweatshirt as you press yourself closer, your chest flattening against his, the rapid thud of his heartbeat pounding against your ribcage until it feels like it’s yours too. You can feel the tension in his muscles, the way they flex and shift under your touch, coiled tight like a spring begging to snap, and it sends a thrill through you, a spark that catches and flares.

His hands slide under the hoodie, rough calluses scraping against your bare waist as they roam upward, igniting your skin with every inch they claim. His fingers splay wide, possessive, digging into your flesh with just enough pressure to make you gasp into his mouth—a sharp, breathy sound that he swallows greedily, like it’s fuel for the fire he’s stoking. They travel higher, slow and deliberate, until his palms cup your breasts, the heat of his hands searing through you, thumbs brushing over your nipples in teasing, languid circles. They harden instantly under his touch, a delicious ache blooming as he rolls them between his fingers, coaxing another moan from you—a louder one this time, raw and unfiltered, muffled against his lips, vibrating in the tight space where your breaths tangle. The sensation is electric, a current that zips down your spine and pools low, making you shift relentlessly in his lap.

The kiss deepens, turning messy and wild—as if it wasn’t already—a clash of need that strips away any pretense of control. Your teeth knock together in your haste, a faint click drowned by the wet slide of your tongues wrestling for dominance, a dance of give and take that leaves you breathless. Yoongi’s mouth is hot, demanding, his tongue curling against yours with a skill that makes your head spin, a slow, deliberate sweep that has you chasing after it, hungry for more. He tugs your lower lip between his teeth, a sharp sting that sends a pulse of heat straight to your core, and you whimper—a soft, broken sound that melts into a groan as he sucks it hard, soothing the bite with a slow, deliberate lick. The taste of him floods you—salt a heat and that faint, bitter edge—and you dive back in, your tongue darting into his mouth, desperate to drown it.

His grip tightens, one hand abandoning your breast to fist in your hair, fingers tangling in the strands. He yanks your head back, a sudden, firm tug that bares your throat to him, the pull stinging your scalp a drawing a ragged gasp from your lips—a sound that hangs in the air, sharp and vulnerable. Your head tips back, exposing the tender line of your neck, and Yoongi doesn’t hesitate—his mouth descends, lips dragging hot and wet along your pulse, leaving a trail of fire that sears your skin. He sucks lightly at the spot where your heartbeat thumps wildly, a teasing nip of his teeth that makes you squirm in his lap, your hips rocking forward on pure instinct, seeking something, anything, to ease the ache building inside you.

That movement—unplanned, desperate—grinds you against him, the seam of your sweatpants catching just right on the bulge straining against him. A low, guttural moan tears from his throat, the sound rumbling against your skin as he presses his forehead to your collarbone, he breath hot and uneven against the hollow of your throat. “Fuck,” he mutters, voice rough as gravel, the curse slipping out like it’s been punched from him, and it sends a thrill through you, your own breath hitching in response. You roll your hips again, deliberate this time, a slow, purposeful grind that drags your core over him, the friction sparking pleasure that coils tight in your belly, a heat that spreads like wildfire. His hands snap back you your hips, guiding you, encouraging the motion with a firm squeeze, his fingers digging into your ass through the fabric, anchoring you as you rock against him.

The movement builds a rhythm—slow at first, tentative, like you’re testing the waters, then faster, more urgent, a desperate cadence that matches the pounding of your pulse. Each roll of your hips presses you harder against him, the heat between your legs growing slick and insistent, soaking through your sweatpants until you can feel it dampening the fabric, a secret you can’t hide. You can feel him—thick, hard, pulsing beneath you—and the thought alone makes you moan louder, a needy whine that echoes in the small room, bouncing off the walls and mingling with the creak of the mattress. Yoongi matches you, his own groans spilling out, low and broken, as he thrusts up to meet you, the cotton soft against your thighs, yet scraping in a way that’s almost too much but not enough.

Your moans climb higher, a string of needy sounds that spill out unbidden—soft whines, sharp gasps, a broken “Yoongi” that slips from your lips before you can stop it. His response is immediate, a groan that’s half-curse, half-prayer, hips bucking up harder, meeting you halfway, the fabric dragging against your skin in a way that’s rough and perfect.

You break the kiss, gasping for air, your forehead resting against his as you pant, your breath hot against his swollen lips, mingling with his own ragged exhales. Your eyes—wide, wild, glassy with need—meet his, and the intensity there nearly undoes you, a storm of want brewing behind his own pupils, the dark swallowing the brown until there’s nothing left but desire. “You’ve been fucking teasing me for weeks,” he rasps, voice gravelly, thick with want, his grip on your hair tightening until it stings, a delicious edge of pain that makes you move harder against him, your hips stuttering in their rhythm. “Think I didn’t notice you squirming? All those little looks, avoiding me like I wouldn’t fucking see?”

“I—I didn’t—” you start, but the lie dies in your throat as he smirks, dark and knowing, and drags you back into the kiss, his tongue plunging deep, silencing you with a claim that leaves no room for denial. Your hands slip from his hair, trailing down his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat under your palms as the kiss breaks again, leaving you both panting, lips swollen and slick. The need clawing at you is too much now, and your fingers curl into the hem of his sweatshirt, the oversized gray fabric that’s been brushing against you all night. You tug upward, a silent question in the motion, and Yoongi’s eyes flicker with something dark and eager as his lifts his arms, letting you peel it off him in one fluid desperate pull.

The sweatshirt hits the floor with a soft thud, and for a moment, you just stare, your breath catching in your throat as you take him in—shirtless, bare, and breathtakingly real beneath the flickering candlelight glow. His chest is exposed now, and your eyes trace downward, drinking in the sight of him—smooth and unmarred, save for the faint flush creeping up his sternum, a soft pink that blooms under the heat of your gaze and the exertion of what’s just passed. His torse narrows into a lean waist, the lines of his body flowing inward like a river cutting through stone. His abs come into view—subtle but undeniable, a not-so-faint six-pack etched into his stomach, each muscle a shallow ripple beneath his skin rather than a deep carve. The muscles flex slightly as he shifts, tightening with every breath, every twitch of his hips still pressed against you, and you can see the faint sheen of sweat coating them, making his skin gleam like polished marble in the low light. A thin trail of dark hair starts just below his navel, barely visible against his pale complexion, leading downward in a sparse, teasing line that disappears into the waistband of his pants, hinting at what’s still hidden.

You slide off his lap then, your hands dragging down his bare chest one last time, mapping the lean planes of him—the smooth expanse of his pecs, the subtle ridges of his abs, the heat of his skin—before you sink to your knees between his legs, the cold wood biting into your skin a stark contrast to the fire burning in your veins. Yoongi watches you, breath hitching, hands flexing on the bed as you teg at the waistband of his sweatpants, his hips lifting slightly to help you pull them down along with his boxers, crumpling into a messy pile around his ankles. His cock springs free, hard and leaking, the tip glistening with a fat bead of precum that catches the faint candlelight glow—a slick, iridescent promise of how much he’s been aching for this, how long he’s been holding back. You pause, your breath snagging in your throat at the sight of him—thick, flushed, veins pulsing faintly under the skin, every inch of him straining towards you. Your fingers hover near it, trembling with the weight of anticipation that’s been clawing at you, a hunger that’s sunk its teeth into your core and won’t let go. Then you reach out, wrapping your hand around him—tentative at first, your touch light as you feel the heat radiating off him, the slight give of skin over rigid flesh. His reaction is instant: a sharp, guttural groan rips from his throat, loud and unrestrained, his hips jerking up an inch like he’s already chasing you.

You tighten your grip, fingers curling around his length, and start to stroke—slowly, deliberately, watching his face twist with every pass. The skin is velvet-hot under your palm, slick where he’s leaking, and you drag your thumb over the tip, smearing the precum in a lazy, teasing circle. Yoongi moans again, a rough, “Fuck,” spilling out as his head tips back, blonde hair spilling into his eyes in a wild, sweaty cascade that glints gold in the dim light before falling into shadow. His chest heaves, a low growl rumbling through it as you lean closer, your breath fanning over him, warm and deliberate. Your lips brush the tip, featherlight, barely a touch, and he shudders hard, thighs tensing under your elbows where they rest, a ragged “shit” groaning out of him as his hands flex on the bed, knuckles whitening against the sheets.

You part your lips, letting your breath tease him for a bit longer, watching his abs clench, his jaw tighten, the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. The you take him in—slowly at first, your tongue flicking out to lap at the slit, tasting the sharp salt of him, the heat that floods your mouth as you close your lips around the head. You swirl your tongue, tracing the ridge beneath with a slow, deliberate drag, savoring the way he pulses against you, the way his groan turns into a louder, “Fuck—yes,” his voice cracking on the edge of desperation. You suck lightly, lips tightening as you pull him deeper, inch by tantalizing inch, your jaw stretching to accommodate him as you hollow your cheeks, creating a tight, wet vacuum that makes him hiss—a sharp, needy sound that cuts through the quiet.

The taste of him intensifies, and you start to bob your head, setting a rhythm that’s wet and sloppy. Spit gathers at the corners of your mouth, slick and messy, dripping down your chin as you take him further, the heat of him pressing against your tongue, nudging the back of your throat with every downward stroke. Yoongi’s hand shoots to your hair, fingers threading into the soft strands with a rough grip—not just anchoring now, but guiding, tugging you down harder as he groans again, his voice gravelly and wrecked. His hips twitch up, a shallow thrust that pushes him deeper, and you gag slightly, the burn in your throat sharp but thrilling as you adjust, breathing through your nose to keep in time with him.

He gets rougher then, his restraint fraying as his hand tightens in your hair, pulling with a firm yank that stings your scalp and sends a jolt of heat straight to your core. “Take it,” he growls, low and commanding, his hips bucking up again—harder this time, fucking into your mouth with a controlled thrust that has you choking around him, spit spilling over your lips and down his shaft. You don’t pull back—can't, wont—your tongue flattening against him as he sets a pace, deep and insistent, each thrust hitting the back of your throat with a wet, obscene sound that fills the room. He moans louder, letting out a string of curses, “Holy shit, Y/N that feels so—fuck,” each one rougher, more broken, he voice cracking as he watches you, eyes half-lidded and dark.

Your free hand slides up his thigh, nails scraping the taut muscle there before finding his balls, heavy and tight beneath him. You cup them, rolling them gently in your palm, feeling the way they draw up under your touch. Yoongi’s reaction is rewarding—a deep, shuddering groan tears from his chest, louder than before, his hips stuttering as the sensation hits him. You knead them softly, fingers working in time with your mouth, fondling them with a careful pressure that makes his moans climb higher. The added stimulation drives him wild, his thrusts turning sloppier, more desperate, fucking your throat with a rhythm that’s less controlled now, more primal. Your eyes flick up, meeting his, and the sight of him unravels you—head tipped back, blonde hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, burning with a desperation that’s almost palpable—and it sends a shiver through you, your own arousal pooling low, thighs clamping together as the ache between your legs sharpens into something almost unbearable.

It’s intoxicating, the way he’s falling apart for you, and it drives you to push him further, to take him deeper. You relax your throat, letting him thrust past the point of comfort, the stretch burning as you gag again, spit pooling and dripping onto his thighs as he fucks your mouth with a grunt. His moans turn constant now, a litany of sound—low growls, sharp groans, broken curses—each one louder, rougher, spilling out as his hips snap forward, his grip on your hair tightening until it’s a delicious ache. He’s losing it, control slipping through his fingers, and you can feel it in the way his thrusts falter, the way his abs clench, a ripple of muscles that signals he’s close. “Y/N—shit, I’m gonna cum,” he growls, voice strained and raw, a warning that’s morphed it’s way into a plea, giving you the change to pull back if you want it. But you don’t—you can’t—doubling down instead, sucking harder, your lips a tight seal around him as you take him as deep as you can, throat flexing around his length.

You hand pumps the base, fast and slick, working what your mouth can’t reach, while your other hand squeezes his balls just a little harder, rolling them in a way that drags another loud, shuddering moan from him. His hips buck one last time, hard and erratic, and then he’s coming undone—a choked, “Shit,” tearing from his throat as he spills into your mouth, hot and pulsing, thick bursts that coat your tongue, your throat, filling you with the taste of him—salt and heat and raw, unfiltered need.

You keep going, working him through it, your mouth softening but still moving, your hand stroking slower now as you milk every last shudder from him. His groans turn ragged, breathless, his body trembling beneath you, thigh twitching as he rides out the waves. His hand in your hair loosens, fingers slipping free with a faint tremor, and you pull back slowly, letting him slide from your mouth with a wet, messy pop, spit and cum mingling on your lips as you gasp for air. Your chin’s a wreck, slick and dripping, and you swipe it with the back of your hand, panting as you look up at him, your chest heaving, thighs still pressed tight against the ache that’s screaming between your legs.

You start to shift, intending to rise, but Yoongi moves faster, his hand snapping to your arms with a grip that’s firm, unyielding, almost bruising as he hauls you up from the floor with a strength that steals your breath. Your knees groan as they leave the cold ground, a soft, startled gasp slipping form your lips as he pulls you onto the bed, dragging you up to meet him in a rush of motion that makes your head spin. His mouth crashes onto yours, fierce and unrelenting, a kiss that’s all teeth and heat, claiming you with a bruising intensity that leaves no room for air. His tongue dives in, hot and possessive, tasting himself on you—the salt and musk of his release mingling with the faint sweetness of you—and he groans into it, a deep, primal sound that rumbles against your lips, sending a fresh wave of heat crashing through your core.

His hands shove at the hoodie still clinging to your frame—his hoodie, oversized and heavy with his scent—fingers rough and impatient as they yank it up and over your head, the fabric catching on your arms for a heartbeat before you shake it free. It falls to the floor with a muffled thud, and the cold air of the room bites into your newly bared skin, prickling goosebumps across your chest, your nipples hardening instantly under the chill and weight of his stare. You shiver, caught between the shock of exposure and the fire in his eyes, but he doesn’t give you time to adjust—his hands are on you again, strong and commanding, flipping you onto your back with a swift, effortless twist that makes the bed creak softly, the springs protesting under the sudden shift. Your back hits the mattress, the tangled blankets cool and soft against your skin, and Yoongi looms over you, his lean, shirtless frame a shadowed silhouette against the glow of the candles—his bare chest slick with sweat, abs tightening as he braces himself above you, a smirk tugging at his lips, sharp and dangerous.

“Fucking finally,” he mutters, voice low and gravelly, thick with intent as his hands drop to the waistband of your sweatpants. Hi fingers hook onto the fabric, rough and urgent, yanking your sweatpants and panties down in one harsh, impatient tug that scrapes against your thighs, the material bunching briefly before he rips it free. The cold air hits you like a slap, a shock against the slick, burning heat between your legs, and you shudder, half from the chill, half from the raw vulnerability of being spread bare beneath him. He tosses the clothes aside, the faint rustle of them landing somewhere in the dark swallowed by the pounding of your heart, and his hands find your thighs—his grip bruising, possessive, as he forces them apart, spreading you wide with a strength that makes your breath hitch, your body arching instinctively toward him, open and waiting.

Yoongi’s head dips low, his breath ghosting over your core first—a warm, teasing huff that makes your hips twitch upward, chasing the promise of contact. His hands dig into your thighs, fingers splayed wide and bruising as he holds you open, pinning you to the mattress with a force that leaves no room for resistance. His lips graze your clit, a fleeting, featherlight brush that sends a sharp, electric jolt ripping through you, arching your back off the bed as a gasp tears from your throat, high and desperate. Then he dives in, his mouth latching onto you with a hunger that’s almost feral, sucking hard on your clit with a wet, obscene pull that makes your vision blur at the edges. The sudden pressure is a shockwave, a white-hot burst that has your hips bucking against his face, a chokes whimper spilling from your lips as your hands scrabble against the blankets, searching for something to hold onto.

His tongue follows, relentless and greedy, lapping at your folds with broad, messy strokes that leave no part of you untouched, electing a loud cry from you. The wet heat of it drags through your slickness, a slow, deliberate sweep that collects every drop of your arousal, and he groans against you—a deep, guttural sound that vibrates through your core, making your thighs tremble in his grasp. He circles your clit with tight, teasing loops, the tip of his tongue flicking against the swollen bud in quick, precise darts that have you whimpering, your breath hitching in sharp, uneven bursts. The he shifts, plunging his tongue inside you, thrusting it deep into your heat with a rhythm that’s slow but unyielding, fucking you with it as you moan, loud and unabashed. “Oh, shit, Yoongi!” You cry, the words spilling out of you before you can stop them.

His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh there, leaving crescent-shaped marks as he pulls you closer, pressing you harder against his mouth like he can’t get enough. His nose brushes your clit as he buries himself deeper, and your breath hitches, your moans growing louder with each pass of his tongue. He pulls back just enough to suck your clit again, lips sealing around it with a fierce, wet suction that makes your back bow off mattress, a sharp cry ripping from your throat—“Y-Yoongi, please,”—your voice breaking on his name. His tongue flicks against you in response, fast and ruthless, and then his fingers join in—two of them sliding into you, curling deep, stretching you open with a deliberate thrust that makes you feel every inch of his digits, every ridge of his knuckles as they sink inside.

He pumps them fast, rough, the wet squelch of your arousal loud in the quiet room, mingling with the faint howl of the storm outside. His fingers curl just right, hooking against that spot inside you that sends sparks bursting behind your eyes, and he pairs it with another hard suck on your clit, his teeth grazing you lightly—a fleeting sting that makes you jolt, a whimper turning into a moan. His free hand lifts, hovering over your thigh for a moment, then comes down with a sharp crack, spanking you once—the sound echoing, the heat blooming instant and fierce across your skin. “Louder, let me hear you,” he growls, voice muffled against you, his breath hot and ragged as he dives back in, tongue lapping at you like a man starved. You oblige without meaning to, a loud stream of moans spilling out as your hips grind against his face, chasing the pressure building inside you.

Your hands find his hair, fingers threading into the sweaty blonde strands, tugging hard—hard enough to make him groan again, a deep, rumbling “mmph” that vibrates through you, pushing you closer to the edge. He retaliates by nipping at your clit, a quick, sharp bite that sends a jolt of pleasure racing through you, your grip tightening as you yank his hair again, desperate and wild. “So wet for me,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, lips brushing your clit as he speaks, the words sinking into you like heat, stoking the fire in your belly. “Been dreaming of this pussy—gonna make you scream.” His tongue dives back in, relentless, swirling around your clit before plunging inside again, fucking you with it in deep, wet strokes while his fingers pump faster, curling harder, stretching you open until you’re trembling and whimpering, thighs shaking uncontrollably un his bruising grip.

The candlelight dances over your body—sweat beading on your stomach, glistening in the hollows of your hips, a red mark blooming bright and hot where he spanked you, the skin tender and pulsing with every brush of his fingers. Yoongi’s focused, utterly consumed—his eyes flick up to yours, dark and piercing, locked on your face as he drinks in every whimper, every squirm, every broken sound you make. His hair’s a mess from your grip, strands sticking to his forehead, falling into his eyes, but he doesn’t care—his tongue keeps moving, his fingers relentless, savoring the way you’re unraveling beneath him. The pleasure’s sharp, overwhelming, a knife-edge that cuts through you.

He spanks you again, harder this time, the crack louder, the heat searing across your ass as his fingers curl just right, hitting your g-spot with brutal precision while his tongue flicks your clit in quicks, merciless strokes. You break—screaming his name, “Yoongi—fuck!” The sound raw and ragged, tearing from your throat as your body shatters, clenching tight around his fingers, pulsing hot and wet against his mouth. Your back arches high, hips grinding against him as the climax rips through you, a tidal wave of pleasure that leaves you shaking, trembling, a moaning mess, every nerve alight. He doesn’t stop, lapping you through it with slow, greedy strokes, his tongue dragging out every shudder every twitch, his fingers easing their pace but still moving, coaxing you down from the peak until you’re gasping, oversensitive, tugging hard at his hair to pull him up, your chest heaving as you pant beneath him, wrecked and sated.

Your chest heaves, lungs burning as you pant beneath Yoongi, your body still trembling from the aftershocks of his mouth on you, his fingers inside you, the oversensitive twitches shuddering through your thighs where they press against the mattress. He pulls back from your core, lips glistening with your slick in the faltering candlelight glow, his blonde hair a sweaty, tangled mess from your desperate tugging, strands plastered to his forehead and falling into his eyes—dark, wild, smoldering with a hunger that hasn’t dimmed. His bare chest gleams with sweat, the lean planes of his abs tightening with each shallow, unsteady breath, his pale skin flushed pink from exertion, collarbones sharp and jutting, a faint sheen of perspiration pooling in the hollow of his throat. He climbs over you, his wiry frame moving with a predator's grace, sweat-slick chest brushing your bare skin as he looms above, caging you in with his arms, the heat of him searing into you like a brand. His mouth crashes into yours, sloppy and deep, a messy tangle of tongues and teeth that tastes of you—sweet and sharp—and him, salt and heat from earlier, a primal mix that makes your head spin. You moan, soft and needy, your hands clawing at his bare back, nails raking down the lean muscle, digging into the taut ridges of his spine as you press yourself closer, your chest heaving against his.

“I need you, Yoongi, need your cock.” The want between you is raw, reckless, primal—no barriers, just skin and heat—he smirks, and you shift, pushing him back onto the mattress with a surge of strength, the bed creaking sharply as you climb over him, straddling his hips, your thighs once again bracketing his lean waist, knees sinking into the tangled blankets. He groans, low and guttural, as you line yourself up, the head of his cock brushing your entrance—bare, hot, pulsing against your slick heat. He shifts beneath you, one hand reaching down toward the bedside table, fingers stretching for a condom packet in the dim light, but you catch his wrist, stopping him mid-motion. He pauses, eyes flicking to yours, a question in their dark depths, and you lean in close, breath hitching as you whisper, “I want to feel all of you.” His gaze darkens further, a flash of something feral passing through it, and he groans, deeper, his hand falling back to your hip, fingers sinking into the soft flesh there as he surrenders to the moment.

You sink down slow at first, the stretch raw and intense, a searing burn that splits you open. Inch by thick inch, filling you completely with no layer between you, just the unfiltered heat of him inside. You moan, loud and trembling, your head tipping back as he bottoms out, hips flush against his, the fullness overwhelming, your walls clenching around him instinctively, a tight, greedy grip that makes him groan again, “God, you feel so good—shit.” Your nails bite into his chest, scraping over his pecs, leaving red trails across his pale skin as you start to move, lifting yourself up and dropping back down, the wet slap of your thighs against his steady, filthy rhythm. “Look at you,” he grunts in between each pass of you against his member, “avoiding me for weeks and now you’re practically begging for my cock.”

You moan, high and desperate, as you ride him, hips rolling with every rise and fall, the drag of him against your walls sending jolts of pleasure sparking through you, your ass bouncing against his thighs with each thrust, and he relishes in the movement of your breasts as you ride him. “Oh, God, Yoongi—” He groans, rough and primal, his hands guiding you, lifting you higher, slamming you down higher, the bed creaking wildly under the force, springs protesting as your pace quickens.

You lean forward, hands braced on his chest, nails digging deeper into the firm muscle, and he spanks you once—hard—the crack sharp and loud, “Yeah, you like that, don’t you?” The sting blooms hot across your ass, making you moan louder, a broken sound that echoes in the room. He spanks you again, “you like it rough, baby?” You nod in response, the heat spreading like wildfire, and you shudder, your rhythm faltering for a moment as the pain twists into pleasure, your moans climbing higher, constant now, spilling form you with every roll of your hips.

Yoongi’s groans deepen, his thrusts up to meet you turning erratic, his cock twitching inside you, and he moans, a strained, desperate sound, his abs clenching tight under his sweat slick skin, sweat beading on his brow as he fights the edge. “Fucking hell.” He shifts abruptly, hands gripping your waist, flipping you off him with a swift, strong twist that makes you yelp, a sharp moan tearing from your throat as he pulls out, leaving you empty and trembling, your walls clenching around nothing, slick and desperate. He moves fast, pushing you onto your stomach, “Ass up,” he demands, the bed creaking as he pulls your hips up, forcing you to comply, your knees sinking into the mattress.

He drives back in with a single, deep thrust, bottoming out in one brutal snap of his hips, hitting every spot, and you moan long and loud, “You feel so good, Yoongi, fuck,” your voice shakes as he fills you again, the new angle letting him go deeper, harder, his cock dragging against your walls with a precision that has your toes curling, your hands clawing at the sheets, tearing at the fabric. He groans, rough and primal, hands gripping your hips, pulling you back onto him with every thrust, the force rocking your body forward, your face pressing into the pillow, muffling your constant moans—high, desperate, spilling from you with every snap of his hips, driving you closer to the edge.

Your climax builds fast, a tight coil snapping in your belly, every thrust, every spank, pushing you higher, “I’m so close, Yoongi! Gonna cum soon—” you moan louder, a desperate, shuddering sound as your walls start to flutter around him, clenching tight. Your orgasm hits hard, a shattering wave that rips through you, and you scream into the pillow, a raw, broken moan muffled against the fabric as your body shakes, trembling uncontrollably, pleasure crashing through you in relentless surges, your ass stinging, red and raw, your nails clawing at the sheets, tearing holes in the cotton as you ride it out, shuddering, lost in the raw heat of him inside you.

He feels it, groaning loud and rough, his thrusts turning sloppy, hips stuttering as your clenching walls grip him, and he cries out, “Ah shit, Y/N!” It’s a strained sound, breaking form his chest as he chases his own edge, sweat dripping onto your back, hot and slick. His climax snaps, a guttural moan tearing from him as he spills inside you, hot and deep, pulsing thick and unrestrained, filling you with every erratic trust. His hands pull you back onto him as he comes, trembling above you, breath ragged, breaking into rough sound as he rides his orgasm out, his cum leaking out, warm and sticky, dripping down your thighs. He collapses over you, chest pressed to your back, his weight heavy and grounding, both of you shaking, spent, tangled in the damp, sweat-soaked sheets. His arm drapes around your waist, breath hot and uneven against your neck, stirring the damp hair there.

The cold begins to seep into the room as the last candlelight flickers out with a faint hiss, plunging you into near-darkness, the only light a thin, silvery glow from the window that softly outlines Yoongi’s lean, shirtless form as he slides off your back and next to you. His chest rises and falls in slow, uneven breaths, a faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his flushed skin, catching the dim light across the sharp lines of his collarbones and the subtle ridges of his abs, now relaxed after the tension of before. Silence settles over you, thick and soothing, like a heavy blanket, muffling the world beyond—the storm outside reduced to a faint whisper against the glass, barely audible over the slowing thud of your pulse. You lie there, breathless and spent, your body heavy with exhaustion, tangled in the sweat-soaked fabric that clings to you, sticky and warm, but there’s a sweetness to it, a comfort in the mess you’ve made together.

Yoongi shifts beside you, rolling onto his side with a soft creak of the mattress, his movement careful, deliberate, as if he’s afraid to jostle you too much. “Hey, you okay?” he asks, his voice low and gentle, a quiet rasp softened by a thread of concern that makes your chest warm, his breath brushing your cheek as he props himself up slightly. You turn your head toward him, cheek sinking into the pillow, damp strands of your hair sticking to your flushed face, and catch his eyes in the dimness—soft, warm, searching yours with a tenderness that feels like a balm after the roughness.

“Yeah,” you murmur, voice hoarse from exertion, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips as you meet his gaze, your lids heavy with fatigue. “Wrecked, though—like, can’t-move wrecked.” He chuckles, a gentle, rumbling sound that vibrates through his chest, and his hand slides up to your hair, fingers threading through the sweaty, tangled mess, rubbing your scalp with a slow, soothing touch that draws a faint moan form you, a sigh of pure relief.

“My favorite kind of wrecked,” he says softly, his tone teasing but laced with affection, his thumb brushing along your temple as he smooths your hair back, tracing the curve of your cheek with a gentleness that makes your heart flutter. His fingers linger, rubbing slow circles against your scalp, easing the faint ache form earlier tugging, and you feel your body soften under his touch, the tension melting away as you sink into the comfort of it. “You’re still warm,” he whispers, his voice barely above a breath, a quiet wonder in it as he leans closer, his lips brushing your forehead in a tender kiss, soft and fleeting but heavy with care. You snuggle into him, ignoring the sweat—his skin slick and sticky against yours, your cheek pressing into the curve of his chest, right above his heart, where the beat thumps steady and slow beneath your ear, grounding you. He pulls you tighter, his hand still moving through your hair, fingers sliding through the strands with a kindness that makes your chest ache.

“You’re sweaty,” you mumble, your breath warm against his chest, your nose brushing the hollow of his collarbone where the faint musk of him mixes with the salt of his skin, earthy and comforting.

“So are you,” he replies, his voice light, a smile threading through it, “but I don’t mind—keeps you close.” His hand shifts, sliding down from your hair to trace your skin, fingertips gliding over your shoulder, along the curve of your arm, then back up, featherlight and slow, mapping you with a tenderness that sends a shiver of warmth through you. Your body curls into his, legs tangling, the stickiness of your skin fading under the solace of his touch, the way he holds you like you’re something precious.

The room grows colder, the air brushing against the skin of your back where the sheets have slipped, but his warmth chases it away, his body a shield against the chill, his chest a steady anchor beneath your cheek. “Just rest, I’ve got you,” Yoongi whispers, and you smile against his chest, the sweat and mess a distant thought under his gentle touch, his fingers threading through your hair and tracing your skin, grounding you in his kindness as you drift, tangled together, sated and held in the quiet warmth of the moment.

Two months later, the late afternoon sun spills through the living room window of your shared apartment, casting a warm golden glow over the mismatched furniture—the sagging couch where Namjoon sprawls, the coffee table cluttered with empty takeout containers, and the armchair where you’re curled up, half-draped over Yoongi. The air smells faintly of soy sauce and fried rice, remnants of the lunch you all split, and the TV hums in the background, some random variety show Namjoon picked out but no one’s really watching. Yoongi’s arm rests lazily around your shoulders, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm through the thin sleeve of your hoodie—his hoodie, technically, the faded black one you’ve claimed as your own. His hair’s a little longer now, his grown-out blonde strands brushing his eyes.

“I missed you today,” you murmur, tilting your head to nuzzle his jaw, your voice soft and sweet, a little pout in it as you press closer, your hand resting on his chest where his heart beats steady under your palm.

He chuckles, low and warm, tilting his head to meet your gaze, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners with that quiet, gummy smile you adore. “Was only gone a few hours, doll.” he says, his tone teasing but tender, his hand sliding up to rub your hair gently, fingers threading through the strands like they’ve done a hundred times since that night two months ago.

“I still missed you,” you insist, leaning in to peck his cheek, and he hums, a contented sound, pulling you tighter against him, his lips brushing your temple in return.

“God, you two are disgusting,” Namjoon groans from the couch, his deep voice cutting through the moment as he flops his head back dramatically, one arm slung over his eyes like he’s shielding himself from the sight. He’s sprawled out in a T-shirt and sweats, lang legs dangling over the armrest, his dimples nowhere in sight as his face twists in mock disgust. “I didn’t sign up for this,” he mutters, peeking out from under his arm to glare at you both, his annoyance palpable.

You giggle, turning to sick your tongue out at him, and Yoongi smirks, his hand still rubbing your hair as he leans his head against yours. “What, Joon? Jealous?” Yoongi teases, his voice light, and you snuggle closer, your cheek pressing into his shoulder.

Namjoon sits up, tossing a throw pillow at you both—it misses, landing harmlessly on the floor—and runs a hand through his dark hair, exasperated. “I suggested you crash here, man, because you said you needed a place to stay, not so you could turn my best friend into—into this,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the two of you tangled together, his time a mix of irritation and disbelief. “I swear, if you start jumping each other’s bones right in front of me, I’m moving to Japan. I’ll sleep on the street before I watch that.”

You laugh, bright and unrestrained, and Yoongi’s chuckle joins yours, his fingers tracing down your arm now, a soft, comforting glide. “Relax, Joon,” you say, grinning, “we’ll save it for when you’re not around.”

“Yeah, promise,” Yoongi adds, his voice deadpan but his eyes glinting with mischief as he pulls you even closer, his lips brushing your ear just to mess with Namjoon more. He groans again, louder, flopping back onto the couch with an exaggerated huff, muttering, “Should’ve known this would happen—gross, both of you.”

He grabs the remote, cranking the TV volume up to drown out your giggles, while you and Yoongi stay wrapped up in each other, the warmth of his touch and the softness of his laughter a quiet comfort against Namjoon’s playful grumbling.

As the day fades into evening, the three of you setting into this new, chaotic normal, a little louder, a little messier, but unmistakably home.

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astrocafecoffee · 8 months ago

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•Venus in Groom persona chart •

• FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES ONLY, ENJOY •

✨ MASTERLIST

(I totally forgot about this series 🙂, so here I am with Venus in Groom persona chart)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~✨✨~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Venus in 1st house:

Prince charming, tall , handsome and attractive spouse. Has beautiful eyes that Captivate your attention. Appreciates luxury, comfort and sensual pleasures. Could be a romantic at heart with a deep appreciation for love stories. May have talents in music , art or any creative pursuits. People wants to be with them , could be some sort of influencer. Also, maybe a natural people pleaser. May have a secret talent for improvisational comedy or witty banter.

Venus in 2nd house:

Sturdy build or have athletic physique. A hard worker, who values financial security. Very loyal spouse. Acts or service and gift giving could be their love language. Could have a strong connection to family traditions or cultural heritage. They could have a thing for collecting unique items. May have a secret talent for cooking and baking. Loves nature and gardening. Excels in banking or in family business.

Venus in 3rd house:

Possibly has youthful appearance (even if they are older than you). Enjoys mental stimulation. Has talents for writing or public speaking. Also can be a good singer too. May have secret love for leaning new languages. Likes brain teasers or puzzles. Some sort of content creator? May have strong connection with their siblings and friends. Possibly has a fascination with technology or gadgets.

Venus in 4th house:

Possibly has soft, rounded features. They values hone life and very protective and Caring towards their loved one.may have strong connection to their family traditions. Enjoys cooking, decorating or other domestic pursuits. Very intuitive spouse. Possibly has a fascination with antiques or vintage items. Has ability to transform emotional pain into something beautiful and meaningful . Spending time with their loved ones is their love language.

Venus in 5th house:

Has youthful and radiant appearance. Possibly has a playful and mischievous glint in their eye , has a talent for fashion and design. Enjoys risks and trying new things. Loves music , drama, art and any other creative pursuits. May have a strong connection to their inner child. Loves to shine and be the centre of the attention. Some kind of content creator maybe. Hopeless romantic at heart. May have a talent for writing or reading fantasy stories to create elaborate imaginary worlds.

Venus in 6th house:

May have slender or athletic build. Passion or interest in health and wellness / service oriented activities. Values long term commitment, very loyal spouse. May have a talent for energetic healing or reiki. Possess talents for finding creative solutions to everyday problems. They will listen to your every word very closely. Maintains a good body and health. Suprise gifts and heartfelt letters are the love languages. possibly has talent in writing or in journalism.

Venus in 7th house:

Possibly has a strong sense of style and enjoys dressing up. They will love you the most. May have strong magnetic attraction to your beauty. A excellent listener and have a strong ability to understand their partner's needs. Collaboration is the main theme in this relationship ( collaboration in artistic pursuits or any business). They believe in idea of soulmates or twinflmaes . Others admires their beauty so much.

Venus in 8th house:

May have a powerful, intense and dark gaze. They will be attracted to the beauty of your body and sensual expression.also may possess magnetic presence that attracts others to them(Obsessive energy is present too). You can openly share your secrets with them , they will never tell a soul. Could be very spiritual and has knowledge about esoteric things ( tarot, astrology). May have a dark romantic streak or a fascination with unknown.

Venus in 9th house:

Probably big and tall build. May Have interests in foreign cultures/ may have attraction to foreign peoples or people very different to them. May have radiant or philosophical gaze. They are drawn to higher education where they can expand their knowledge. Very spiritual. Their knowledge and words inspire others. Maybe interested in mystical arts and practices such as meditation, yoga or energy healing.

Venus in 10th house:

May have a strong build. May posses a leadership position in the society. Possibly drawn to careers in arts, design or media, also humanitarian field and possess charismatic and charming public persona. Very responsible spouse. Also may have interest in fashion, beauty or any creative industries. May posses some kind of media presence. Possibly may recieve awards or recognition for their work. May have knack for forming successful collaborations or partnerships.

Venus in 11th house:

Possibly has tall or lanky build. Quirky or unconventional appearance. May have a strong desire to help others. They thinks outside the box. Maybe passionate about technology, innovation or progressive ideas. Passionate about science and engineering and mathematics. Involved in social justice and human rights. Possibly has a talent for finding innovative solution to complex problems. Their work inspire others.

Venus in 12th house:

May have dreamy or ethereal quality to their appearance. Has slender or delicate build. Possibly has a talent for art, music or any other creative expression. Passionate about spirituality , and other metaphysical subjects. May have interest in esoteric studies(tarot, astrology). May have intuitive relationships or sense their partners emotions. Possibly some sort of content creator. possibly engages in selfless service or volunteer work.

Thanks for reading ✨

- PIKO 💙

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madschiavelique · 24 days ago

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﹒ ✦ 𝐀 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐈𝐍𝐊 : 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟕 — 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐢𝐠𝐡 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐬

✦﹒ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 : you pay a visit to eris in zaun, crossing unexpected people that lead to more complications than you'd thought and better conversations than expected

✦﹒ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 : fighting, blood, punches (left right left right good night), angst, comfort, lore (insane, i know), idiots content (even more insane, who would have thought), friendly banter - the musical, reader has issues sitting with her own feelings - the opera, child abuse mention, burn injury/scar mentioned

✦﹒ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 : 16,7k

✦﹒ 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 : imagine this chapter is longer than the previous one haha... but imagine? jokes aside, it's been more than a month since i updated this fic because holy fuck y'all life got crazy. BUT i am here!! and finally posting a chapter for the fic so that's positive!!! anywho, i hope you'll like the chapter :3

✦﹒ 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐘 : the pretty boy @oneoftheextras

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓．．𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐃 ．．𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓．．𝐌𝐘 𝐊𝐎-𝐅𝐈

You'd already been back in Piltover for a week. A week to get back into the swing of things, a week to get used to the rhythm of school again, a week to lay your trip to Demacia on paper under notes, a week to clean each of your dishes every night and miss the buffet from the hotel.

And a week spent avoiding Viktor.

Ever since your realisation on your return, you hadn't been able to find the strength to be near him.

In class, you would try to find the table furthest away from his, even if it meant leaving early for the Academy to make sure you found a seat among the early-morning students.

When you would go to the library, you'd cut your visits short if you had the misfortune to see him, stuffing books you weren't even planning to borrow originally in your bag to avoid the inconvenience of having to put them back on the shelves and having him come and talk to you.

When lunchtime would come, you'd make sure you found a place away from everyone to eat your packed lunch, even if it meant not eating with Sky to avoid the possibility of running into him.

At least you found a comfort you didn't expect in the idea that now you didn't have to bump into him in the dormitories.

And today, when Saturday had arrived and you would originally have had to work at the café and run into the inevitable possibility of taking his order, you had given your leave as soon as you got back so that you could meet up with Eris.

On the one hand, you were relieved. If Viktor had come to the café that day, the chances of having to take his order would have been greater, and could have led to a confrontation from which you would not have been able to extricate yourself.

On the other hand, well, you were nervous. Firstly, because he would notice, if he hadn't already, your constant evasion of him, and he would be irritated by it.

And secondly, Eris's letter had been weighing on your stomach like a stone all week.

Today was a fine day, the temperature gradually rising, and you regretted having to spend your day moving around Zaun in all black in its depths when you had the chance to bask in the warmth.

Arriving at the bridge just as the sun was at its zenith, a vibrant yolk watching over you like an eye without a lid, you presented your papers to the enforcers present and managed to cross to the other side of the bank without much trouble.

Putting your bag on the ground, you took a new pair of shoes out of it, as well as another jacket to pass incognito through the town. You'd gone for a black pair of pants, adding a few sets of belts to the look with a loose white t-shirt.

Any Piltovian who found themselves in Zaun in their usual clothes was sure to get into trouble, or at least be noticed. And in Zaun, that was the opposite of what you wanted to aim for.

Once you'd changed, you put your bag back on your shoulder with a grunt and headed for one of the city's lifts. You moved forward, with a determined step and a heavier, more confident gait.

Your stature was different in your Zaunite clothes, which did less to camouflage the reminiscence of your muscles than the careful outfits of Piltover.

You watched your surroundings as if something or someone were about to appear, every street corner a target for your eyes, every passer-by a possible enemy.

Reaching the lift, you relaxed a little, the prospect of the journey up and down seeming like a relief. Although Piltover had its share of advances, Zaun's technological facilities could not have been more practical.

You began your descent, tightening your grip on the strap of your bag as you surveyed the streets of Zaun.

Although the architecture criss-crossed the air, the sun's rays filtered through the city and covered its floors with lights. It felt like such a different place when night wasn't set, when the neons didn't crackle and any street deprived of light looked like the end of the earth.

You let out a breath for a moment. At least you weren't expecting to bump into Viktor here.

When the lift came to a stop on the ground, you shoved a hand in your pocket before stepping forward and walking towards Eris' shop.

You recognised some of the shopkeepers’ faces, offering them smiles and nods of the chin, not having the luxury for a moment to stop and strike up a conversation.

The air was a little heavier, you could feel it already, like a deposit of dust scraping the back of your throat, the impression that your uvula was rubbing against the carpet of your tongue causing you to cough once to get rid of the feeling.

Eris' shop was not far away, slightly sheltered from the main shopping streets. Although the alleyways being further apart than the avenues and boulevard in Zaun could have been a factor in making the less accustomed shy away, you were no longer affected.

You tightened your grip on the strap of your satchel. Admittedly, you were used to the architecture and streets of Zaun, but the idea that you could have been ambushed made your stomach churn.

Your paranoia jumped to the sky as soon as the subject of this business came up again, and coming back to town after Eris' letter at times led you to think that it was all a trap. Your value had changed, however, in terms of the criteria for admission, a fact which made you feel uncomfortably reassured.

As you passed an alleyway to your left, the sun beat down on the façade of Eris' building, pieces of tinted glass and crystal rays ricocheting off the walls in multitudes of clear confetti. The placement was strategic, the shop lit up like a beacon, calling out to you as if to say that the light had decided for you that this was the place to be, whatever your original destination was.

At its window was a meticulously arranged shelf. Decks of classic Tarots, oracles and new packs of cards were placed here and there between fake green moss mimicking a forest bed set with crystals of various colours.

On the rest of the polished metal shelves were spiritual manuals, statuettes of icons and divinities of all kinds, sage and incense grouped together by carefully knotted threads, candles of various colours, small cauldrons, pendulums and other objects you weren't sure you recognised.

Next to this large glass shelf was her counter, which she unfolded in the spring, when her consultations, which were too important and private, took place indoors, as they did in the autumn and winter.

Eris was outside, adjusting her little notice of the day with small drawings and embellishments. Her neat handwriting was remarkably precise and clean.

"Don't tell me I'm your first customer of the day?" you questioned as you approached her.

She sighed, not even turning to face you. "First of the afternoon," she stood up, dusting the chalk powder from her hands. "If the days only had you as a customer, I'd end up poorer than I started."

"As if you don't benefit from my presence," you smiled.

"You drive away customers like a scarecrow fends off crows," she passed through the interior of her shop and was back at her counter in a few steps. "What card today?"

You huffed, coming to sit on the high stool facing her. ‘’Shouldn't we start with the thornier subject?"

She rested both elbows on the varnished metal. "I prefer to wait until the next customer arrives."

"The next one?" you asked, frowning. "Why?"

She pulled out her own consultation deck, older and yellowed with age. "Renata is coming today. I thought it would be a good idea for you to meet."

Your eyebrows rose then. It made sense, even if you were slightly anxious about the idea of meeting her. She was an important woman in Zaun who could well turn out to play a primary role in the dismantling of this affair.

But you liked the fact that you didn't have to jump in with both feet. You weren't sure whether you'd prefer to give yourself time to discuss it later by constantly pushing back the obvious, or whether you'd prefer to rip it off like a band-aid.

"So, your card?" asked Eris again.

You had read your card that morning without missing it.

The High Priestess.

Its key words were as follows: She is the plane of your soul. The occult secrets, the guardian of inner knowledge. The authentic voice. The deepest part of your being. Self-knowledge. Silence. Intuition.

Without further ado, you read her description.

The veil of the High Priestess hides the invisible world. The book of your life is the parchment in her lap. A triple-moon crown rests on her head, reflecting the cyclical nature of life. The pillars are black and white, reflecting balance and duality. Her dress is made of water, reflecting the emotions and fluid nature of the material world and the feminine principle. This is the right time to tune in with your intuition, to let your high priestess guide you to gain inner wisdom.

Deep down you were hoping that Eris would be your High Priestess, that she would guide you through this thick fog you were exploring, because quite honestly you weren't sure how to get through it.

She hummed, starting to shuffle her cards as she was so used to doing.

"It's good, right?" you couldn't help but ask

She shrugged, tracing a line of cards on the polished metal. "It all depends on what you draw."

You huffed, watching the river of possibilities spread out before you in many regular waves. You couldn't stop your mind from racing back to Viktor, to what the Tarot was going to say. Approve, disapprove, confirm, prevent, all these possibilities ran through your mind and you tried to shake them off as you moved your left hand closer to the cards.

Why had you even considered the idea of approval when you weren't sure you wanted to let anyone love you? It was probably stupid, maybe you weren't even cut out for love, who knows. Maybe the universe had kept you from love all this time because you weren't meant to meet it.

What were you even supposed to do? Were you supposed to face your feelings and accept them or deny them until eventually they passed?

You placed your finger on one of the cards and chose it, Eris drawing it towards her and turning it over to reveal the seven of swords.

"Huh," Eris remarked with a frown.

"Something wrong?" you asked, your hand frozen in the air.

"We'll see, pick the next one."

Your shoulders tightened with the tension of doubt about this situation, and you chose your second card, the varnish gliding easily over the metal as your friend revealed the two of swords.

Your eyes met Eris', seeming to observe the situation as her hooked index finger pressed under her nose like a moustache, sceptical. She simply jerked her chin at you, signalling you to continue.

Your hand followed its flight until the last card was placed under your fingers, and it slid down the counter like an additional glass ordered at the bar. She turned it over, and it was the three of wands.

She then brought all the cards together in a single pile and revealed the card lying underneath - the seven of wands.

She remained silent for a moment.

"Things haven't been going too well lately, have they?" she finally asked, her forest green eyes shifting from the cards lined up next to each other to yours.

Your shoulders dropped, slumping as you leaned against the counter and rested your chin on the palm of your hand. "Lots to think about."

"Do you want to talk about it?" she offered.

You sighed. "Let's read this spread of doom instead."

She nodded, intrigued all the same by the uncertainty hanging over you. Over the years, she had rarely seen you like this, unprepared, or at least unable to know what to do.

"Right," she said, straightening up. "Let's have a look."

She took the first card between her two fingers.

"Seven means 'go all the way'. Here, in swords and therefore the intellectual, it means that all paths are good to get there." She placed the card in front of you again and turned it so that you could observe it right side up. "Whether it's facts, eloquence, even false logic and stratagems, all means are good. After all, the intellect is also what is used to deceive others."

You leaned towards the card, tilting your head to one side. "I... cheat?" you arch an eyebrow.

"Have you ever cheated on a test or anything?"

You shook your head. "No."

"Then it's probably not that kind of cheating that this implies, even though the key word in the Seven of Swords is deception," she confirmed. "This card proves that rhetoric is a purely intellectual art, the art of convincing, not the art of finding the truth, through others as through ourselves." She tapped the card. "Now, let's have a look at this bugger."

As one of her hands pressed against the counter, the other pointed at the minor arcana.

"The military camp he's in is deserted and the battle in the distance indicates that this deceiver is either taking advantage of everyone's attention being directed elsewhere, or he's missing the most interesting thing. In either case, he's working against the collective interest by looking only to his own."

You were observing these details and interpretations. Were you this mischievous character, or did this represent something else?

Had it been just you at the time, with no little booklet to explain anything to you, you would have thought that this card reminded you of yourself leaving Demacia, carrying those swords in your arms like new lessons learned from both Fiora and Garen in combat and social ties.

"His fez, an oriental garment," she continued, "may even indicate that he is not part of the same community as the soldiers in the camp; perhaps in choosing deception you are cutting yourself off from the trust that binds a community together."

You would have associated it with you landing in this new, foreign land, with the disastrous attitude you had had to cut yourself off from these situations. But you suspected, the more Eris' words rose to your ears, that this was not exactly the case.

"Of the seven swords, two are still firmly planted in the ground," pointed out Eris, "This thief has to give up something, for example accepting that he has to choose between moral values and his own interests. He thinks he's smarter than the others, and it shows, but he's holding the swords by the blade, hence the ambiguity of meaning between ‘deceiving’ and ‘being deceived’."

She straightened up with the card pinched between her two fingers, twirling it like a butterfly in the air with disinterest. "In couples, of course, it's synonymous with cheating, one lying out of reflex, not being honest about what they want from the relationship, or lying to themselves by persisting in a relationship that's actually shaky, unequal, or indeterminate."

Your thoughts darted back to Viktor and your efforts to avoid him so assiduously during the week, biting the inside of your cheek as it heated up like its neighbour. Why did you have to be so obsessed with him? That he was always on your mind? That he haunted you wherever you went?

"I don't know if this card applies to you," pondered Eris, her graceful eyebrows furrowed, "perhaps it has more of a divinatory aspect about someone from the past around you that you should pay attention to.’’

You weren't so sure, and preferred not to say anything at the moment. She didn't really go out of her way to be honest out of sympathy, always offering the truth no matter what was asked of her.

"Dishonesty, hidden motives, hiding, sweeping the issue under the rug," she listed, enumerating the characteristics of the card as you saw in her mind the gears of her reasoning and years of tarot readings come into play specifically on your case. "It's pursuing your own self-interest discreetly and malignantly, or without others knowing. It's the card of the smooth talker, of the person who has an idea in the back of their head but doesn't express it..."

You were now convinced that this character was really you, escaping every moment to avoid Viktor and therefore your own feelings. You made yourself small on the high stool, the tarot deck didn't seem to give you the grace or respite to hide what you were feeling.

Eris' eyes landed on yours. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

You weighed up the pros and cons, assessing how much Eris was going to jump on you about this news and how much you would have to suffer the incessant sound of her ‘I told you so's’.

But, since she was your high priestess today, the great mistress of secrets, she would know how to keep yours safe from everyone.

"I think..." you began.

"That happens?"

"Shut up," you laughed nervously, relaxing a little more. "I think I'd rather talk about it once we get to the end of the reading."

She was intrigued, no doubt, and although she was certainly dying to know what else you were hiding, she restrained herself and straightened up to continue with the reading.

"After this perpetual deception," her fingers full of rings and tattoos slid to tap her fingernail on the two of swords, "we have a meeting."

You came to press the heels of your palms into the hollows of your eyes, letting your fingers comb your roots. "Not again."

"Relax," reassured Eris, "as far as swords are concerned, it's an encounter with the mind, and therefore of two ideas. Only, if the ideas are two, it's because they're not identical; if they're not identical, it's because they're not going in the same direction; if they're not going in the same direction, it's because they contradict each other."

She took the card in her hands, bringing it to face you so that you confronted her.

"Now you're stuck between two contradictory things with no way of getting past them, and since there's nothing you can do about it, you're going to pretend not to see the contradiction because in any case," she pointed to the previous seven of swords, "you were already lying to yourself."

You bit the inside of your gums, suppressing your own shame at believing you had an ‘allergy’ around Viktor or to Demacia that made you feel that way.

She patted the crescent on the card. "The moon is just present enough to understand that it's night, even if the light of the very first crescent isn't enough to see clearly - you don't yet have the means to find your own way, and so you can't move on, perhaps it's even better that you came to me to untangle all this." Her finger passed over the figure. "Behind it, the sea where reefs outcrop and extend below the surface. It's blind sailing, you could be shipwrecked, and that fear is expressed throughout the card - since you can't see clearly, you freeze."

What were you supposed to do after all? You'd never loved before, you didn't know what to do or how to react, so you were stuck in this constant doubt that was eating away at you bit by bit.

"The blindfold represents the refusal to see that the two ideas are contradictory and therefore impossible to hold together." She crossed her arms over her chest to mimic the posture of the figure on the card. "She has her arms crossed defensively to protect her chest or her heart, but she can't stay like that forever especially when she's carrying those two swords." She relaxed her posture and placed both hands flat on the counter. "Basically, whatever happens, getting out of this position will hurt, so either you get rid of both ideas, which can be painful, or you get rid of both to follow a third path, which can be twice as painful."

You watched the character carefully in this landscape of such cold tones, at this edge where she was in danger of toppling backwards. It was a dangerous and frightening concept to have to let down this guard you had spent so much time building up. For your own good, you thought, but was it honestly the right protection?

"So, the two of swords is a representation of being trapped by contradictory ideas," she continued as a conclusion to the card. "For example, values inculcated by education, and personal values that are opposed to them." She shrugged her shoulders and relaxed them with a sigh. "Whatever it is, it's being stuck between a rock and a hard place and not moving for fear it'll get worse. Which is exactly what the seven of swords was telling us just now."

She took the seven in hand with the two, one card per hand.

"The scoundrel on the seven is facing three different directions, his feet are going to the left, his body is facing us, but his head is looking to the right towards the two of swords who may have picked up the two blades stuck in the ground of the seven and locked herself in this lie that is so addictive."

You watched the two cards side by side, their links complementing each other almost disturbingly well. Eris put down the seven of swords, keeping the two in her hand.

"You avoid conflict at all costs, you avoid responding, committing yourself, making a difficult decision to protect your peace. It's a card that shows you thinking that perhaps if you ignore the problem long enough, it will eventually resolve itself. Is that how you feel?"

You chewed the inside of your lip, nodding. What was the point of hiding this when you were out in the open after all. "In sums, yes."

"Hm," Eris hummed, gazing at you as if trying to work out which issue this feeling was about. "Now, this dilemma of being stuck in a balance of power that neither cracks nor moves forward, where might that lead you?"

Her index and middle fingers together, they hovered over the Two of Wands as her other hand set the Two down.

"Remember the Two of Wands? From our reading during the holidays," she asked.

You racked your brains, trying to remember things that seemed so long ago. "Something about an encounter, evaluating things, desire, reality... applying my own will to the world?"

She snapped her finger, pointing at you. "Good, we're still a bit in that," she placed the three of wands on the metal. "What happens after evaluation?"

You shook your head thoughtfully, frowning. "... Attack?"

"Conquest," corrected Eris. "As you no doubt know by now, wands are the colour of desire."

She rolled up the sleeves of her long-sleeved t-shirt, revealing her tattoos.

"Desire is a dynamic. It's not an envy - when you get the object of your envy, your craving, well, that's the end of it. Desire, on the other hand, expands and pushes us further and further ahead." She nodded."‘One-night stands happen because you have an envy that can be satisfied before you move on to something else."

Her eyes lowered to the card, her fingers brushing against it. "When you really want someone, on the other hand, you want to go further, to conquer them. The same goes for a project in the general sense, since it only makes sense if it allows us to grow, extend our influence or give our creativity room to express itself."

Your cheeks warmed slightly. Conquer Viktor? Put like that, the idea seemed ridiculous. You thought back to your overconfidence during the game of the werewolf where you pressed your knee against his.

Eris' fingers ran over the card. "Ships bring back the idea of a voyage that is launched, they leave initiated by the man who watches over them, unless they arrive to bring back news or food from other countries." They drifted over the varnish, gliding over the colours. "The mountains in the background suggest height, domination, success, ambition: this is the greatness that awaits those who know how to take their desire far." They reached the central element. “As for the man, he wears a red garment made up of several pieces. He is not afraid to confront the world, even if it means losing some of his feathers. He wears the headband of the Magician, a symbol of discipline - his mind is firmly fixed on a goal and he doesn't waver."

Could you be that agent of success? When and how could you get out of this heavy contemplation and achieve its stability?

"This is the card of broadening horizons and conquest," continued Eris on a slightly more positive note than the previous two cards, "of expansion, of development, of great discoveries. It's an undeniable form of progress, whether in the field of study, the field of the mind, the field of romance, in short, it's about thinking big and going for it with confidence."

Part of you was happy to know that in the not too distant future, this situation you were in would be resolved. Another, however, feared that the outcome of this victory would be bitter.

"It's daring, courage, but above all having a vision of the bigger picture and realising that things are moving forward." She nodded. "They also say it's managing remote collaborators in commercial activities, international negotiations, or intervening to make a decision."

You had thought about exchanging a first letter with Garen and Fiora, but you didn't know whether you should wait out of politeness and etiquette for them to be the first to write anything, or whether you could put that pride aside and take the first step.

"Alright," clapped Eris, "now the shadow card." She pointed to the seven of wands. "As before, the seven-"

"It's going all the way, I know."

"Good," Eris smiled, "Good. With the seven, the creative three is supported by the stability of the four, so all the conditions are in place to see things through to the end. But to carry your desire through to the end, you have to endure obstacles," she pointed to the Two of Swords, “and problems,” then to the Seven of Swords. "The key word in this card is endurance, perfect for what you've been facing lately if you ask me."

Endurance, you weren't sure you liked that advice, not when you were enduring all this and would have preferred not to have to.

"Let's have a look," Eris pointed at the figure with the tip of her fingernail. "The man is standing on a high place, his two feet wide apart for maximum balance. Like the mountains on other cards," she redirected your attention to the three of wand for a moment, "this height symbolises a position conquered by the strength of the wrist, an achievement, an accomplishment."

"So," you reasoned aloud, "I'm going to triumph in this situation?"

Eris swung her head from side to side like a metronome. "It all depends on what victory would be for you in this case. He has a firm grip on the wand of his desire," she continued, "but his shoes are mismatched. Concentrating on his defence, he doesn't have time to ask himself whether his position is the right one."

Not even you were sure what would be the deliverance. To embrace your feelings for Viktor and set off down a road you'd never travelled before, letting yourself discover what attraction is all about, or to bury this idea inside you in the graveyard of ideas that will never blossom for safety's sake?"

"Here then," Eris clasps her hands together, "if there's one piece of advice to take away from this, it's that you have to stand your ground, prove yourself over time and don't let yourself give in or weaken. It's a defence card, a defence of your position, your values, your beliefs, your point of view."

"Okay," you nodded, "that I can do."

"But be careful," she raised her finger in the air, "this can also be a card that represents being too defensive, feeling attacked from all sides, taking any criticism or contradiction as a personal attack. It's having the impression that you constantly have to justify yourself, that everyone disapproves of your point of view and believing that the world is against you."

"And isn't that the case?"

She arched an eyebrow. "Decidedly, common sense is not a flower that grows in every garden," she sighed. "It can be, but it doesn't have to be. Here, what is suggested to you, is to remain faithful to your convictions without being aggressive and confrontational."

"So..." you looked at each of the cards, "I've got nothing to do?"

"Apart from some personal work, only time will tell," she picked up the cards, starting to put them away. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

You sighed, playing with your fingers nervously. Why was it so difficult to leave those words out? You'd told Eris about Viktor in the past, you'd confided in her everything and nothing, she was your best friend and you trusted her in every way. So why was your heart starting to race just thinking about Viktor?

"I..." you inhaled heavily.

When you've got to go, you've got to go.

"I think," your voice got very small, as if the whole of Zaun was expecting to hear the news in the hollow of your mouth.

Your tongue, your teeth, your lips knew that these words carried great weight, that his name in your mouth had a taste that no sweetness or poison could replicate.

Eris watched you, patient and impatient.

Your eyes found a scratch in the metal countertop, your chest heaving as you mustered all your strength to push those words from your lips.

"I think I have feelings for Viktor."

You felt breathless having said those few words, letting them live in the air as you kept them inside you. It was like opening the shutters of a room that had been marinating in the summer heat to the winter air.

You were a frozen steak tossed into a hot pan, your emotions rumbling in your heart and your words sizzling in the wild air. You knew that even the fiercest coals eventually mellowed and eventually died down, but you didn't know if you wanted this fire to fade at any moment.

You were afraid of meeting your friend's gaze again, of what her reaction would be. You'd rarely felt so out in the open, the butterflies that used to flutter in your belly now twirling in the air, destined to fly close to Eris' ears and nobody else's for the moment.

When the silence became too heavy, you finally met her gaze. Her eyes were wide, two emerald beads fixed on you as if a miracle had just happened.

"Wow," she managed to say after what seemed like an eternity.

"I know," you sighed, "it's so bad-"

"I don't think I've ever seen you love anyone or anything before," she cut in.

"I know," you buried your face in your hands, massaging your forehead, "I don't know what to do, or who cursed me with this."

"Only mountains never cross," Eris pointed out, "when did you realise this obvious fact?"

"It was-" you began, frowning, "hey."

"What?" Eris shrugged.

"Obvious? Really?’ you questioned, genuinely puzzled.

She huffed, inhaling gently through her nose as she combed her hair with her fingernails.

"I'm keeping calm and I talk to an adult about it."

"But you are an adult."

She watched you in dismay. ‘’ I remain an adult and I talk about it to a calm one."

You arched an eyebrow. "You're not answering the question."

She crossed her arms, her head tilting forward, eyes watching you through her long black lashes before only raising herself with a sigh.

"You've never been obsessed with anyone in your life. He comes along, and he becomes your only topic of conversation until you mention him in your letters and you can't ignore him. What's more, if Selene herself had that spark of genius, how could you ignore her intractable instinct? And then there's your looks, and then the cards-’

"Okay, I get it, I'm being prodigiously stupid, as usual, no need to remind me,‘’ you cut short, your head jerking to the side as you watched the street. "What am I even supposed to do about this? It's all so weird and... foreign."

Eris stared at you for a moment, and although you knew she was incapable of doing so, you dreaded the thought of her judging you. She seemed to be observing you as if you were a species miraculously rediscovered and thought to be extinct.

"What do you think you should do about this?" she finally asked.

You looked at her, shrugging your shoulders and raising your eyebrows, testing the waters. "... Ignore the matter?"

She sighed as she turned away from the counter, probably to prepare for Renata's consultation. "This isn't a trick question, y'know."

"It feels like it is," you countered.

"Well," she pulled out two more tarot decks, "maybe you should stop considering that everything coming your way is a trap or that people getting close to you is by means of destroying you." She pointed to the deck in front of you that she'd just used. "Remember what the seven of wands said."

"I know but," you paused in your sentence, sighing as you nervously scratched the back of your neck, "it's hard not to think otherwise."

She laid out a velvet tablecloth on the small table inside for her consultations, grabbed an incense stick and placed it in her censer, lighting it with the lighter hanging from her belt. A blue almond sprouted from the stem, but she didn't even blow on it.

"Look," she resumed, adjusting her emerald velvet armchairs by the table, "apart from the beginning of the year, do you feel like Viktor's intention towards you have been to destroy you?"

If you had to be honest, it now seemed that, looking back, you were the only one who had constantly tried to outdo him. Viktor was just having fun, you were competing for your life.

Eris noted your silence. "He's Jayce's best friend after all, would the golden boy truly hang with traitors?"

"Jayce is naive," you remarked, "he'd be friends with a sunflower if he thought the seeds formed a smile for him."

"Okay not to burst an ego bubble here," she raised her hands in the air as if to clear herself of what she was about to say, "but do you sincerely think someone like Viktor would willingly put that much effort into becoming a friend to you and putting up with your bullshit to then break all this progress by betraying you?"

There was some truth in what Eris was saying, when was there not after all? Viktor had worked so hard to gain your trust, and for you to give him yours. He was respectful, admirable, patient, and it infuriated you how perfect he could be - no doubt somewhere because you wished you could be all those things but couldn't or didn't get any consideration.

Eris planted her palms on the metal counter in front of you. "How bad is it?" she questioned, raising an eyebrow, the corner of her lips stretching upwards as she did so. "Surely it's not too bad since it's Viktor of all people."

"Everything reminds me of him and it's driving me insane!" you quietly tempered, the feeling of having your head roasted by the heat of his name going down to bake your heart. You buried your face in your hands. "Like," you mumbled through gritted teeth, "I need his face really near mine."

"It's like discovering a completely new you," Eris sneered. "I didn't know you were capable of feelings under all this steel that you call a heart."

"I envy everyone you have never met," you grumbled from her teasing.

“An envy but not a desire I see,” she laughed a bit, and you couldn’t help but smile in return.

From her face, amusement faded to leave place for concern. “Aren’t you tired of running?

You sighed, her question was legitimate. During your entire existence, you had ran away from so many things that you could not remember the last time you had stopped this. You had repressed your feelings, fled conflict, pretended things were alright when they were not. And now, there you were. Still running.

“I’ve raced my entire life,” you pointed out, “it’s all I know and all I’m good at.”

“Your legs need rest,” remarked Eris.

You shrugged. “The fear chasing me has no need for rest.”

“But you do,” her shoulder pointed to you, “they all say you have to face your fear to overcome it, so why not face it?”

“Well, that’s the whole principle of fear, isn’t it?”

“There’s only so many places avoidance can bring you to, but the final destination always brands the title of disappointment.” Her shoulders sagged, visibly tired of having to expand this idea to you. “I can only explain it to you, I can't understand it for you.”

Her smile was understanding as her gaze shifted to her left. Her smile went from friendly to professional, and you followed her glance.

From the main street, a woman with an unmistakable silhouette was approaching the both of you.

She was tall, dressed in a tailored suit with incredibly clean white trousers and jacket, her black vest hugging her waist with grace. Her heels clicked in the echo of the street as she walked with the weight of her confidence, two men following her like her shadow.

When the sun hit her silhouette, the gold and metallic contours of her outfit gleamed. Walking around Zaun in an ensemble like that was risky, but you knew that no one would dare approach her anyway.

Because you definitely recognised her. Her long ebony hair, lined with a strand as grey as cigarette ash, swept back from her freckled face, ensuring that anyone who came into contact with her magenta eyes, rimmed with a black sclera, would never forget her.

And so Renata Glasc walked towards you.

As she reached you, her scent caught your nostrils. Peppery, undoubtedly magnolia, with something warm, like the sun warming the raspberry hedges in summer, a fresh hint of curly mint tying it all together. Bewitching was one of the first words that came to mind to describe her.

"Madame Glasc," greeted Eris. "Lovely day, isn't it?"

Her gracefully lined eyes rested on Eris. "Good sunshine so early in the year can only be appreciated. Your cards will agree, I hope."

Her voice was deep, carrying a more sustained and noble accent than you would have expected, one you'd been more used to meeting and hearing when you'd rarely crossed paths with the Kirammans and Cassandra was chatting off to the side with Jayce.

Her fuchsia eyes shifted from hers to yours, and you felt very small under their weight. Eris wasted no time in keeping the silence.

"Madame Glasc, may I present Mademoiselle Phathe, whom I mentioned to you a short while ago."

Sticking to surnames was preferable. It's a nasty game, even if you were expecting her to make enquiries about you that would go far beyond simply finding your first name.

She held out her hand, and you didn’t hesitate to shake it , maintaining her gaze with a sober politeness. Her grip was firm, but not so firm as to choke your fingers in a tourniquet.

"She has information that will certainly be useful in the case of... Tytos," Eris added.

Renata's eyes crinkled with interest, the pressure on your hand easing until it finally let go.

"So it is you," she remarked, intrigued, "I didn't expect you to be so...’’

You held your breath, trying to remain impassive. Offending a Chem Baron by your very existence was one of the most important things for anyone to avoid.

"Young."

You breathed out a quiet sigh of relief, the unpleasant tickle of anxiety running down the back of your neck.

"Yeah, that's how he preferred his investments."

The hint of sarcasm drew a breath from Renata's nose of laughter, the remark not seeming to displease her. She tilted her head back slightly, not necessarily looking down on you even though she was at least half a head taller,

"I think it would be good to have a chat after this reading session, Miss Phathe," she indicated, turning back to Eris, "I would not wish to ruin your schedule for the afternoon by delaying this consultation."

"Of course," Eris nodded, turning to you, "if you'd like to you-"

"Don't worry, I'll wait here," your lips pressed into a thin line.

"Alright,’ she nodded, gripping the string holding a jalousie over the counter which she brought around until it covered the metal of it, crossing to the other side of her interior to invite Renata into her shop.

Renata turned to you before entering. "Forgive this rather hasty introduction, but it's preferable to keep it that way for the time being."

You nodded, hoping the gesture wouldn't seem too forced. "Of course."

She nodded, her and her bodyguards retreating into the mystical interior of Eris' shop while you remained outside, pondering the whole thing.

It was true that you tended to take everything as an attack, that you tended to think that danger was just around the corner to take away the life you had fought so hard to obtain.

And now that you'd managed to put your trust in someone new and so revealing inside, it terrified you.

What if he didn't love you? What if the attraction was only on one side? What if you risked hurting yourself even more by loving him and he didn't share that feeling or care?

It terrified you. You'd never had a friendship like this, so evolved, so strong and honest. Whenever you thought you were taking a step backwards, Viktor would grab the sleeve of your shirt and pull you towards him to stop you falling over a cliff.

No matter how hard you tried to back away, no matter how much you tried to pull away and ignore what you were feeling, he would always be there in the back of your mind, never moving, worrying and reassuring you. You were torn between what you knew, the solitude and security of routine, and the unknown, the possibility of being with someone, of breaking away from what you'd always known.

Your eyes roamed the street, letting the sun beat down on you, until they fell on a group of silhouettes not far away.

Had it been any other day, you would of course have remained on your guard and kept an eye on them, without continuing your observation of the group. But something caught your eye, a body among them that you seemed to recognise.

Your blood ran cold, your body freezing in place as the realization slapped you across the face.

A man was there, in their midst, his paunch protruding from his trousers and his rolls of fat pressing against the straps of his trousers, dripping down the side like rotten dough. He was wearing a huge jacket, the sleeves rolled up over his limp arms. The sun shone on his bald head, the same bulldog head, the same small pig nose, brow and eyelids encroaching on his small, dark, squinty eyes. One of them was whitish, like a half-cooked egg.

Vome.

He didn't meet your gaze, seemingly taken elsewhere, and you hoped he would never turn to you or have the wit to recognise you. How could he still be alive? How-

Your train of thought came to a halt as three of the guys in his group started to move in your direction.

Bad.

You quickly repacked your things in your satchel, getting up from the high stool to go the opposite way. You couldn't stay put. Even if it meant a chase, you couldn't afford to have them near you.

You could have simply knocked on Eris’ shop door, but couldn’t risk interrupting a meeting with a person as important as Renata if this turned out to be simple paranoia and not an actual threat.

You started walking, continuing straight on until you took the first street on your left. You didn't walk too fast, hoping that this paranoia would remain what it was and not the truth.

You turned slightly, falsely observing one of the price signs in the street, your peripheral vision finding them as they turned the corner.

Shit.

You kept going, faster this time, your heart pounding in your ears as you forced yourself not to start running straight away. You turned into another street, moving a little faster, sure to lose them if you took another street or two, hoping-

"Ah! A ghost."

You turned on the spot, the unmistakable voice of the man haunting your thoughts day and night calling out to you.

Viktor.

Present at the worst possible moment.

What you did notice at the time was his outfit. He'd put on Zaunite clothes, just like you had.

On top of a cream shirt with rolled-up sleeves was an asymmetrical blood-red waistcoat, little belts with golden buckles criss-crossed over and around it. Black trousers emphasising his long, elegant legs led to badly polished boots. He fit in perfectly with the décor, and was handsome, handsome, handsome.

He walked towards you, his hand clutching his cane next to him, dressed in a mitten mixing leather and wool.

"I barely see you anymore," he explained in the face of your silence, "I didn't even recognise you at first."

You pressed your lips together and frowned, nervous. "Really?"

"No," he cut in, obviously.

Surprisingly, the very idea of Viktor forgetting you made your heart ache - but you didn't have time for this new panic. You turned to see if they were still behind you, and it was when you saw them pass the end of the street in confusion that you turned back to Viktor and grabbed his wrist, much to his surprise.

He said nothing as you pulled him into the first dark alleyway you found just a few metres from you. Once you were bathed in the gloom, you turned your head towards the entrance of the street, waiting for them to arrive at any moment.

"What is-"

You didn't give Viktor time to finish his sentence, pushing him forward until his back was pressed against the wall and your palm covered his lips. He looked at you with bewildered eyes, and you tried not to concentrate on the feel of his lips against your fingers.

"You gotta stay quiet," you whispered through gritted teeth, your eyes boring into his.

Your gaze drifted across the open street, every silhouette and shadow on the sunlit ground making your heart race. How could you hear anything other than the beating of your heart in your ears as the stress vibrated through you and the feel of Viktor's skin against yours teamed up?

He towered over you, even in his stillness, his shoulders rising and falling in a steady rhythm in your peripheral vision. So close, you could smell him more distinctly. His coffee, or maybe rather coffees of the day permeated his jacket, mingling with that smell of hot stone in the sun and the fresh, sharp point of basil.

You tried to concentrate on the street, not giving him a glance even though you wanted to get away from him as much as you wanted to be close to him.

A shiver ran down your spine as you felt Viktor's wet tongue lick the pads of your fingers, causing you to immediately remove your hand from his mouth and take a step back. You watched in amazement as he moistened his lips with his tongue.

"What is going on?" he asked, his accent categorical as he frowned.

You watched the end of the street, breathing heavily as you turned to face him in panic, the feeling of his saliva still inking your fingers as, for a reason that escaped you, you couldn't get yourself to wipe off.

You moved towards him again, trying to breathe more slowly as you kept your voice low. "They're going to hear us if you don't keep quiet."

"Good," his eyes crinkled for a moment, "what's been going on lately?"

You sighed, your tongue forming a tent against your cheek as you looked away from him, lowering your head to the ground. You couldn't get your mind off the Vome men following you, if that was really the case, and still couldn't let your guard down and your nerves.

Perhaps they had passed by in the meantime, perhaps they had turned back, or changed the street, and were therefore allowing you to relax.

You set your eyes on him again, parting your lips to say-

"Hey, you."

You clenched your jaw as you closed your eyes, hoping the moment would dissipate, that the call had come from somewhere else to someone else in a nearby alley.

You waited a few seconds, reopening your eyelids to see Viktor, whose head was turned towards the street opening. With a sigh, you followed his gaze to find the three men standing not far from you.

"Yeah, you," resumed the same voice, belonging to the one in the middle who was a pale young man, shaved head with a nasty burn eating half his face, the other half covered in tattoos. "What did you have to say to Renata?"

You breathed in, feeling Viktor's gaze return to you. You hoped at the time that he wouldn't get the wrong idea.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you replied, hoping they'd fall for getting the wrong person.

"Don't try to fool me," sneered the latter, advancing towards you with slow steps, the others following him.

One was stockier and taller, with a blond bowl cut that didn't help his ungainly, pimply physique. He seemed profoundly stupid, his only asset being brute strength. If you were going to get the better of him, you'd have to make sure he didn't catch you.

The other was skinny and smaller, his dark skin looking dull and desaturated as his lime-green locks fell over black eyes whose white had turned yellow. He seemed faster, quicker and ready to throw a lot of punches.

These two no doubt complemented each other in their fighting style, and you'd have to find a way of balancing them out if you had to come to blows.

"We saw you outside the other girl's shop with her cards," continued what appeared to be their mini-boss.

You turned slightly towards Viktor, keeping your eyes on the trio as you placed your satchel to the ground. "What's your tolerance for risk?" you asked him.

You didn't see his reaction, simply heard his reply. "‘Risk' is a four letter word."

Your shoulders slumped in dismay. "Phenomenal."

"The best defence is flight," he remarked, "at worst, I die."

"Let's not get to good news like that too quickly," you muttered nervously, sarcasm taking its place again as your legs shifted slightly to one side, preparing yourself for an attack.

"Just tell me what she said, and I'll leave you and your boyfriend with less bruising than you expected."

The appellation boyfriend that he had attributed to Viktor only served to raise your hands in the air, one at your waist and the other rising to your chest. If only these two swords of uncertainty had given you their weapons, you'd know what choice to make to get out of this situation.

"Miss, what is happening?" questioned Viktor.

Your eyes fell on the other two, who continued to advance on either side, trying to surround you. "Just stay back."

"You could have made this easier for yourself by just telling us," sighed the man, "but at least I'll have some entertainment today."

The air remained static for a moment, the two young men standing motionless. Who would strike first? Who would engage in this fight? You tightened your fists so as not to damage them any more than necessary.

And in a breath of clenched teeth mixed with disinterest, their boss confirmed.

"Get her."

It was the dreadlocked who stepped forward first, moving so quickly that you recoiled in astonishment, managing at the last moment to dodge a blow towards the rib he was trying to send.

You glanced at the mass of the second behind him who was advancing, breathing heavily like a bull seeing red.

"Get her Stex!" shouted the latter.

Your attention then returned to your opponent, this Stex with eyes betraying advanced alcoholism in a body that shouldn't know such pain so early on in life. He was about your age, if not older, and his sparring partner didn't look far off either.

A horrible idea came to you. But you tried to push it away.

This slight distraction cost you a heavy blow to the jaw, quickly bringing you back to reality as your legs made work on keeping your standing while blood mixed with your saliva.

He was quick, efficient, moving as if his body had no mass and he was made solely of springs. When you tried to send him a left hook, he easily eluded it before expelling the air out of your lungs in two strong, fast punches.

Stex sent another swift blow towards your head which you dodged, taking advantage of the fact that his arm was still close to you to find an opening under it at the rib, delivering a swift blow which made him bend over and grunt. His head snapped up at you, nose wrinkled and ready to bare his teeth as he pushed you back towards the wall.

Your back hit the stone of it, your breath caught and you didn't even have time to lean forward to get your head between your knees as Stex pressed his forearm against your throat and found himself a few centimetres away from you.

His furious, bulging eyes were fixed on yours.

"Last chance to speak," he barked.

And as you gasped for air, your eyes drifted to the shoulder of the arm that was strangling you, roving over its skin and finding a detail you recognised. Hidden beneath the ink of his enormous tattoo was the tender skin of a distinctive burn. Your eyes returned to his, and you found yourself filled with hopes and fears.

‘’You were one of them?" you managed to croak.

His eyes widened, the pressure lessening enough for his grip to weaken on you.

Now.

Your knee shot up and slammed into his liver, Stex grunting in pain and folding in half as you kneed him in the face before sending your fist against his jaw. He fell to the ground and you came to grab his face with both hands, his bottom lip hanging down lazily as one of his eyes was starting to swell shut and you landed a hard headbutt.

He fell to the ground, stunned. He must have been a formidable foe, relying solely on his speed and power of execution, except that once he was caught, it was all over. But the fight in itself wasn't yet.

Your attention returned to the big guy. You'd eliminated one of them, but the other one was still hanging around, and he seemed to be quite upset that you'd dealt with his friend so quickly.

He was charging towards you, and you tried to dodge him, to move to the side in the hope of tiring him out over time with rapid movements, but he grabbed you around the waist and threw you against some shabby old boxes, their wood cracking under the impact of your body hitting the ground and exploding in a cloud of rotting dust.

You ached like hell, gritting your teeth as you felt that the bruises that would form on your body would not make it any easier to sit in class. You opened your eyes again, the big guy had both of his fists raised in the air ready to flatten you.

You rolled onto your side, the impact not hitting you as your eyes landed on a metal bar. Every street in Zaun had its own waste, and for luck here you must not have been far from a pipe factory.

You caught it, coming back to your feet with some difficulty as you turned to face him. He tried to catch you again, but with a well-tuned leap to the side, you evaded him and managed to hit his thigh.

He let out a cry of pain, turning to you like a disgruntled child. You swung the self-made weapon back to prepare to strike again, but as you brought it down he caught it, a displeased pout on his face as he bent the metal of your weapon in one simple motion of his fist.

He laughed contentedly at your exorbitant eyes, your gaze shifting from him, to the bar twisted like a boomerang, to him again, and you gave him a big smile.

He seemed surprised by the gesture, and you took the opportunity to spit in his eye. He stepped back in disgust and started to whinge. Without missing a beat, you hit him in the face with your now twisted bar, making him turn on his side, joining his two hands full of fingers as big as sausages on his nose, which you had apparently just broken from the repeating ‘my nose! My nose!’ that he blurted, and thus allowing you to hit him in the back of the head.

He fell to the ground, knocked unconscious.

Out of breath, clutching the metal in your hand until your knuckles turned white, you inhaled sharply.

Viktor.

The name resonated in your mind like an uncontrollable echo.

You turned suddenly towards the wall he'd been against before, but nobody was there.

"Fun little show you gave."

You turned around, it was the voice of the man who had started the fight. You swallowed and your heart nearly stopped as your eyes fell on Viktor, his neck caught in the man's forearm as he kept him in a headlock.

He was holding him there, almost suffocating him. Nostrils flaring with anger, you advanced towards him.

"Ah-ah-ah," he crooned, stopping you in your tracks.

Then you saw it, like a shard of the sun in his hand - the blade of his knife drawn, pointing at Viktor's side.

Your heart sank instantly, your eyes returning to Viktor's as he watched you. Surprisingly, he didn't seem to be under any stress. Maybe he hadn't seen the blade, you thought.

"Now," said the shaven-headed man, "tell me what you said-"

But he never finished his sentence, because in an instant, Viktor had planted his cane in his feet and the next second, with a speed that escaped you, had struck it on the nose of this kidnapper.

The impact sent him reeling backwards, leaving Viktor to extricate himself from his embrace and turn towards him to grip the wood of his cane with both hands, rest his balance on his good leg and send a blow with the pommel into the man's temple like a baseball bat meeting a ball.

He fell with the shock, and Viktor hopped a couple of steps before bringing his cane back onto the ground and repositioning himself neatly.

He turned to you, and for a moment, relief settled in your chest. He's safe and sound. He's all right. Everything's alright.

"Are you okay, Miss?"

And that nickname, which almost made your head spin, took your breath away for a moment, and reminded you of your situation. Without further ado, you gripped your bag from the ground and grabbed his wrist again to pull him out of the street. You had to get out of here while the three of them were knocked out.

You walked fast, almost running, getting as far away from this scene of stress and adrenaline as you could while you still had the strength. You had to get back to Eris' shop at all costs, you had to find shelter, you had to make sure everything was going to be alright.

"Miss, please, slow down."

Viktor's voice was breathless as his hand pulled from your embrace to grab yours, stopping you in your tracks as your steps had become automatic.

You turned towards him, panting heavily, your gaze falling on your clasped hands, and in an instant you already felt reassured.

You took a heavy breath, keeping it locked between your ribs before very slowly letting it go, the relief of being out of that terrible scene helping your arms and legs to relax.

The feel of Viktor's hand was warm, welcoming despite its callus, and anchored you in the moment more than any breathing exercise.

It was also an anxiety that these feelings brought to you – how could he bring you so much hope, so much comfort, so much warmth?

"I know we said we'd race," he exhaled out of breath, your eyes moving from your hands to his own, "but without a warm-up I can't keep up with you.’’

And he was still able to joke at a time like this, to turn the state of his leg, which you'd probably just pushed to the limit with your stress, into a simple joke.

You realised even more how thoughtless you'd been, how you'd neglected his aches and pains during those seconds of racing out of fear.

You looked behind him, then around to see where you were. Just a street away from Eris' shop.

You felt his thumb caress the top of your palm, bringing your attention back to him.

"Miss," he began, and you prayed that his thumb being so close to your wrist wouldn't notice the heartbeat that had made your pulse race, "what is going on?"

The question was so vast, so heavy, so dangerous for him to know. Dangerous not only because sending him this information might add a name to the list of people aware of the affair, but above all dangerous because you dreaded the reaction he would have towards you.

Would he be disgusted?

The question weighed heavily in your stomach, and you tried to soften the blow by swallowing.

"I," you began, then feeling the burn of your lip.

Split.

"I cannot tell you everything yet," you breathed out, "all I can tell you is that..."

You looked around again, as if talking about this fact and opening up about it was going to be the trigger for a second attack.

"Some ill-intentioned people are looking to eradicate evidence, evidence-" you inhaled as you regained his face, "that might bring their business to an end."

He frowned, obviously intrigued by how little information you were giving him.

"Are you..." he began, the grip of his hand on yours already softer, "in trouble?"

Your eyes were locked in his, where curiosity mixed with a pinch of concern and one last ingredient you couldn't quite decipher - and it was making you feel warm.

"Constantly," you confessed.

His eyes never left yours, the feel of his skin against yours reassuring you, cradling your heart, spreading a balm of warm orange light on it.

Sadly, the realisation that you might not be back in time to discuss things with Renata clenched your gut, and you tensed up.

Your eyes fell on your bound hands, you didn't feel like separating them, but you had to before the urge persisted and consumed you. You withdrew your fingers, not without disappointment, which Viktor surprisingly seemed to share just as much.

"I have to get to Eris' shop," you explained, your fearful eyes again checking every street corner and passing silhouette.

"Our day seems to have that in common," he admitted.

Your eyebrows furrowed. "Really? Why?"

"I won't give you an answer to that when my previous questions have been left hanging," he replied, shrugging both shoulders and eyebrows before frowning again.

There was no need to ask about the nature of his questions. Viktor was intelligent, observant, and in your case he had obviously picked up on this detached behaviour.

But how to tell him? How could you tell him that everything in you was filled with him to the brim, like the wallpaper covering every wall of your house that you could only escape by leaving?

You couldn't, not yet, at least not when you were aching all over after such a sudden scene.

"Let's just... head back there," you regained his eyes, not without difficulty or guilt, "please."

He sighed heavily, seeming to chew the inside of his cheek before nodding. Your lips didn't even have the strength to offer him a smile as you both began to walk in silence towards Eris' shop.

Your back was aching, and you could feel the stabbing pain in your jaw, but you didn't let it show. Despite the pain, you were distracted elsewhere.

How much longer would Viktor put up with your inability to open up? When would he find nothing but tiredness and disappointment in this interminable waiting that was failing to bear fruit? When would he give up his persistence, his seeking?

When would he give up on you?

You glanced at him discreetly from the side, wondering what he was thinking, whether he had already begun the process of abandoning you.

But these troubles were put aside when, on reaching Eris' shop, she opened the door and Renata and your friend came out. You noticed the confusion in the Tarot reader's eyes at your absence on her high stool, and then met her gaze which, in an instant, darkened with concern. Renata followed her glance, frowning.

When you reached them, they joined you, cutting the short space between you, Renata's two guards keeping their distance but remaining attentive.

"What happened?" Eris asked, approaching you, her hands floating up to your face to check the damage.

By reflex, your eyes sought out the place where the group from which these three lunatics had extracted themselves to come to you had previously been located - vacant. There was no-one there, no sign of a group like that in the street, no Vome in sight. Your shoulders dropped at the news, redirecting your gaze to Renata, who seemed just as curious.

"A group of three, they seemed to be under the orders of..." your sentence faded a little, turning your head towards Viktor before regaining Renata's gaze, "someone implicated in the case."

Renata's piercing eyes landed on Viktor, and you repressed the reflex to stand in front of him. He had no business here, in a dark case that would bring him nothing but trouble.

"What were they after?" questioned Eris, moving away from you after observing the damage they'd left behind.

"Me, or, well," you crossed your arms over your chest, "the information I had." You turned your head towards Renata. "They saw us talk, and thought they could extricate something off me."

"And," Renata turned her head slightly to one side, watching you like an eagle, "did you lend them this information?"

Viktor lowered his head, chuckled softly to the side, all three of your stares falling on him.

"Did I say anything funny?" questioned Renata, her calm, serious tone almost sending a chill down your spine if it weren't for the fact that it was burning with pain.

Viktor raised his head, his amber eyes falling into Renata's magenta ones.

"I think you could not have chosen a better person if you intend to keep things secret."

He turned to you, his words a mixture of your usual playful condescension and respectful truth.

"The three of them are knocked out in a street nearby," you continued, turning back to the Chem-Baroness.

"A bit more than knocked out..." commented Viktor, chin pointing to his chest as his eyes seemed to observe the ground.

Renata's eyes went from yours to Viktor's. She was probably wondering who he was, and whether he could be trusted to be here or not.

"I see," she remarked, not sounding angry, but simply annoyed by the news. "Mademoiselle," she addressed you, "in case a simple interaction with me could put you in danger on these streets, I think it would be a good idea to postpone our discussion to another day. What's more," her eyes flicked to Viktor for a moment before settling back on you and observing your condition, "I think you need to get some rest after all this. I want you to have a clear mind for this conversation."

You nodded, surprised at her professionalism and magnanimity. You shouldn't have been, a woman of her standing could well have ordered you to confess everything on the spot if she so wished, but she hadn't done so.

"Agreed," you accepted.

"Good," she confirmed, turning to Eris, then back to you, then to Viktor. "Given the circumstances, I feel obliged to ensure your safety. Outcoln?"

One of her two guards stepped forward, a stocky, athletic man who must have been in his forties. He was easily a head or two taller than you, his broad shoulders seeming to give no respite to the compressed fabric of his shirt. Outcoln, or so was apparently his name, stood in front of you.

"He will ensure that your return is without further problems," Renata indicated. "And for you, Mademoiselle," she continued, turning to Eris, "I'll make sure you have a bodyguard to keep you safe. If there are going to be any more confrontations of this kind, I think it would be a good idea to take a few safety precautions. Needless to say, it's impossible to haggle over this."

You exchanged a glance with Viktor, already dreading a silent return covered by the tension of an unknown third party spying on you. Eris didn't seem any more delighted than you were, but as Renata had just said, bargaining wasn't an option.

"Well, I am very sorry that this presentation had to be made in such a disastrous manner, but I am expected," Renata greeted, turning to you. "I'll send you a letter with information about the date and place of the appointment."

You found nothing to reply but nodded, and with that, accompanied by her second guard, she left.

Outcoln moved slightly away from you, keeping you in sight but letting you talk in private.

"Seriously," Eris was the one to cut the silence, "bodyguards?" She giggled. "That'll ruin my clientele."

"Not necessarily," Viktor remarked, "I was just coming in to do a little purchase."

You turned towards him, his eyes meeting yours. Eris raised her eyebrows.

"Really?"

"Mhm," he confirmed, nodding, "could we...?" his eyes drifted towards the shop door.

"I don't turn away customers that are my friend's friend," she smiled, moving towards the entrance of the shop, turning to you for a moment, "especially not those of my bruised friends who I'm going to give a few things to."

You rolled your eyes, letting Viktor enter before you, glancing at Outcoln who seemed deeply unperturbed.

The interior of Eris' shop welcomed you like a shawl wrapped around your shoulders after a day out in the cold. You would have liked to grab one of the velvet consultation armchairs, pulling it slightly towards you before sitting down, but instead you headed for the back of the shop you knew so well.

"I'll be back there," you signalled, placing your bag on the floor before disappearing from the room, leaving Viktor and Eris free to discuss what he had come here for.

The back of the shop was reached after passing through a curtain of wooden pearls leading to a room with a ceiling whose colour you could no longer see as hundreds of bouquets of dried plants hung from it. On your right, a whole wall of small drawers rose up until they disappeared among bundles of laurel, thyme and pope's coin.

On each drawer was a label indicating its contents, and in your youth you used to enjoy reading them all and opening them to contemplate these special treasures. You remembered each individual one.

Like the drawers at the very top, almost touching the ceiling, which you had to climb up the little ladder to get to that contained bath salts and volatile salts, grains of anis, cinnamon bark and zapota seeds, dried fruits, bunches of little red berries that you crushed between your fingers and rubbed on your clothes to make them smell good as you said affirmations.

On the lower levels were floral and medicinal oils, decoctions, teas in powder and leaf form, sachets of Ionian pepper, multicoloured scented tablets and ribbons, candles, metalised scented sealing waxes, violet oil ink for lovers' letters, varnished rosewood quill holders, exotic feathers as turquoise as the sea flecked with scarlet and gold freckles that curled like strands of hair, small ebony boxes and chests to hold jewellery, elongated wooden incense holders with hand-painted embellishments and more complex enamel pottery as variegated and crackled as a desert.

In the drawers at waist and hip level were the balms and pommades, the bandolines, the brilliantines, the ointments, the creamy soaps made from cut flowers that children in Ixtal were said to soap their bellies with. You knew, without a doubt, that when Eris came here in a moment, she'd be looking for a pot full of animal fat or resin mixed with comfrey and other medicinal herbs that she knew so well.

On the other wall you turned towards, surrounded by a few cupboards, was Eris' work surface where unfinished products lay. She had placed her sewing pad stuffed with nutmeg flowers on her desk, tying a plum ribbon around a small sachet of lavender and embroidering a sigil with a fine gold thread.

In large glass jars to the side of her lamp, with its shade made of tinted glass joined together to form butterflies and flowers, were pots-pourris and bowls for putting flower petals.

You moved towards the latter, taking your place on the stool with a grunt, clearing any utensils from the cushion before letting your arms hang between your legs as you gently placed the side of your jaw that hadn't been bruised on the pillow.

The little click and slide of the seeds under your skin was pleasant as the weight of your head sank slightly, relaxing the tense muscles in your neck and shoulders.

You breathed out gently, thinking back over the whole scene that had just happened, closing your eyelids. When would you rest?

It had been years since everything had ended, well, supposedly ended, and yet here you were, facing these ghosts of the past. You thought back to Stex, to his yellow eyes, to the soft skin beneath his scarred tattoo.

You tried not to get carried away, to rationalise. Everyone here had scars, that was nothing new. You had yours, Eris had hers, Viktor probably had some. It was nothing unusual, although it should have been, but you stopped asking yourself those questions a long time ago.

You thought back to the contact of your fists against his dry skin, the muffled grunts from the blows, your fingers clenched against your palm...

Viktor's saliva on the inside of your fingers.

You turned your face to plunge it into the cushion to find the coolness of the jagged, thick crimson arils, hoping that the mace would ease the heat in your cheeks.

Why did he keep making it harder for you not to fall for him?

How could he make such tiny gestures that naturally wouldn't matter and turn them into an emotional loop for you?

The pearls at the entrance clinked in their usual hollow wooden tinkle, and you didn't need to look up to see who had just entered.

"So," began Eris, "rough day for you isn't it."

You let out a long sigh from your lungs, turning your head to the side to face her.

"What can I say," you growled, "they just can't get enough of me."

"I wonder what it is," she smiled "changed your perfume? Put something in your hair?"

"Slept less than five hours last night, my only meal was a coffee and I don't think I even took care of my hair before going out."

"Irresistible routine," huffed Eris, "you sold it to me so well I might just start using it if it gets me into so many new exciting situations."

You smiled, and your lip reopened in burning discomfort, making the skin on your nose wrinkle.

"Where are you hurt?" she questioned.

You readjusted the position of your head on the cushion. "Apart from a few punches in the jaw, the belly and my entire spine clicking back together thanks to the sweet kiss of a wall, I have a bit of a headache."

You could already see her opening the balm-filled drawers with a sigh, taking one of them between her fingers, closing that drawer with a flick of her hip as her free hand reached for one in front of her head and she stood on tiptoe as she flipped through tea bags like files.

During this frantic search, you replayed the scene in your head as the adrenaline drained from your system, giving way to pain.

You breathed in. "One of them had..." you hesitated in your words, staring into space, "I don't know if what I saw is true, but one of them wore his mark."

Eris turned to you, her searching movements slowing drastically as she paid attention to you.

"You think the guys that attacked you were...?"

"Might have been," you agreed, "I didn't think that was possible, I thought..."

But you didn't know, to tell the truth. You sometimes thought back to that fateful night, to those events so fully etched in the memory of your skin that every glance in the mirror brought you back to the same situation where you came across that black beast in the reflection and could only lower your eyes to face it.

"I don't know," you admitted, the events had not yet decanted sufficiently for you to be able to draw a satisfactory conclusion.

Eris said nothing, simply nodding as she continued her little research.

"How was the reading with Renata?" you asked all the same.

She giggled, as if impressed. "I feel like I've had the epitome of success in my living room."

"Really?"

"First card she draws," she began as she retrieved from her hand a few packets from which she checked the ingredients, "the 4 of pentacles, in other words, a little too firm a grip on her finances."

"This isn't starting so well," you commented.

"That was her card from the past," she remarked, pointing to the ceiling with a tea bag pinched between her fingers like a small card. "Then, she drew the seven of pentacles, which is the reward for patience and progress. And after that, the nine of pentacles, the true financial independence that allows you to afford whatever you want."

She closed her drawer, where she seemed to have found everything she needed, before turning to a cupboard not far from you and opening it.

"As luck would have it, the shadow card turns out to be the Page of Swords, it's full of new ideas and curiosity, so it's about keeping an open mind if you like."

You huffed. "If she could spare me that chance it wouldn't be refused."

"Don't worry, the tide will turn," she commented as she pulled out a craft bag into which she placed all these little things together. "Everything changes eventually, nothing stays static forever."

Your two hands touched, still hanging in the void, your fingers tracing where you'd felt his tongue.

"And Viktor?" you couldn't help asking.

She gave you a knowing look. "Intrigued, eh?"

"Please don't start. I've had a bad enough day already," you grumbled as you closed your eyelids for a moment, trying to mentally prepare yourself for the fact that you'd have to get up from that chair and walk all the way home.

She giggled. "He came," she began, opening a cupboard above your head and grabbing a deck of cards identical to yours, "for this."

You frowned, your headache not improved by the gesture as your eyes moved from the illustration on the tarot box to Eris.

"For a Tarot deck?"

"Mhm," she confirmed, "believe it or not, he's clearly interested. I showed him various models but he absolutely wanted this one. He even asked for a more comprehensive book on Tarot reading."

"Really?" you questioned, deeply surprised.

"Absolutely," she smiled before closing the cupboard door and crossing her arms as she pressed her hip to the desk counter, "I have my theory as to why but unfortunately I don't think your disillusionment is ready for it."

"Nor my tired body," you breathed heavily, painfully lifting your head from the cushion to take a step towards the immense challenge that was simply standing up. "I have to go, otherwise I might fall asleep right here."

"You? Sleep?" she giggled. "And I thought your superhuman abilities went beyond your physical body."

"I know," you replied in the same tone as you pressed your palms against her work surface and pushed on them with two trembling arms to get up. "So it would seem that miracles have their limits."

You managed to get to your feet, legs wobbling. The adrenalin had finally given way to tiredness, and you followed Eris out of the back of the shop with an undecided step. She passed you the bag she'd filled with lots of little treatments, and you didn't need to ask how to use them, out of habit from years ago.

Near the counter, Viktor seemed to be observing the shelves and his surroundings. Eris returned to the checkout as you came to stand by the entrance. She announced the price, but Viktor made no comment as he took out his wallet and handed what was due to her. He didn't even wait for her to give him the change and tell her to keep it, simply took the bag, wishing her a good day and joining you at the exit.

"I'll write to you," you said to your friend before leaving, Viktor following close behind.

Outside, you found Outcoln, who hadn't moved a particle of dust. You exchanged a look with Viktor.

‘’Did you have nothing else to do here?" you checked with him.

"No, you?"

You shook your head. "No."

Great. Now the situation seemed awkward.

He simply nodded, staring off into the distance before him. "Would you... like to go home together?"

You almost laughed, and he turned his frown-covered gaze back to you. "If you think I'm going to let you walk home alone after what happened, you're wrong."

The ghost of a smile passed over his lips before he started walking, and you exhaled a heavy breath with difficulty. You were afraid of making a false step, of saying something stupid, of making the situation worse.

You reached his level, walking at his pace until you passed Outcoln and he began to follow you at a sufficient distance for you to be able to hold a conversation without being overheard if, by chance, you started one despite what you thought was a climate of tension and uncertainty.

But Viktor's curiosity won out over the silence. “When I came to the café today, you weren't there,” he turned his head towards you as you walked to what appeared to be the cable car station. "Why did you come here today?"

"Regular Tarot reading with Eris," you replied, looking straight ahead.

He did the same. "Those happen often?"

"Every now and then, when there's time."

"What did it say?"

You earned his gaze as you turned towards him. "Curious?"

"Why would I be asking otherwise."

He had a point. "Personal things."

"Troubling things?"

"Sort of," you sighed.

"Huh," he frowned, his gaze taking in the arrival of the cable car in the distance, descending through the cable linking it to the surface. "You also came to see Renata, didn't you?"

You lowered your head. "Yes."

He glanced back, watching Outcoln, still as inflexible as ever. "I see."

You finally reached the cable car stop, which was deserted at the time and was not carrying anyone in its gondola. Silence returned as you waited for the vehicle to arrive, and its weight pressed down on your shoulders more than you would have preferred.

What was he thinking? He was from Zaun after all and was undoubtedly aware of Glasc's personality, so did he disapprove of you making contact with her? Cogitations can only take you so far, and sometimes you have to act.

So you plucked up your courage, turned to him and stared off into space.

"Does that make you see me otherwise?" you asked.

You felt his eyes on you, and your chest tightened in anticipation. He stayed like that for a while, until the cable car pulled up and its doors opened. Then he turned towards the entrance, and your eyes finally found the strength to rest on him.

"It just adds more to how surprising you are," he conceded before stepping inside. Your shoulders slumped as you climbed in after him.

He moved towards the back of the chamber, taking a seat by the window. "You're not going to desert me from such surprise, right?"

He sat down and watched you, standing hesitantly in front of him. He tilted his head to one side, and the afternoon sun beat down on his cheek.

"Even if you asked me to leave your life yourself," he began without taking his eyes off you, "I think the only thing that would make me desert you would be death."

Your heart skipped a beat, your lips parted in surprise. You hadn't expected such determination, such loyal determination from anyone about you. You didn't know to what you owed this unshakeable conviction and, dazed, since you knew that Viktor didn't bother to lie, you couldn't think of anything to say in reply.

You simply sat down next to him as Outcoln entered the pod and sat down on the exact opposite side from you. You were remarkably surprised by the persistent respect for privacy and private discussion that Renata's men had shown so far, but you had no doubt that secrecy in this kind of business was the key to any good business.

It didn't take long for the cable car to set off, automatically closing its doors before taking off without much ado. You hadn't taken it for a while, avoiding the less popular corners of the city in preference for the hidden lifts, but you had to admit it was a pleasant experience.

Viktor was looking out, and you were looking at Viktor. The sun bathed his face, his amber eyes under his thick eyebrows fixed on a point on the horizon, the angle of his jaw cutting a straight shadow across his clothes in which you were so unaccustomed to seeing him in. Every beauty spot you'd memorised from the night of the return from Demacia hadn't moved from your memory, even the one on the muscle connecting the back of his jaw to the hollow of his collarbone.

You shifted your gaze, afraid that its unconscious insistence would reveal more than was necessary about the flood of thoughts that was invading you. You bit the inside of your lip, inhaling softly.

"All I can tell you is that-" Viktor immediately abandoned his contemplation to meet your gaze, and you almost lost your breath to see those two suns resting on your eyes, attentive to what you had to say. "We are investigating something that some would rather keep secret."

He seemed intrigued, but didn't seem to be rushing you into your explanation, remaining patient with what you decided to pass on as information or not. You looked away.

"It's part of the reason why I am the way I am, and it might bring some much bigger dangers than what happened back in the street. And," you inhaled heavily, "I don't want to put you in danger because..."

You felt your heart in your throat, turning towards him for a moment, not holding his gaze that seemed impossible to escape, like some wind was reaching into all the places your clothes couldn't protect every time he looked at you.

"...Because I care for you, and," your eyes fell on Outcoln in the distance, "you don't deserve to be in any of this."

There was silence again, and you could feel Viktor's gaze on you. You were going to have to face him one of these days, weren't you? To be able to look him in the eye without fearing that his stare would be filled with bitterness towards you?

You straightened up, grunting under the pain of your back, before looking up again. In his eyes, you found gentleness mixed with surprise. You weren't in the habit of proclaiming aloud, even if it wasn't so loud at the time, that you cared about someone, and if your eyes didn't betray you, it was also pride that was in Viktor's eyes.

He simply nodded, like a silent thank you for having warned him about this, and you felt reassured.

"I suppose there is no way for me to help you out with this, right?" he asked.

"For now, no. Later..." you thought for a moment about the expertise Viktor could provide. "Maybe. But I don't want to drag you into all of this. It's ugly and terrifying and I don't want to push this onto you-"

"But would it help you?" he cut in.

"What?" you replied, dumbfounded.

"If, somehow, you tell me about it all someday-"

"Not somehow, when I tell you this," you cut in.

This answer made him frown as a smile stretched the corner of his lip. Yes, definitely pride.

"Alright, when you tell me this," he corrected as you nodded in agreement, "and I provide my help, do you genuinely think it would be useful?"

"What do you mean by 'provide' your help?"

He raised an eyebrow, clutching his cane in his hand and raising it a little in the air until the handle was level with his face.

‘Think my cane can't handle more broken toes and noses to its name?" he asked.

You look falsely offended. "I would never insult it that way."

His grin intensified, contagious on your own lips, his eyes settling on the cut they were bearing for a moment before lowering his cane and looking straight ahead.

"You do seem to forget that my previous position was that of the assistant of a councillor," he remarked, turning back to you, "and that my big hearted friend is not only romantically entangled with a councillor but childhood friends with the daughter of another."

"Just make sure your big hearted friend doesn't hear about what you saw me doing today," you nodded. "I can't imagine the freak out he could get."

"Right," he agreed, "what will you tell him tomorrow when you come and that he remarks the state of your lip?"

You shrugged. "Tell him I saw Eris and that her cat got a bit too excited about playing with me."

"Eris has a cat?"

"A little black menace with knives at the end of his paws more than a cat if you ask me, Onyx' the name."

"Like the stone?"

"Yes, something about the virtue of said stone that's all about bringing strength and support in hard times or something like that."

"Is his name fitting to his temper?"

"I don't think a worst decision has ever been made in the history of bad decisions."

Viktor chuckled, and you followed him.

"You got any pets?" you asked.

"Got one at home."

"Really?" you remarked, surprised.

"Yes, a puppy, a lovesick one at that. His name is spelled I-D-I-O-T but it's pronounced Jayce, something to do with language standards that I don't quite get."

You couldn't help but giggle. "It's a brilliant name, very original."

"Thank you," he nodded as if someone was finally acknowledging a debating point he'd been trying to make for ages, "I'm very proud of it, it has such a powerful meaning."

It was when the cable car began to slow down that you realised you had reached your destination. The doors opened and you got up to leave, followed by Viktor. When you both arrived outside, Outcoln called to you from inside the transport. He told you that you were in safe territory and that you no longer needed his services here. You thanked him and started walking with Viktor.

You stopped a moment later to remove the accessories from your outfits that were no longer needed to better fit the Piltovian fashion. As you took off your jacket, Viktor took off his red waist coat, removing the belts that hung over his hips, leaving him wearing just his cream t-shirt with the long sleeves rolled up.

You changed your shoes, stuffing everything into your bag again. The air was warm enough that, like Viktor, you didn't need to cover up any more than that.

And so you resumed your journey towards the city.

"I take it you won't be working tomorrow as well with your wounds?" he asked.

"I don't think I will," you sighed, already thinking about the fact that you'd have to make a detour before going back to warn them.

"Then," Viktor continued, "what do you say about coming to the apartment?"

You turned towards him, pausing for a moment in your walk, leading Viktor to turn towards you.

"You're finally inviting me there?"

He shrugged. "We finished unpacking most of our boxes," he said as you returned to his level and started walking again, "and we can finally walk without much difficulty. Didn't think the floor was actually duo coloured like that for a while." He raised his eyebrows, as if he'd come a long way. "So, yes, I think it is time for you to come to see it. Plus," he turned to you as you turned a corner, "if you're not working at the café tomorrow and I have to endure anyone else taking my order, I might just do the most dangerous thing."

"Which would be?"

"Making tea."

You couldn't help but smile, and you realised how much you'd missed this. Those incessant jokes, your shared understanding, that ability he had to effortlessly play the same games as you and always push your sarcasm further.

And you'd deprived yourself of that, robbed yourself of such simple happiness.

"Would tea be worse than Jayce's coffee, though?" you asked.

Viktor seemed sincerely to be weighing up the pros and cons of this question, and in his contemplation on the subject, as unserious as he was but as serious as he made it out to be, he was beautiful.

"No, not worse," he finally concluded.

"That bad?" you giggled in surprise.

"You've never been miserable enough or coerced into drinking it, you wouldn't know."

"And you were?"

"Miserable, yes, coerced? I'd have drawn out what few tea bags we have at the flat by now for a slower poisoning."

"You hate tea that much?"

"I don't hate it," he admitted, "but tea doesn't keep me awake, not for work, and I don't have time to have time, not always at least."

You walked slowly, not only because you did not wish to overwork him with his leg which you had so suddenly abused during the afternoon, but because you savoured the moment.

"Some things I want to take my time with, others I'm indifferent to," he confessed.

"I'll make sure your time is well spent tomorrow by making your coffee then," you suggested.

"Finally, a moment when I can take the time to enjoy something," he smiled.

Far too soon for your liking, you arrived not far from a street adjacent to your café, and you had to cut the conversation short.

"This is where we go our separate ways today," you sighed, arriving at a crossroads.

Viktor looked around, calmer than usual that afternoon, before finding your eyes again.

"I only realise it now, but it seems that for the third time, you've come to my defence, Miss."

"It's not my fault you always end up getting into trouble," you remarked.

"What can I do," he sighed, "I always find my saviour this way."

Your heart warmed in your chest as the prospect of him looking forward to seeing you took hold. It was so strange, so new to see such a feeling shared. The idea of him willingly putting himself in danger to see you, however, was less pleasant.

He looked at you for a moment, a light breeze passing through the branches of the trees under which you were standing, spring having already brought back the flower buds of the fruit trees ready to blossom, letting themselves be lulled for the moment by the waltz of the wind and the leaves.

"For tomorrow, prepare your time," he advised, a gentleness in his eyes. "It's important."

"Alright," you nodded, feeling almost unable to tear yourself away from the moment.

He nodded. "Come around about ten, Jayce will probably be awake if I'm not already," he frowned for a moment, "you know the flat number, don't you?"

You nodded, and his brows relaxed.

"Good, then," He took a step to the side. "I'll see you tomorrow, Miss."

"See you tomorrow, Viktor," you greeted back.

He began to walk slowly home. It was a nice day, the sun was warm, he was going to take the time to take his time.

You turned into the street and found yourself pensive, almost forgetting the pain in your back. Part of you wanted to continue this discussion, but another part was worried about how it might have turned out if it had gone on a bit longer.

If he hadn't asked more questions about why you had avoided him so much, it was because he probably thought that this investigation had started as soon as you got back and that your distance was due to the fact that you didn't want to involve him.

You only partly liked this idea, because you didn't want to stick to this lie, but on the other hand, you didn't know if you had the courage to admit anything to him about your feelings for now - you had, after all, still to make a choice about what you were going to do with your feelings.

You had always known that your soul was so hermetically sealed that it seemed almost forbidden to obtain the love you never had, so much so that the prodromes of this incurable obsession had seemed abnormal to you at first.

You had encapsulated so much in your life before throwing it away so you wouldn't have to live with it that you had this fresh, free place for beautiful things that you could supply and fill.

So, perhaps, why not start your life now?

✦﹒ 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

✦﹒ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 : @doctorho @6selkie @yunloyal @kryscent @hypocritic-trash-baby @kapitankarate @a-lovers-card @ababanerb @lolixsstuff @forget-me-not-my-dear @smolanchovy @shugar0cone0alt @harrys--ferret-blog @suuummerrr @stillinracooncity @dlbitch @cloufire @csolya @kathyholdsagrudge @furblrwurblr @potatointhedirt @atrocioushaircut @ren-ni @schrodingersraven @urmommt @enoojnij @stilinskisensation @emlovesya @soupsaurus @luvreadingfics @the-valars-sapphire @solbringer @adorabluesposts @pxszels @nerolovesseongjiyuk @cyberwears @cryptidcut @seohaepeachyun @danielsbackupglasses @2hiigh2cry @16novvs @cicadastoner @patchs-curiosity-corneriosity-corner @w41k3r-94290 @minniiv @roku907 @lumilarity @peachy-writings @disturbyn @ddandelionfluff @holymotherfxrkingshirtballs @notyuralycat @glenn-slayer @k07ume @hexb0nes @ravngers @fushirika @glenn-slayer @watergirl13girl @graveyardtrain @theuclid @catspook @mildly-discouraging-future @nataliea @frogbuggy

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